The Longest Night

Journal Musings
December 24, 2007

Yesterday we went to a Longest Night service at our church. This service is held annually near the Winter Solstice (longest night). It is designed to bring comfort and solace to those that suffered a loss during the year and are grieving; a very real need for many during the holidays. I was invited because of my father’s death at the end of October. We met in the late afternoon as a very intimate group of quiet mourners.

On the way to the service, Joanne and I encountered a funeral procession turning onto the road in front of us; an extremely rare occurrence but especially so on a cold, wintry, late Sunday afternoon. We followed the mournful procession for 3 or 4 miles. The slow pace gave me plenty of time to think. As I thought about my grieving, I realized that my grief for the loss of my father was just a part of what I was dealing with this year. Grief, like many things, is cumulative in its impact on us. We don’t grieve in isolated partitions but rather with one grief burden to which new grief gets added. The bundle we carry just grows until we are able to deal with it collectively or in bits and pieces..

This past year, I dealt with the grief of loss in many ways: a lost job; a loss of friends; being asked to leave both a church and a small study group; some broken family ties; loss of my former personal and professional identity (no regrets but a gain that does come with a loss); and deaths. The biggest addition to my grief bundle was the death of transgender people who either were brutally murdered or, in despair, took their own life. The hardest for me was the 16-year old boy at whose vigil I spoke. Ian’s tragic passing lingers with me.

In the providence of God, the funeral procession became part of the healing process. There is something about naming our sorrows that helps us begin to deal with them. Experts say that the first stage that we go though in the grief process is denial. Naming our grief enables our steps in finding comfort, because we then know where our need for comfort rests.

The service used Scripture readings, reflections, and hymns to speak to our grief. Our meditation together was framed around the lighting of the Advent candles, but with the candles given a new meaning for those gathered in grief. The candles represented loneliness, regrets, anger, peace and then the Christ candle reminding us of his presence even in the midst – perhaps especially in the midst – of our sorrow. As we sat, I thought of the words from an old gospel song: “I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.” The song is Precious Lord Take my Hand. He has.

As we sat, there were a lot of tears; wellsprings of sorrow that would become seeds of healing. Yes, our collective grief was and is very real but the Longest Night service really isn’t just about the night. Even the darkest, coldest, and longest nights end with a sunrise. Isn’t that what the first Christmas morn was about?

Merry Christmas with much love,
Julie