To my severe frustration and to the demise of my child-like expectancy, I have not been able to…

11 min readDec 22, 2016

To my severe frustration and to the demise of my child-like expectancy, I have not been able to catch the Christmas spirit this December. This isn’t like the admission of an overly-stressed, unfulfilled hallmark character who simply needs a little holiday cheer and a cup of hot chocolate to re-experience the magic of the season. This isn’t even the confession of a maturing adult disillusioned by the sentimentality and consumerism of Christmas. I am neither of these people. This is simply the tearful honesty of someone overwhelmed by the brokenness of the world and struggling to reconcile his pain with a God who is said to be near.

Christmas has always been my favorite season. I cannot remember a single year the lights, decorations, and music did not reawaken my wonder. Everything about the holiday held me spell-bound. Every December my world was transformed into a magical, Dickensian setting full of pine, cut-out cookies, and nostalgia. I promise this is not a dramatization. Truly, Christmas has always been sacred to me — like experiencing the impossible. Like living in an entirely different world.

My obsession with Christmas can only be credited to my upbringing. My family takes Christmas very seriously. Careful consideration is given to each decorating decision, each candle scent, each holiday menu, and each festive outfit. Every member of the family has a favorite ornament, a favorite food, or a favorite carol. This ensures our Christmas celebrations never simplify. As well, there are certain traditions that have become family rule by now. Christmas music is is not to be played till the day after Thanksgiving, and, when it is played, the first song must be “Mary’s Little Boy Child.” Real trees are, of course, the standard (pine-scented candles are insufficient). Movie theaters are off-limits Christmas day (but there is always Hallmark Channel). The Christmas story is always read, and stockings are always opened first. It is always chaotic, and caffeinated, and cozy.

It was always untouchable. The inside of a snow globe.

Talking.

Laughing.

Lights.

Music.

Bright.

Heartbeat.

After a wonderful Thanksgiving with my aunt and uncle, my grandparents were driving me back to school on their way home to PA. We left my aunt and uncle’s home early while it was still dark and Lilburn, Georgia was still asleep. In the back seat, huddled next to piles of luggage and curled under a fleece blanket, I closed my eyes and listened while Jim Reeves, Julie Andrews, Chet Atkins, and Evie sang to the dark and sleepy world. My grandfather soon pulled up to a Starbucks and ran inside to order something warm. There was a man standing outside, but I don’t remember noticing anything special about him before I closed my eyes again. Trying to remember him now, I see him shivering in his coat and pressing into a brick column for any warmth he could find. As my grandfather came out of the store, the man approached him. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I watched my Pop-pop open his wallet and hand him a few bills. I think they shook hands, and that was it. My grandfather was back in the car, and we were on the road again. We didn’t talk much about it, except my Pop-pop said that’s what Jesus would have done.

I wonder if that man saw me watching him from the car.

I wonder what he thought of my world.

I stopped talking.

Paris, Belgium, Orlando. Mali, Syria, San Bernardino.

The flag hangs in the middle of campus. By the old bell. I kept walking past it, trying to remember the last time it had flown at the top of the pole, but I couldn’t recall that golden day. It seemed like every week I woke up to more tragedy. No one had time to heal. The wound in our humanity hung perpetually open. Paris, Mali, and California were attacked right before Christmas. People drew circles around the Eiffel Tower and prayed for peace like hate would just cease for the holidays. I remember trying to decide how to celebrate Christmas last year amidst the devastation. I think I wrote about the events and then pushed them aside. I did the same after the Pulse Nightclub shooting. I think I wrote some true ideas. But those journals are dusty now. Looking back over them, they seem insufficient.

I think looking back, the entire world feels the insufficiency of the ways it tried to cope, the ways it tried to heal, the ways it tried to move on. Everywhere I look on the internet, everyone seems to agree (if on nothing else) that 2016 has been the worst year in recent history. I certainly can’t object to that idea. I think it has changed everyone. Not that people have stopped fighting or crying or shouting. But I think everyone is unsure. Tense. The year hasn’t exactly prepared us for Christmas. The stores still want a profit though. So, cheers . . . I guess.

The laughing faded.

It was after Michael Brown, and Walter Scott, and Alton Sterling, and Keith Scott I finally admitted that maybe institutional racism is still real. That maybe it still harms millions of people. That maybe I was ignorant. It was October, when the streets became violent and people were crying and no one could really tell me the truth. What really happened and what was is really like to not be white? I sat slouching over my computer in frustration, reading every news source, watching video footage, skimming social media, trying and failing to understand. Finally, after searching for answers from white individuals hypothesizing about racism, I thought to ask a black man for the truth. After years of pretending I could understand the minority experience, I realized that I couldn’t possibly. I remember I was so afraid to ask my friend how he felt. I remember he wanted to tell me. I remember the truth hurts.

I cannot describe how painful it was to look into his eyes while he told me that he and I will never be seen the same. That my skin earns me opportunity, privilege, and security he will never have. That my experience is a novelty. That my life is a falsehood.

I was stunned. Sobered. Quieted.

The lights flickered.

I was supposed to be writing a final paper about Shakespeare’s progressivism. I knew what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t find research to support my argument. I was frustrated and unmotivated. I was scrolling through Facebook (or procrastinating . . . whatever), and I came to a hole. A giant whole in my knowledge, in my comfort, in my self-preoccupation. It was Aleppo. Please tell me you know what I’m talking about. Because I didn’t. And my biggest question upon reading the story was: HOW can my experience and their experience coexist? HOW can I be sitting here working on a stupid Shakespeare paper while these people are fleeing, starving, dying?

