And the darkness did not overcome it© Jan Richardson. janrichardson.com)

This is the time of the year when some churches plan what’s called a “Blue Christmas” liturgy. This liturgy is a time for prayer and worship especially for those who are experiencing grief, loss, and suffering.  The season of Advent and Christmas can be a particularly difficult time for these friends when the world puts on a jolly show, though too often this merriness is more false than true.  Coming together and acknowledging this disharmony can be a comfort.

On this longest night of the year, a gift for all of us wherever we are today.  Thank you, The Rev. Jan Richardson, for “serving us with the gift you have received,” (1 Peter 4.10) through art and written blessings.

Blessing for the Longest Night

All throughout these months
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.

It has practiced
walking in the dark,
with its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory
by touch
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.

So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you
even though you cannot
see it coming.

You will know
the moment of its
arriving
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.

This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.

So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.

Get up.

Set out on the road
you cannot see.

This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.

—Jan Richardson
from The Cure for Sorrow
© Jan Richardson (janrichardson.com)

This is the devotional that came into my inbox as I settled into my room at the Portland Airport. I did not find this all that amusing, but I did find it thoughtful.

You see, after two delayed flights, I was on my way to Bend finally last night to be with Jonas when he woke up for his fifth birthday this morning. After we boarded the flight to Redmond, the pilot came out to apologize for the delay. They’d been behind all day because of the fires near Ventura. He had yet more disappointing news–a huge fog had engulfed the Redmond airport, and we were unlikely to be unable to land and would be diverted to Portland.

Needless to say, I spent most of the flight praying the please God please God please God prayer. I listened to my Brave Still playlist created after the second Houston flood. The songs are all about God being present when things don’t go as planned. Thinking about not being with Jonas when he woke up on his birthday filled me with sadness.

I’ve walked this walk with God long enough to know that prayers aren’t magic, but that God is always present.

So here I sit in the Portland airport the morning of Jonas’ birthday. I saw a beautiful sunrise as I boarded the shuttle to the airport from my unexpected sleeping place.

I’ve had the best flat white ever at the airport and a marionberry muffin besides.

And I remember.

Life is like the fog. We can only see a few feet in front of us. All we can do is put one foot in front of us and see what us revealed.

Though I am still hoping that the fog will lift, and I will be able to fly my diverted to PDX flight to RDM to see the grandboys today.

Most of my friends are putting up Christmas trees and adorning their homes with festive decorations. The photos they post and share are exquisite.

For a number of years I’ve had a different. practice. At Thanksgiving, days before the beginning of Advent, I walk down to the lake at my mother’s farm and clip blue berry laden juniper branches to take back to Houston to prepare my home for Advent.

Before Christmas arrives, I love observing Advent. The image I’ve held in my heart for years is a very pregnant Mary pondering and waiting, with hope and uncertainty held together in open hands.

Blue being the color of hope, and being the color Mary most often is depicted wearing, for the first twenty four days of December my home is full of blue.

Yesterday I clipped and arranged juniper branches gathered at Thanksgiving last week. placed them in bowls and vases, on table, buffet, and mantle throughout my temporary home in Tomball. It’s nearly Advent!

However, this year I had not gathered the branches my self. My injured ankle prevented me from walking the uneven terrain to clip the branches. Instead I remembered to ask for help. My nephew and niece and brothers lopped off limbs of brown, green, and blue for me.

This year my Advent preparations are a concrete reminder that we are invited to not wait alone. Together we hold hope and uncertainty in shared and clasped hands

God set me on the path of healing again. Turn me to the rising sun when I need to be inspired. Turn me to the wilderness when I need to be lost. Turn me toward the world when I need to work. Turn me toward the mountain when I need to retreat. So that on turning I find Your loving grace all around. (Prayer by Becca Stevens in Love Heals)

A week ago, walking on uneven ground, I sprained my ankle. The pain of healing has slowed me down. The injury is not a surprise as I walk in the wilderness of this second flooding in less than two years.

Several people have commented that it must be easier handling the second flooding of my home. Some say that since I know the drill it must not be as difficult.

These are very kind and very caring people, and because they love me I think they may hope it’s easier.

But as a friend commented, a second broken arm hurts as much as the first. You may know better how the healing process goes, but the familiarity does not make it easier.

As Becca Stevens writes, I am back in the wilderness again. I am lost, but I learned tools in the last flood that assure me that what is lost will be found. I do know from the first flood that there is great beauty in the wilderness. 

I wish I were not back in the wilderness, but I know I am being found.  I also know that there is the beauty of love, companionship, unexpected gifts, and abounding grace.

Yes. It hurts. And still I am thankful.