Reading Time: 5 minutes

This morning I schlepped over to the home a friend of mine. A stay-at-home mom of three preschoolers, she feels limited in what she can offer the community. But my hat goes off to her: She invited an adult day program to her home to sing carols, read the Christmas story from the Bible, and a enjoy pretty great spread of snacks.

Somewhere in the middle of the singing, I remembered that besides just wanting to love on the participants or go through the happy holiday motions, I wanted the carols to sink into my heart, too.

But I also know that somewhere, a part of me resists this.

Maybe you can expand this to more reasons than I. But I find myself (and others) avoiding Christmas for a handful of reasons–not the activities, but actually allowing the inside of me to engage; to worship and enjoy and meditate and be all there.

We’re tired.

To busy parents or church personnel or what have you, the holidays can feel like more bricks, less straw. You not only have to get everything done; it needs sprinkles or fairy lights or curly ribbon on it.

For me this week, my husband just returned from being out of the country. My parents are coming today! And together, we’ll attend our third concert of my kids.

To enjoy Christmas from the heart, our hearts need margin. They need space to breathe and think and enjoy and soak. Otherwise, we simply lack capacity.

We’re serving others.

Christmas lists, Christmas cards, Christmas services, Christmas charity: all excellent uses of our time. But we get caught in the classic Mary and Martha jig, right? Jesus is in our living room, but we’re caught in the kitchen with all the prep. We’ve done all the right things…for someone else. And perhaps in some cases, vacuously.

I’ve just got to remind myself. Mary chose what’s better.

We’re self-protecting.

Christmas in Africa was in some ways closer to the true spirit of Christmas than ever for me. There were so many opportunities to give, to welcome! And yet, I was far from family and all of the sensory “feels” that felt like Christmas.

But even during our short stays in the U.S., the holiday glitz overloaded my mind and heart after such simplicity. And honestly, no place felt like home any more. No matter where I landed, I was always away from someone I loved.

And somewhere before all that, I was a mom of young kids. Translation: Let’s make it special for them. My goal is to survive. (This post might interest you on Why to Get Honest about Your Holiday Expectations.)

Maybe you’re hoping your kids will show up, but they might not. Or maybe no one can make it at all. And it just doesn’t feel like Christmas without them. Or maybe there’s a family conflict nipping at the heels of your happiness.

Maybe you’re wondering if anyone will truly “see” you this Christmas. Maybe you’re expecting to be camoflagued within all the noise and lights. Sometimes it can feel easier to simply not let Christmas go that deep in your heart, because the disappointment would just be too great. (I deal with this too! Check out my all-too-real battle of Tackling My Inner Grinch.)

Maybe you’re disappointed with God, with a way he didn’t seem to come through for you. And numbing–though it mutes all the happiness, too–seems easier than all the feels.

We’re hurt.

I interact on a semi-regular basis with members of (wonderful) GriefShare and DivorceCare groups. Who feels like celebrating when there’s a hole in your chest big enough for the wind to blow through? When a stocking hangs slack on the mantel, or there’s a decidedly empty chair around the table?

The social expectation to be joyful and feel warm fuzzies only exacerbates a sense of grief and isolation.

Christmas Happiness vs. Christmas Joy

The ads, the movies, the lights: They’re designed for feelings of Christmas happiness. But Christmas joy is different.

As someone pointed out to me this weekend, consider this verse: “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds” (James 1:2). Happiness and joy are similar–but not interchangeable.

Christmas happiness is emotion in the moment. When we don’t feel it, we feel numb. Alienated. Lonely.

But Christmas joy is an anchor of the soul. When the rest of life is storm-tossed–like my friend, freshly grieving the loss of her toddler–joy remembers there is more than this place and this time. It settles in the gaps of my soul, reminding me that Jesus came because God cares enough not to leave me alone. That because of that baby, I have an unshakable future.

Because He appeared, and the soul felt its worth.

So I can engage fully, drawing my questions and hard emotions (sadness, anger, fear, doubt) into this season with me–and engaging them with true hope rather than a surfacey happiness.

Ideas to Engage A Heart Two Sizes Too Small

  • Be aware of what sensory stuff gets to your heart. Surrender to it. I’ve got 9 Practical ways to savor the Christ in your Christmas here. Maybe like me, music worms its way into your heart. Or consider: what traditions are most meaningful to you?
  • Connect, for real. Maybe you could use a cup of coffee with an intentional friend to let you know you don’t fade into the background with everyone–or perhaps they could just listen to your hurt. Tip: Ask for what you need from someone. Many people are eager to help, but often terrible mind-readers.
  • Rather than holding God at arm’s length, realize God was willingly born into our mess. Check out these thoughts in Born in a Barn: Christmas Thoughts from a Farm Girl.
  • Find a place to serve (except for all of you overwhelmed by that already!). It increases our gratitude, helps gain perspective, gains connectedness, and reminds us of others’ worlds beyond our own.
  • Say no to an unnecessary activity so rather than doing, you can be from the soul outward, and live this season wholeheartedly.
  • Be intentional to reflect. Journaling prompts, time alone, or re-reading biblical stories or prophecies can help you remember the hope that’s yours.
  • Remember that everyone is carrying around their own backpack of troubles. Despite the grins around you, none of those you see enjoys a perfect life. You’re not alone in your heartache.
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