After we drove away from the adoption agency with an emptiness and sadness bigger than we could ever imagine, we parked our car on the street in Newport Beach. The homes around us were littered with twinkling Christmas cheer, but our home remained bleak and dark against the night sky, already blanketed with salty sea-fog. I didn’t want to leave the warmth of our car to step into our small home. I didn’t want to move forward and leave Matthew behind. I felt like I was stuck in the middle of the Red Sea — unsure what the other side would look like now I was changed by becoming a mom, but knowing I couldn’t go back to who I was when I wasn’t a mom. I felt stuck in the middle. Was I a mom, still, or not? I was certainly not who I once was, but wasn’t sure who I was now.

I felt glued to the grey upholstery in my red Honda Civic, experiencing an identity crisis like I never had before. Even with my naturally positive personality and ability to see the good in all situations, I felt depleted of those resources, unable to find a silver lining. I wondered if my propensity for positivity was a lie. I began to question my purpose and existence, since my entire life goal was to be a mom. Peeling myself from the car, I wondered what life would look like after mothering Matthew. We ambled up the walkway and unlocked our front door, greeted by the darkness. Even with its small size, our bungalow felt empty and cold when we walked in without our son. Our lives had forever been changed in that past month and our home housed those reminders within its walls.

I went back to work as a server at a local restaurant within a few days, trying to disengage from the pain and distract myself with being busy. I was someone who had no career aspirations beyond mothering, so working as a server was a fine fit. What I realized later was how fulfilling this job truly was, providing customers the best form of service and hospitality. It wasn’t merely a job. Caring for people was a calling, in the form of iced tea refills and extra Ranch dressing. Just maybe not forever.

My co-workers were gracious and kind and my bosses re-hired me immediately. The structure this work provided, and the uplifting atmosphere, allowed me to slip comfortably into routine again. Unfortunately, I primarily worked lunch shifts. This forced me to serve mamas holding and rocking and nursing their babies. Every table with an infant felt like a punch of sadness and jealousy to my gut, while my womb and arms remained empty.

In those days that followed giving Matthew back, I would drive home from work to a dark and cold house. The distractions of my day — taking orders, bussing tables, and greeting guests — were left in the break room, alongside my apron. Everything around me was decorated for Christmas, from the restaurants to the lamp posts. Surfing Santa and lit-up Duffy Boats in the harbor made it difficult to avoid how unprepared I was for this season. It was hard to think about Christmas when my world had been pulled out from under me. Twinkly lights and Christmas cheer bombarded me, and I couldn’t begin to think about how to celebrate. How could I celebrate the birth of my Savior when I felt like God had abandoned me? How could I decorate for the new Christ-Child when my child was gone? I quickly began to wallow and spiral into a space of bitter sadness, feeling utterly alone and unseen.

Christmas can be hard for so many people. Underneath the shiny bows, the perfectly placed tinsel and the Christmas party smiles, there is great loss, drowning grief, overwhelming anxiety and fear. There are chairs around tables left bare and empty because of death or estrangement or illness. My pain was my own, but I was not alone in grief; grief surrounds holidays. It feels difficult to live in the pain and brokenness this life brings our way while Jingle Bells and Christmas cheer batter our senses. We are either Scrooge by seeing everything as sadness, loneliness and fear, or we are shiny, happy people without a care in the world.

I found it strenuous, living in the paradox of both. Was I allowed to feel great loss while also celebrating the great joy of Christmas? Could I embrace the beauty and light of anticipating Christmas while admitting the fear and darkness of pain and loss?

The season of Advent is truly a paradox. I can imagine those last few weeks before the birth of Christ and Mary feeling unsettled. The church tends to gift-wrap Advent with words like hope, joy, peace and love. The minute December hits we light up the sky, sing “O Come All Ye Faithful” and put baby Jesus in the manger throughout the month. But traditionally Advent wasn’t bright Target ads and sparkly Christmas parties. Advent was dark and reflective, creating rising anticipation of Christ’s birth, with every Sunday bringing a little more light through each candle lit until the brightest Christ candle declared Joy to the World.

Within the Christmas story and within all of life, we live in paradox. We are people who can see the good within the bad, who can claim the joy within the grief, who make brave choices in the midst of being scared. The Christmas story is just that. It’s a paradox. It’s God putting on skin to live with God’s creation. It’s all things holy and glorious being born out of blood and sweat and feces into the messiness of life.

It’s chaos and peace.

My husband and I came home from work a week after we placed Matthew into the social worker’s arms to find our home had been decorated for us. Instead of a dark shack, we arrived at a warm bungalow. Instead of our home blending into the background, fading from sight, it was lit with joy and comfort. My sister Annalisa, who was working at Starbucks and barely had enough to pay her own bills, had gone to Target. She purchased Christmas lights, a tree for our home, a wreath for our door, stockings to be hung. She had done something for us that we couldn’t have done for ourselves. She saw a need in our lives because she was paying attention. She didn’t try to fix our pain or tell us everything was going to be okay. She simply showed up. She became God’s love for us.

Our lives are a paradox, and it’s when we allow our hearts to be open to giving thanks, to being thankful, we can begin to see joy in the midst of grief. We live in paradox through gratitude.

So may you give thanks and claim the good even when everything seems unbearable. May you trust God is with you in your hardship, and may you know you are loved. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you.

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Bethany Cseh is a pastor at Arcata United Methodist Church and Catalyst Church.