Hope in the Dark: A Christmas Reflection

As we head into Christmas week, I would like to remind you that it’s okay if you’re not feeling especially “Christmassy”, particularly if you are a person of faith.

The truth is that Christmas can amplify grief, loneliness, discomfort and uncertainty. Our cultural expectations rarely make space for these realities amid the festive cheer. As a Christian, my gratitude for the birth of Christ can sometimes sit alongside a subtle pressure to feel only joy, as though other emotions have no place at Christmas.

Yet most Christmases I feel a sense of longing. I moved countries at a young age and especially miss my family each December. I remember the first Christmas after Russell died as deeply painful, and that sense of yearning still emerges during the festive period. It is no different this year, even though I am delighted to celebrate with my children. So, I find myself both excited for what is, and longing for what is not. This, I think, is part of the paradox of being human: our capacity to hold more than one truth at the same time.

For me, the Christmas story reaches beyond the sacred gift of Emmanuel, God with us. While this truth is life-changing, the Biblical story itself is also one of displacement, uncertainty, fear, and danger. It was not a spectacular event marked by pomp or fanfare, but a humble and quiet arrival, unfolding without ceremony. And yet, it remains the ultimate story of hope.

I have noticed that hope often enters exactly where it is needed, without denying difficult circumstances. It sits quietly alongside feelings of despair and disappointment.

For hope’s light to shine, it first meets us in the dark.

This wisdom has always brought me comfort. There is no need to fear darkness, because it is often the precursor to light. Remembering this can be deeply encouraging, especially when life feels heavy. At Christmas in particular, it can feel as though we are alone in our discomfort or sorrow. The tinsel can feel garish, the songs too jolly. Especially if this is your first Christmas without a loved one.

Do not be afraid of the truth of your grief. Instead, allow it to be a part of the occasion. Grant yourself permission for silent remembrance, perhaps by lighting a candle to honour the ache of memories and the emptiness they leave behind.

There is no timeline for healing, and sorrow does not disappear simply because it’s Christmas. Perhaps Advent offers us the gift of remembering that hope and healing are not to be rushed but unfold gently in their own time. The Christmas Story reminds us that when wholeness begins to return, it often does so quietly and without spectacle, and that survival itself is holy.

Maybe this Christmas you simply do not have the inclination or energy to conjure the smallest spark of festive cheer. That’s okay. You do not have to feel joyful, grateful or whole to belong at Christmas. You belong anyway. Despite what advertisers and cultural messaging suggest, there is no ‘wrong’ way to do Christmas and there is no shame in a messy Christmas. If all you can manage this year is to be yourself, that is enough.

The hope of Christmas is not that everything suddenly feels lighter, but that we are not alone in the weight of it. Emmanuel is not a God who rushes to fix everything immediately, but God with Us entering the fray of our despondence and disappointments.

Stillness and rest are sacred. So much of what really matters begins quietly, without certainty and fanfare. Perhaps this Christmas, take time to notice grace in the ordinary: a steady breath, a kindness given or received, a memory honoured, or a present moment held.

And know that the Hope of Christmas ‘helps us cope with the baffling messiness of life because we trust that God is always for us, and that’s what really matters.’

Quote taken from: Wrigley-Carr, R. (2021). Music of Eternity: Meditations for Advent with Evelyn Underhill.pg 53