Grace Notes #46

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On Not Feeling the Holly-Jolly

     It’s the week before Christmas and all through the house your teeth are on edge and you feel like a louse. Okay, so I’ve never been good at the kind of poetry that rhymes. But, what if, in the midst of all the fa-la-la and jingle bells, what if in the midst of the soft glow shining on nativities, what if in the midst of the celebratory energy spike from Hanukah, the commencement of winter and the drawing up of 2007, you just aren’t feeling it?

     What if your Merry Bells aren’t ringing? What if you're so tired, or so sad, that when get your car home at night you sit in it, eyeing the porch door, knowing you will have to hit the house running, pat the dogs circling at your feet, calm children wound like spin-toys gone amok, make dinner, monitor chores, homework, and bedtime? What if you start thinking you should stay in the car, put your head on the steering wheel, and go numb in the quiet and cold?

     And what if your life is just the opposite? What if you get home at night and eye the back door knowing not a thing in your house has moved, or changed, or took breath since you left 10 hours ago? What if no one has been there to disturb your small piles, or move your remote? What if the all the other houses on the street seem ablaze with warm bodies and light?

     What if this year has been one of loss? What if you are spending every spare soul-breath you have hammering away at the hard work of grief? What if the loss you carry is ripe and new and unimaginable still?

     What if you are angry? What if you are numb? What if your celebratory has up and gone, your worship pooped out, and you just want to skirt the whole year-end holly-jolly?

     What if, while you’re cart-pushing up the aisle of a grocery store laden with pomegranates and candy canes, you realize you feel as if  you’re in a big fat fight with God because your pain seems unfair, unmitigated, unholy, and simply too much?

    I think that’s just fine.

     It’s okay not to rise to the merry-merry. It’s okay, even, to feel like you’re in a big fat fight with God. Some things we go through are deeply unfair, and when it happens, it’s all we know right then. Such things take some mighty getting-through; don’t let anyone tell you Christmas will make it all go away. It won’t.

    Long ago and far away Christmas used to be a time of quiet and peace, hope and awe. It still can be, but like it or not, it has also become very loud and very commercial. Sometimes the jingle-jangle of it all around you can make pain worse.

    Once, when my sons were tiny, both strapped into car seats and word-fighting in the car, I taught them the word “ignore”. I taught them how to look away from their offending brother – with attitude. They folded their fat little arms across their chests, raised their chins – heads spun dramatically away from each other – and glared out opposite windows.

     The silence lasted 30 seconds. Then one boy turned, sharp jawed and sudden, jutted out the bottom of his face like a pigeon, looked directly at his brother and said loudly “I ignoring you!” His brother replied “I ignoring you, too!” The first lad volleyed back with “I ignoring you bigger!” And so it went.

     Adult pain and loss is not child’s play, not easily soothed away or diverted, and not to be rushed. Yet sometimes the stubborn strength of children can give us guide. To be angry, to ignore, is also to be engaged. Maybe not comfortably, but healing is never comfortable.

    If you need to ignore this time of year, do it. Say to the world “I ignoring you!” And then huddle down and gather. You know what you need. And, if you need to turn from God, mad and befuddled by the ache he’s saddled you with, do it. Don’t worry, He can take it.

    He doesn’t ever ignore back.

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