When Silent Nights Don’t Feel Holy

 When Silent Nights Don’t Feel Holy

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

      The Christmas spirit is in full swing.  One of my favorite parts of Christmas is caroling.  I know that might sound odd coming from a guy with absolutely zero musical talent, but there was always such joy in singing to our neighbors, shut ins, and nursing homes.  One of my personal favorite Christmas hymns is Silent Night.  There’s a line we sing every December without thinking: “Silent night, holy night…”  But when you’ve buried the one you love, silence can feel anything but holy.  Silence suddenly has weight.  It echoes.  Silence is especially difficult for me personally.  I am an extrovert.  I love to talk with people and I find such joy and fulfillment by being surrounded by others.  BUT my most meaningful and in depth conversations came with Tiffanie.  There weren't many moments when we were silent.  We were constantly in communication mode.  When she died all of that ended abruptly.  The world became eerily silent.  My heart missed conversation, it missed telling every detail of my day, a little part of what defined me as me felt like I was dying inside.  Fathom the person who you spent 90% of your conversations with passing away.  That's what happened when Tiffanie went home to heaven.  My world went from the spendor of sharing, listening, and being heard to the sound of a pin drop.  Silence was haunting.  It's hard when everything is bright and cheery, but you feel dim, heavy, and strangely cold.  Grief has a way to making silence come through a megaphone, making it defeaning.  The extrovert in me recharges through conversations and connection.  I've always processed things out loud.  My best thinking is done by talking, so a pause in conversation has made me feel like I'm reverting, recoiling, or that I'm becoming unsteady.  The painful silence had been probably one, if the not the most difficult part of my grief journey thus far.

      Silence magnifies the empty chair, the unwrapped stocking, the laughter that used to fill the room.  For widowers, the quiet of Christmas isn’t peaceful—it’s a reminder of what’s missing, and not just what's missing but what's different.  God continues to call the grieving to press forward into a life that is in contrast to the old one.  It isn't bad, it's just different.  It takes adjusting, it takes adapting, it takes getting used to.  For me personally the night hours are the most silent, and by silent I dont mean that absence of sound, but the absence of the possiblity that someone will hear your heart, your cry, your emotions, your struggles, your victories, your prayers, or your laugh.  It's difficult looking at the side of the bed knowing that another word will never be spoken on earth by that person.  That is a silence that feels anything but holy, if anything it feels unholy, and anything put peaceful.

      But here’s the truth Scripture whispers into the ache: God does His deepest work in the quiet.  He is near in the stillness you didn’t choose.  Think about that first Christmas night. It looked peaceful, but it wasn’t.  A frightened young couple far from home.  A nervous woman bearing not just her first child, but the Christ child.  A 'father' who was anxious because this was not the way he envisioned his 'first born child' coming into the world.  A birth in a stable, not a sanitized storybook.  No midwives, no doctors, the Great Physican was still in Mary's womb.  No warm bed.  Animals breathing in the dark, probably making the sounds that most barn yard animals make.  Uncertainty hanging in the air.  They probably had more questions then answers.

      It wasn’t a calm, glowing night—it was a holy one because God entered pain, not perfection.  Christ came to this world to rescue and redeem those who were lost under the weight of sin.  He came to those that were suffering in silence, those that were bereft of hope.  And that means your night—your silent night—can still be holy, even if it’s heavy.  God doesn’t ask you to feel festive.  He doesn't ask you to fake it, to put on a false smile.  He doesn't ask you to carol loudly.  Instead He simply invites you to bring your real heart to Him—your exhaustion, your loneliness, your memories, your anger, your confusion.  Lately He's been asking me to bring the weight of my loneliness and the struggle of silence before His throne of grace.  He isn’t looking for Christmas cheer from you. He’s offering Christmas presence to you.  You might not feel like being festive, putting up the tree, going to gatherings, and to be fair, maybe you are just tied of pretending that you are okay.  God isn't asking you to manufacture counterfeit joy.  He's letting you know that He's still good, still faithful, and still in control.

      This season doesn’t erase your loss, if anything it can magnify your loss.  But God isn’t asking for the feeling of loss to be erased, to evaporate.    Instead, He steps into your darkness the same way He stepped into Bethlehem’s.  He sits with you in the quiet.  He speaks in a small, quiet, still voice. He honors your tears as worship and doesn't forsake them.  He holds the space your spouse once held.  And He whispers hope into places you thought were unreachable.  He also reminds you that good and great things lay in front of you.  He tells you that He will restore and rebuild.

      You may not feel holy tonight.  You may not feel strong.  You may not feel anything at all.  But the holiness of Christmas was never based on how people felt.  It was based on who showed up.  And He’s showing up for you.  He hears your silence.

Reflection

• What part of Christmas feels the heaviest this year?
• Where do you sense God quietly drawing near to you in that place?
• What memory of your spouse brings both ache and gratitude?

Write it down. Tell God honestly. He meets you in the raw, not the polished.