People die the week of Christmas. People die every week, of course, but for families and healthcare workers, there is something that feels harder about walking out of the room and out of the building when all the halls are decked.

This week, talking with a couple families, I acknowledged, quietly, that the heart of the celebration is God putting on a body. A body that will, a person who will, across a few more than three decades, weep with weeping people and laugh with laughing people. Who will welcome confusion with simple clarity and broken-heartedness with comforting understanding. Who will walk with them through decked halls and not force un-felt jolliness.

When we are melancholy in this season, we are not being disobedient to the incarnation. We are being honest with one who understands.

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Last year, I told you a story about a nurse decorating a Christmas tree on one of the hardest floors in the first December of the pandemic. As I wrote last year,

It’s a challenging week, for many reasons. For the families who have lost loved ones this week, for those who have lost dreams, who have lost sleep.

We have the opportunity to offer the tiniest bits of support for others, not knowing the conversations that God is having with them, not knowing what our light will do for them.

I invite all of us to release measuring up. Instead, let’s offer the tiniest bits of support: “Thank you.” “I’m here.” “I’m sorry.” “I bet this is hard.” “I’m so glad I get to see you/hear you/touch you/know you.”

Peace.

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The photo is of the 6 south Christmas tree this year.