The Glorious Incongruities of the Season by Georgie Tennant
Here are some things that can’t co-exist: socks and sandals (apparently, though, this was trendy in 2020; anything is possible this year, but this is one fashion I can’t embrace); peace and quiet, and my son learning the bassoon (oh yes – aren’t you glad you’re not me?!); halter-neck swimming costumes and the rapids at Butlins (a story for another blog, but just trust me on this one)…
Joy and grief.
At least, that’s what we find ourselves believing, buying into. Joy and grief at Christmas, especially. Joy and grief this Christmas, even more. But. The more I look at the Christmas story and the realities of living as a hope-full Christian in a broken and troubled world, the more I learn to allow them to sit, side by side.
If we can allow ourselves that, the highs and the lows are that little bit easier to endure, to roll with, to live through.
I have written at length about my experience of losing a baby over the Christmas period. You can read about my journey through that on my own blog, here, here and here if you are interested (or hear me talking about it here). The thing that struck me most in those early days was the jangling discord between what I thought I should be feeling at Christmas and what I was feeling. Triggered, each year, into a spiral of PTSD flashbacks, I wondered how I would ever force myself back into any semblance of Christmas cheer.
Fortunately, I realised that forcing myself to feel anything wasn’t going to get me to where I wanted to be. With help, I found a better way; rejecting the panacea of superficial perfection painted by our modern world, and reflecting, instead on the real Christmas story – the joy and the mess. This has helped me find new ways through (and even find joy in) what can be a painful season. I can lament and cry and find joy and peace, all in the same season – in the same hour sometimes.
It feels incongruous, but it’s not: God himself is the master of incongruities, never better exemplified than in the Christmas story. I love the old hymn “Meekness and Majesty,” particularly the lines that show the opposites that co-existed when Jesus came down: “manhood and deity…lord of eternity, dwells in humanity… love indestructible in frailty appears...” His beauty and majesty and his suffering and humanity were all intertwined from the moment he entered this world in the most ordinary, unglamorous way – the infinite God, subjecting himself to his own, finite limitations.
This year, of all years, in the midst of some horrible, soul-sucking loneliness, pain, disconnection and loss, we need, more than ever, to look further than the Christmas sold to us by the modern world, further, even, than the baby in a manger, enacted so innocently and clumsily in schools and nurseries. We need to look, with fresh eyes, at the saviour Jesus became – one who walked on earth, experienced the whole panoply of emotions and experiences that we face, too and who, because of that, can shine his light into our own dark and difficult emotions and experiences.
At this time of year, I love stumbling across writing which is raw and real and reminds me that I'm not alone in wanting to turn my back, sometimes, on the sparkly lights and superficial smiles. I love hearing from others who live with one foot in both worlds – this one, where pain happens, and the next one (of which we have only small glimpses), where pain and tears and suffering will, one day, be no more. Ruth Leigh’s blog, earlier in the month did exactly this – do read it if you haven’t. Liz Carter’s “Advent Treasure,” will help you to find this balance too). I hope my writing is at least partly that, and that, through it, you might find the permission you need, to be, to grieve, to feel both joy and pain in this Christmas season.
I will finish with a verse that I carry with me through every Christmas season: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” Isaiah 9v2.
On the night my sister died, in a hospice, I sat in the relatives lounge, alone, looking out at the dark September night. “How will I get through this?” I cried out to God. As I looked across the courtyard, I could see just two lights and could only see as far as they threw their weak beams. “By following the next light,” a quiet voice dropped into my soul. Each light could only reach so far into the darkness, but I could see that, when I reached that one, there would be another and another again, until I could see which way to walk on the shadowy path ahead. This has been true. When my eyes are strained and my limbs weary, there has always been another light, in so many different guises, lighting the next part of the path.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” Isaiah 9v2. May His light rise in you and shine in your darkness, this Christmas season. Pain and joy, light and dark, grief and hope can all co-exist in you, through Him.
Joy and grief.
At least, that’s what we find ourselves believing, buying into. Joy and grief at Christmas, especially. Joy and grief this Christmas, even more. But. The more I look at the Christmas story and the realities of living as a hope-full Christian in a broken and troubled world, the more I learn to allow them to sit, side by side.
If we can allow ourselves that, the highs and the lows are that little bit easier to endure, to roll with, to live through.
I have written at length about my experience of losing a baby over the Christmas period. You can read about my journey through that on my own blog, here, here and here if you are interested (or hear me talking about it here). The thing that struck me most in those early days was the jangling discord between what I thought I should be feeling at Christmas and what I was feeling. Triggered, each year, into a spiral of PTSD flashbacks, I wondered how I would ever force myself back into any semblance of Christmas cheer.
Fortunately, I realised that forcing myself to feel anything wasn’t going to get me to where I wanted to be. With help, I found a better way; rejecting the panacea of superficial perfection painted by our modern world, and reflecting, instead on the real Christmas story – the joy and the mess. This has helped me find new ways through (and even find joy in) what can be a painful season. I can lament and cry and find joy and peace, all in the same season – in the same hour sometimes.
