A Christmas Reflection
There is a kind of Christmas you live before loss,
and a very different kind you live after.
Before, Christmas arrived with noise.
With plans.
With expectation.
With movement.
Now it arrives differently.
Quieter.
Slower.
More honest.
This year, Christmas does not ask you to perform joy.
It does not ask you to recreate what once was.
It simply draws near.
Not the nearness of people,
but the nearness of God.
The kind of nearness promised to the brokenhearted.
The kind that comes close when spirits are crushed.
The kind that does not flinch at sorrow,
but stays with it.
A nearness that does not hurry you.
A nearness that does not explain itself.
A nearness that remains.
Thomas Merton once said that God is not found in noise or restlessness,
but in the quiet where we finally stop running.
This Christmas, you understand that truth in your bones.
The Presence That Never Left
When you look back now,
you can see it.
Not all at once.
Not clearly at the time.
But unmistakably.
God was with you.
With you
during the shock of unspeakable loss.
With you
when words failed and silence took over.
With you
as relationships shifted and fell away.
With you
as grief slowly loosened its grip
and breath returned.
With you
as you quietly stepped into a new church, trusting God to lead your family into a healthier place.
Henri Nouwen wrote that the greatest gift we can offer one another
is not answers, but presence.
And this is what God offered you first.
He did not wait for strength.
He did not wait for understanding.
He carried you before you could carry yourself.
Christmas does not introduce this truth.
It reveals it.
You were never alone.
The God Who Entered the Quiet
Immanuel means God with us.
But this year it means God with you
in the places no one else could reach.
In the quiet evenings.
In the empty spaces.
In the moments when decisions felt heavy.
In the slow learning of what love is
and what love is not.
In the necessary release of what could not follow you forward.
Dallas Willard said that God’s presence is not something we strive toward,
but something we awaken to.
And slowly, gently, you awakened.
God did not stand outside your story.
He stepped into it.
Into silence.
Into sorrow.
Into rebuilding.
And He stayed.
The Light That Grows From Within
There is a light in you this Christmas.
Not loud.
Not showy.
Not borrowed from the season.
It is the light that rises after long darkness.
The kind foretold for those who walked through shadow
and suddenly found themselves illuminated from within.
It is the light of steadiness.
Of peace that no longer wavers.
Of joy that does not demand explanation.
Brennan Manning said that the truest thing about us
is that we are deeply loved by God.
You live from that truth now.
You are not cheerful because everything is easy.
You are calm because something has settled.
You trust again.
You rest again.
You hope without fear.
This is the light Christmas brings.
Not because the world is bright,
but because God has made His home within you.
A Holy Turning Forward
This Christmas does not pull you backward.
It gently turns you forward.
Toward a future you do not yet see,
but no longer fear.
Toward a life shaped less by loss
and more by restoration.
Toward a peace that feels earned,
and a joy that feels safe.
You are not who you were last Christmas.
You are more grounded.
More whole.
More yourself.
That is the quiet miracle.
Conclusion
Immanuel is no longer just a name from Scripture.
It is the story of your life.
God with you
when the ground gave way.
God with you
as healing began.
God with you
as you learned to stand again.
God with you
now, in a season marked by peace.
This Christmas, you do not celebrate from longing.
You celebrate from presence.
Because the God who came into the world
has been with you all along.
“Behold, the virgin shall be with child and bear a Son,
and they shall call His name Immanuel,”
which is translated, God with us.
Matthew 1:23
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