I remember being angry because no one else was talking about it. There is still no one talking about it. Why haven’t I heard Aleppo whispered on the prayerful lips of people at church? Why haven’t I read about Christians making sacrifices to help these people? I hear everyone talking about frenzied holiday shopping and travel plans. I hear everyone wishing each other a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. I hear my favorite carols played over and over on the radio. And its all ringing hollow this year. Like maybe there’s no depth to it. Like maybe my magical world is fake.

The music stopped.

I hold on to things. Like old birthday cards and broken cell phones and half-buried doubts. Because they’re important or because they hold memories or because they might still be half-alive. I’ve held onto these recent moments because they came crashing into my life with and lodged somewhere deep. These events have altered my world irreversibly.

I’ve held onto many other things that I haven’t told you about. Painful words. Hurtful expectations. Perfectionism. I hold onto my self-crafted identity because I need it. I hold onto love even though it can’t be realized. I hold onto insecurities because they might make me better.

I let things haunt me.

I let them all shift around inside. I let them sink and re-emerge as they please. Withering and burgeoning. Settling and storming. But I guess I’ve always been able to suppress them when I needed to. Especially at Christmas. But this year is different. The world is different.

Dark.

The magic was lost so easily. The security, the immunity of Christmas — I can’t find it like I always have. The breaking of my world cannot be undone. The glass dome of the snow globe is gaping. The little church stands dimmed, and a haunting tune echoes inside — “Peace on earth.” But I’m sitting outside on the cold steps amidst the snow and shards, staring up at the shattered ceiling and what lies beyond, wondering “WHY?”

Heart. Pulse. Breathe.

Beat. . . Beat . . . Beat . . . . . . . . . . Stop.

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Stop . . . . . . . . . . Beat . . . Beat . . . Beat. . .

Gazing up through the broken glass atmosphere of my once idyllic world, I begin to realize the enormity of the outside. I realize that I cannot see the end of it. There are so many people, and they’re all different, they’re all hurting.

And I can get to them.

My world has not just been broken — it has been opened, enlarged.

Bright.

I asked “WHY?” so many times this year. When the man at Starbucks stood freezing. When the terror attacks and hate crimes took place. When my friend told me about his world. When I saw the people of Aleppo crying. I asked “WHY” God allows it all. I asked, I am asking, how to celebrate God coming to earth when He seems completely absent. How is Christmas possible right now? I remember something I wrote during the heat of summer.

I hear music again.

In June, after the Pulse club shooting, I began writing these questions. I wrote, trying to process the tragedy, trying to understand WHY, trying to answer my questions. I finally concluded that God’s presence was better than receiving answers. In that moment, I thought I understood Christmas. Maybe I did partially.

I realized that God’s answer to Israel’s questions was Emmanuel. I realized that God’s presence with us eliminated the need for answers. I wrote, “O come, O come, Emmanuel.” I thought that was the end.

The lights begin to glow.

What I wrote in June was true. I know it is. I know God is with us. But I’m really struggling to believe it. I’m struggling to find peace. Why can I not believe something now I was so convinced of then? I think God is giving me the answer by showing me the suffering of the world. By allowing it to penetrate my world. He has given us his presence, what the Bible calls an “indescribable gift.” But how can we believe that God is here, how can we be reminded that he is working, if we are not living in response to his gift. I expected to experience complete peace and satisfaction by believing in God’s presence without doing anything with it. But my Pop-pop is right. Jesus would have helped that man. He would have sat with the oppressed and comforted the homeless. And he expects us to do the same.

I hear people laughing.

I guess what I’m coming to is this: presence matters. God has given us his presence, and in turn, we must give our presence to others. We cannot be aware of God’s involvement in the world while we remain at home. We inevitably become overwhelmed by tragic headlines and personal disappointment, fearing that God has withdrawn. It is when we offer to others what God has given to us that we experience him work. When we give love and presence to others, God proves that he is redeeming everything. This is the full meaning of Christmas: God has drawn near to us so we draw near to others. This is when we can celebrate. Because Christmas is not us sitting around a tree trying to drum up holiday cheer amidst tragedy. Christmas is us being involved with those who are suffering because we know God is here. We do not sit watching the violence of the world, hoping God will establish peace. We run to the darkness believing we are God’s instruments of peace.

I’m ready to speak again.

I am compelled by my new understanding of Christmas. Compelled to act. Compelled to awaken others to action.

I wish I could drop everything and go help people escape Aleppo. I wish I could withdraw from college and advocate for minority rights. I wish I could open a soup kitchen for the homeless. I wish I could be physically present with everyone. Unfortunately, I am limited. We all are. However, I have found simple ways to confront injustice and provide for the suffering. Have a conversation with someone who has experienced racism. Ask your black friend or your Mexican neighbor what the world is like for them. Seek to understand. Sponsor a refugee family or become involved with your local refugee ministry. I did — it was life-changing. Learn how to further help refugees here. Donate to provide necessities for people suffering in Aleppo here or here. Be present for these people by making simple sacrifices.

God completely disrupted my life this year. He allowed the security of my life and the sublimity of my favorite season to be broken. It has been a painful year full of heartbreak and disappointment. However, God did not simply shatter my world or my Christmas experience — he enlarged it. He made me see that Christmas, and all of life, is about dwelling in his presence and sharing it with others.

The hollowed shell of my old world looks dark and empty. It looks unreal. The rest of the world looks just as devastating, but I see it filled with God’s presence. Filled with his children multiplying his presence to the edges of the earth.