Some Christmas Thoughts

Many have asked how we are doing this Christmas. It’s a difficult question to answer.

It has been thirteen weeks since our beloved Isaac passed away, and our hearts are broken over the tragedy of his loss. His bedroom, his clothes, his Rubik’s Cubes, guitar and lava lamp, blanket from Guatemala, climbing gear and bicycle and, well… everything: they all remind us of his presence, as well as his absence.

As I walk the streets, memories flood the scenery of him laughing with his mom, practicing his skateboard, riding around on that unicycle I bought, chasing bunnies in the grass. We used to play catch over there, climb around on that old playground, play bocci ball with those strange green brainfruit osage oranges near that huge tree. Isaac is everywhere. Everywhere.

So, how are we doing?

We are breathing. We are alive. We miss Isaac terribly, and that shared loss has only drawn us closer together as a family. We are learning what it means to move through this new reality in which we find ourselves. Sometimes it is overwhelming, sometimes quiet and peaceful. We smile at the touching memories as they come, and sometimes the waves of grief and longing for our son suddenly knock us over. Through all of it, we have felt tangibly enveloped in God’s loving presence through the love of our friends. We know we are not alone.

Over the last month or so, we have spent such wonderful time with our loved ones. I saw a young man get married to his beautiful bride. I met a distant relative on a Kentucky farm, traveled up through Indiana and Illinois on a frigid day, stopped by Wrigley Field for the first time… something Isaac and I wanted to do for years. Spent an afternoon with a close friend in Milwaukee as we watched a few hundred “Santas on Bicycles” ride by us donning their festive attire. I walked under stars in rural Wisconsin, visited the tomb of Abraham Lincoln in Springfield, spent a few days with family from Brazil and Germany, had deep conversations with some of Isaac’s closest friends, watched some Netflix with my mom, took my oldest son to the movies, ate homemade brisket with my best friends, took a couple dogs on a cold and snowy walk, and shared Christmas dinner with family.

I would say we had a good Christmas. We have a very small family, and our Christmas “traditions” have always been a bit unique, anyway. Isaac’s older brother flew into town for the week. We told Isaac stories, we laughed and cried, and we loved each other well. What else to do? Love is all we can do.

On Christmas Eve, my wife and I visited a local church to sing songs and hear the birth story of Jesus. The stage setting and lights were beautiful, the sweet young families with their little ones, the grandparents, the soft music, the congregational candle lighting ceremony… all lovely and touching.

But something else was happening in my heart during this traditional Christmas Eve service. I began thinking of all the believers in eastern Ukraine without power or heat, perhaps with the sounds and sights of destruction surrounding them. Believers who have recently lost their sons and daughters to the violence of war, refugees in a borrowed basement lighting candles to remember the birth story of their ancient faith.

And I thought about other small gatherings of believers throughout Asia and Africa, Latin America and the Middle East, sharing these same rituals in different languages, different contexts, some with great abundance and others without the assurity of their next meal. I thought about families escaping poverty and violence, perhaps braving the Mediterranean Sea on a small raft, or riding on the roof of a train through Mexico, or trekking across the desert (much like Joseph, Mary, and the young Jesus years ago).

Most, if not all of these families, have lost loved ones and friends and homes over the recent years. And I imagined these families pausing to pray and sing and remember the birth of their Savior on this very night, just as I was doing now in American suburbia. How lovely and painful and absurd it all is: a diverse faith of believers, heretics and agnostics retelling an incredible story, praying to an unfathomable God, singing and trying to make sense of their own reality and blessings and losses, divided in so many ways upon this earth and yet unified in the central story of a baby born in Bethlehem.

And I thought more about the essence of this strange, ancient faith: a new heart. A heart that is soft and caring, kind, thoughtful, generous, loving others with the abundance of a God who desperately wants reconciliation among all peoples on this earth. The greatest and central miracle of this faith is not splitting the Red Sea, or making the sun stand still for a day, or even a resurrection, but rather the miracle of a new heart: one with the capacity to forgive and be kind to one another. This is really the only miracle that matters, in my view. A new and changed heart is the only hope for this world.

As we stood during that Christmas Eve service, holding our little candles and singing “O Holy Night,” I thought about this ancient faith and the mystery of life. I thought about Isaac and his beautiful heart of kindness. I thought about my sweet wife at my side, my handsome older son visiting from Colorado, family nearby and across the world, and all my closest friends who have stood with us through this difficult season of life. I am surrounded by love, and that is all I can ask for. Their love is the love of God in my life. It is all the theology I need, and I am thankful. That little baby in a manger so long ago eventually grew up and said, “in this life you will have trouble,” and also that “I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

So, how are we doing? We are here. We are alive and we are not alone. The love and memories of Isaac are alive in our hearts. And yes, while the days and nights can be quite difficult at times, such is life. Such is this fantastic and tragic and beautiful existence. And somehow, we find a way to hold onto one another through it all. May we each find our way toward a new heart every day, both in this season and into the new year, regardless of religion, ethnicity, culture or creed.

Grace and peace be with you.