Grief and Cookies and God with us.
and they shall name him Emmanuel which means, God is with us. - Matthew 1:23
In late November, my Uncle Joe passed away unexpectedly. I spent the week between his death and funeral compiling memories from his friends, family, and co-workers. It was an honor to be the collector of these stories. They were sent to my aunt and cousins without discussion, yet, over and over (and over!), people wrote how he’d made them feel seen, heard, and loved. When you were with Joe, he listened, was present, and made you feel like you were all that mattered.
I was at a wedding when my mom called to tell me he had passed away; I moved quickly from celebration to grief. The following day, warm cookies were delivered from friends with an attached note: “So deeply sorry for your loss. That awful phone call reminded us of grief’s ability to inhabit the same space as celebration. Hoping cookies can do the same.”
Now I know that cookies cannot begin to make up for any loss, and they’re not supposed to, but what I can’t quit thinking about is the idea of grief and celebration, or joy, co-existing.
In Kelley Nikondeha’s new book, The First Advent in Palestine: Reversals, Resistance, and The Ongoing Complexity of Hope, she offers a vivid picture of the suffering and heartache of the Jewish people around the time when Jesus was born. She says, “concerns about daily bread— and crushing debt, and land loss, and dispossession—saturated the first advent. Advent happened as most people were just trying to survive.” At the first Christmas, amongst the sorrow — joy was born into the world. Emmanuel, which means God with us.
I know you’re thinking: “Is she comparing cookies to the incarnation?” The answer is, of course, no. I am holding on to the reality that the world Jesus was born into was full of grief, struggle, and suffering, just like ours, and sometimes warm cookies from friends can represent part of what happened when that tiny baby was born. Nikonedeha says: “In Advent, we learn that God is always coming to our troubled times.” Each small act of love, of joy, of peace brings us closer to the hope of the incarnation. Even ordinary cookies can help us to be present to the God who remains present in the world — God with us.
I love Advent and its juxtaposition to the sort of out-of-control nature of the Christmas season. In recent years, I’ve leaned into it — the darkness, the hurt, and grief. I’ve learned that Christmas doesn’t take away grief, but I’m learning now that the longing of advent doesn’t have to cancel out the joy of Christmas either. We can hold space for both.
I mentioned before that my uncle offered the gift of presence and attention in his relationships, and I think there is a lesson for us. Being able to offer presence to others authentically begins with ourselves. So we might ask — how can we be present to our grief and to the joy of the incarnation, the joy of God with us? How can we hold space for Advent and Christmas?
And that is my prayer for you this season: May you be present to your longing and grief, allow joy to surprise you, and find hope in a God who came to earth in the form of a tiny baby into a suffering world.
A few recommendations:
This Too Shall Last is a book by KJ Ramsey that talks candidly about her struggles with chronic pain and suffering. It’s a book that has more questions than answers including this one that I love from the back cover: What if the church treated suffering like a story to tell rather than a secret to keep until it passes?
Anderson Cooper’s new podcast about losing his mom and dealing with grief, All There Is, is fantastic — especially this episode with Stephen Colbert.
I can’t recommend Jan Richardson’s book: The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief enough; a beautiful read when you’re at a loss for words.