Longest Night

I first learned of The Longest Night when I moved to northern Indiana. As the administrative assistant for one of the local Mennonite churches, I was entering an announcement into our bulletin about one of these Longest Night services, and had to ask one of the pastors what exactly it was.

The idea of these services, is to me, the epitome of what it means to be a Christian. Days before celebrating the birth of Christ, we are reminded to turn our eyes away from the sparkle of the holiday, and towards those that wait in darkness around us.

There are many who grieve the loss of one beloved during the Christmas season. So much emphasis is placed on gathering up one's family and reunification. Yet so many aren't able to do just that. Sometimes it's caused by death, sometimes estrangement, and sometimes it's just the grief that settles in over not having the family you want. (A parent unable to give unconditional love, a sibling that refuses to take responsibility, a spouse that can't see past their skin to reach out to the very ones they've committed themselves to.) Being with an incomplete family at Christmas, has a way of sticking salted fingers into wounds.

I know it might sound dark, but knowing others were feeling this same dread at Christmas, just knowing- I didn't even attend the service, made me feel better. It gave me hope. It's not because someone shared my misery, or had it worse than I did, but because it meant I wasn't crazy for feeling that way at a time when I was supposed to be happy.

Please understand, I love Christmas (ask my college roommates who suffered pre-mature decorating in late September), but along with the jingles and twinkles, comes the coldness, the stark, bare, and ink black night. It's there at the fringes. And knowing others felt this way, too- not only acknowledged by those suffering, but by the church- let me sink into the darkness, with a lifeline attached. I had permission to feel it and appreciate it for what it was and what it wasn't. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could look around me and see the thousands in the dark. I could make my way through the crowds, taking hands, closing my arms around the broken-hearted.

It was the beginning of my understanding of the ugly side of Christianity. God doesn't promise us happy days for the rest of our lives (just realized those are lyrics), but God does promise us companionship. And if I stay in the middle of the light, then the only hands I hold are the hands already in the light. The bubbly, joyful, ain't God great hands. And I don't know about you, but I can never stay in that kind of atmosphere for long. The sphere of light is so small, and the need of those in the dark is so great.

So I choose to go back into the dark, time and again. To reacquaint myself with the suffering of others. To bring whatever glowing ember I can maintain.

For all of you, who might happen to read this, who are in that dark place, outside the realm of the sparkles and glitter of the holidays- know I'm here, with my eyes adjusting to the darkness again, and I'm looking around for your hand.

From "Will you let me be your servant?" by Richard Gillard

We are pilgrims on a journey
We are travelers on the road
We are here
to help each other
Walk the mile and bear the load

I will hold the
Christlight for you
In the night-time of your fear
I will hold my hand
out to you
Speak the peace you long to hear

I will weep when you are
weeping
When you laugh I'll laugh with you
I will share your joy and
sorrow
Till we've seen this journey through

and from "Stay with us" by Walter Farquharson

Stay with us, through the night
Stay with us, through the pain
Stay
with us, blessed stranger
Till the morning breaks again

Stay with
us, through the night
Stay with us, through the grief
Stay with us,
blessed stranger
Till the morning brings relief

Stay with us,
through the night
Stay with us, through the dread
Stay with us, blessed
stranger
Till the morning breaks new bread

Peace be within each of you, dear readers.