It feels incongruous, but it’s not: God himself is the master of incongruities, never better exemplified than in the Christmas story. I love the old hymn “Meekness and Majesty,” particularly the lines that show the opposites that co-existed when Jesus came down: “manhood and deity…lord of eternity, dwells in humanity… love indestructible in frailty appears...” His beauty and majesty and his suffering and humanity were all intertwined from the moment he entered this world in the most ordinary, unglamorous way – the infinite God, subjecting himself to his own, finite limitations.
This year, of all years, in the midst of some horrible, soul-sucking loneliness, pain, disconnection and loss, we need, more than ever, to look further than the Christmas sold to us by the modern world, further, even, than the baby in a manger, enacted so innocently and clumsily in schools and nurseries. We need to look, with fresh eyes, at the saviour Jesus became – one who walked on earth, experienced the whole panoply of emotions and experiences that we face, too and who, because of that, can shine his light into our own dark and difficult emotions and experiences.
At this time of year, I love stumbling across writing which is raw and real and reminds me that I'm not alone in wanting to turn my back, sometimes, on the sparkly lights and superficial smiles. I love hearing from others who live with one foot in both worlds – this one, where pain happens, and the next one (of which we have only small glimpses), where pain and tears and suffering will, one day, be no more. Ruth Leigh’s blog, earlier in the month did exactly this – do read it if you haven’t. Liz Carter’s “Advent Treasure,” will help you to find this balance too). I hope my writing is at least partly that, and that, through it, you might find the permission you need, to be, to grieve, to feel both joy and pain in this Christmas season.
I will finish with a verse that I carry with me through every Christmas season: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” Isaiah 9v2.
On the night my sister died, in a hospice, I sat in the relatives lounge, alone, looking out at the dark September night. “How will I get through this?” I cried out to God. As I looked across the courtyard, I could see just two lights and could only see as far as they threw their weak beams. “By following the next light,” a quiet voice dropped into my soul. Each light could only reach so far into the darkness, but I could see that, when I reached that one, there would be another and another again, until I could see which way to walk on the shadowy path ahead. This has been true. When my eyes are strained and my limbs weary, there has always been another light, in so many different guises, lighting the next part of the path.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” Isaiah 9v2. May His light rise in you and shine in your darkness, this Christmas season. Pain and joy, light and dark, grief and hope can all co-exist in you, through Him.
Georgie
Tennant is a secondary school English teacher in a Norfolk Comprehensive.
She is married, with two sons, aged 12 and 9 who keep her exceptionally busy. She writes for the ACW ‘Christian Writer’ magazine
occasionally, and is a contributor to the ACW-Published ‘New Life: Reflections
for Lent,’ and ‘Merry Christmas, Everyone,’ and, more recently, has contributed
to a phonics series, out later this year. She writes the ‘Thought for the Week’
for the local newspaper from time to time and also muses about life and loss on
her blog: www.somepoemsbygeorgie.blogspot.co.uk
Oh Georgie, this is the most perfect blog. Humour, strong emotion, generous sharing of your own experiences and just the right Scripture to remind us all what being followers of Jesus is really about. Thank you. And thank you for mentioning my blog, which was written out of pain but which has brought me hope.
ReplyDeleteSuch a beautiful, heart - felt, honesty post Georgie, with so much beauty and truth in it. It made me well up. Also, DO NOT tell Mr Deborah about the 2020 socks and sandals thing. After 36 years, I have only just begun to ween him off them...
ReplyDeleteSo much truth, Georgie. And I love the way you write it. The Christmas story, especially, has been sanitised and bleached until the manger sparkles and the baby Jesus never sicks up onto his golden (golden???) curls and the cattle only low the best tunes.
ReplyDeleteSocks and sandals. Right up there with skirts and trainers.
ReplyDeleteThis is so beautiful and heart wrenching, Georgie. I'm going to share it on my personal Twitter account.
ReplyDeleteSo helpful and meaningful, Georgie. Your willingness to share your journey and the wisdom you have gained, is much appreciated. Thank you for being real.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Georgie. Very deep and thoughtful. I felt very emotional reading this and usually I’m like a stone when I read, not feeling anything.
ReplyDeleteI particularly like the idea of following one light and then finding another light to follow. My mother used to say, “One door closes and another one opens”. Same thing. My poor mum died on Christmas Day in 1972. She had MS, and my poor son has MS now.
Thank you, Georgie. Very deep and thoughtful. I felt very emotional reading this and usually I’m like a stone when I read, not feeling anything.
ReplyDeleteI particularly like the idea of following one light and then finding another light to follow. My mother used to say, “One door closes and another one opens”. Same thing. My poor mum died on Christmas Day in 1972. She had MS, and my poor son has MS now.