The Light Returns

some solstice thoughts

This week I caught a post on the Northern Virginia section of Reddit entitled, “I've never felt a Christmas season that felt less like a Christmas season, anyone else?” There were some thoughtful theories and commiserations in the ensuing discussion. I can relate. I myself adore Advent/Christmas, but it’s had a different feeling from the outset this year. Perhaps it’s having older teens for whom “magic” isn’t a part of the celebration anymore. It’s also a heavy time in our world, to the point that Christmas celebrations are canceled in the town of Jesus’ birth. 

For whatever reason, I’m with the person on Reddit. I stop short of calling it a funk, because I don’t feel down, I just don’t feel Christmasy in the same way I usually do. Pastors and church leaders, I wonder how many of our folks feel the same, and how that impacts what we preach and how we lead. At Trinity we’ve been engaged in a series called “The Weary World Rejoices” and my sermon from last Sunday definitely spoke into that. 

Enter the winter solstice, which was yesterday, and is one of my favorite days of the year. The day urges us, gently but insistently, to pause and receive its gifts before it ends so very quickly… a few minutes earlier than the day before, a few minutes later than today. This is as scarce as the light will be until next December. And yet there was ample time to do a few meaningful things. 

After eighteen months on the waiting list, I finally have a plot in a Reston community garden. It’s larger than I requested, but the current gardeners haven’t budged from all the smaller plots in the garden, so… fools rush in I suppose. Yesterday it felt right to be outside, so I made the ten-minute walk to the garden and spread eight wheelbarrows of compost, with my weekly call with my coach friend in my earbuds, talking through days past and what’s ahead. The symbolism was not lost on me that our conversation provides vital compost each week for more intentional living. Find yourself an accountability buddy if you can. (She also shared this wonderful meditation with me today: Bring on the Dark. NYT, no paywall)

When I got home, I cut a few sprigs of holly off the tree outside—it’s traditional for people to bring greenery into their homes on the solstice, as a way of keeping in touch with living things even as so much remains fallow.

 And because it’s me: candles.

This is a season of endless details, and when you work in the church and have kids at home, there’s no respite from that reality. So I’m having to create my own coping rituals. Two things have helped. One, I made a huge master list of everything that needs to be done between now and New Year’s Day, with the pre-Christmas stuff highlighted in a different color. I borrowed a small white board from my son, and each morning I write the day’s items on it—and do everything I can to keep only to that list. The white board is helpful because it’s untethered from the master list, which I don’t even look at, reducing my temptation to sneak more tasks into the nooks and crannies of my day. And erasing things and seeing more and more white space appear is delightfully satisfying.

The second thing has been to set a reminder on my phone to pause each afternoon to drink something warm and eat something sweet. I may keep this up into 2024:

~

Last night was our Longest Night service, one of my very favorite parts of Advent. I wrote this last year and it still applies: 

Longest Night provides a respite from the jingle and jangle that is often overwhelming for people dealing with loss or grief, or who just need a break from it all. In my previous congregation we often had a service on the Sunday before Christmas, and since it wasn’t technically the longest night we’d call it Blue Christmas. It’s always a small service, but I find the people who come deeply need it. 

I must admit, I also love the Celtic/pagan elements of Longest Night: the huddling together in the darkness, the burning of candles, the hymns to the Light. Yes, I acknowledge the problematic history of imperial Christianity, coming in and gobbling up so much indigenous religion and practice for its own triumphalistic purposes. Still, the persistence of the Longest Night service may be a sign that those creation-based spiritualities have a lot of life in them yet.

As you read this, if you’re in the Northern Hemisphere, the earth is tilting ever so slightly toward the light again. Still, I invite you to spend a moment savoring this dim, contemplative space we’re in. I’ve long found it strange that, while the light is already returning, the coldest months are still ahead. I understand it meteorologically, it just doesn’t line up spiritually—darkness and cold should go hand in hand. Then again, maybe the mismatch is appropriate; we often sense that change is ahead before it’s truly made manifest in our lives. Or the shift happens, and only when we look back do we realize that there were signs of the turning that we simply missed.

So, if you’re like that random Redditor who doesn’t feel Christmasy, these precious few days provide ample space for us to be OK with that. (Here’s a playlist we used before and after last night’s service: Apple Music / Spotify )

And even if you feel unabashedly joyful this year, take this opportunity to revel in the precious gift of simply being here for another year. 

~

What I’m Up To

My 15% discount on subscriptions continues—and that discount extends forever! And applies to gift subscriptions too! Details here. Members and friends of Trinity Presbyterian are eligible for complimentary gift subscriptions—just ask.

I also want to invite you to Christmas Eve services at Trinity Presbyterian Herndon, live or via livestream. We’ll have a lovely candlelight service at 9 p.m., but I’m especially jazzed for our 10:15 a.m. kid-friendly service, for children of all ages, followed by cupcakes for Jesus’ birthday. We’ll be sharing the ABCs of Christmas, but we’re amping up the multisensory element with prop bags for each kid; several letters will include things for kids to interact with right where they are. I’ll share more here once it’s done—I love a little element of surprise—but suffice to say, it will be holy bedlam. Just like the first Christmas.

Onward.