In mid November, Mike and I resigned to a decision we had put off for too long—we canceled our plans to visit family during the upcoming holidays. I know we aren’t alone in this struggle. I know Thanksgiving tables were smaller this year. And I know many of us look ahead to a much quieter Christmas season. We pat ourselves on the back, we collectively celebrate taking care of community, but we still grieve.
Since our parent’s house was no longer our primary residence, both Mike and I have never spent Christmas at our home. For two weeks at Christmas, we share time with both my family in Wisconsin and Mike’s in Ohio. Christmas for us is travel. It’s Christmas Eve sing-alongs with my siblings and cousins. It’s my Dad’s Brandy Old Fashioneds and my Grandma’s peanut butter balls. It’s my children gathered at the feet of their Papa, Mike’s dad, as he tells the Christmas story for the family service in his home congregation. And then sharing in the collective sigh of a pastor on Christmas morning, as well as his excellent taste in wine around the table that night. And yes, it also means lots of driving, endless packing and out of sorts children, and parents, but it is always worth it for those extra hugs from the people that matter the most to us.
Shortly after telling our families of our changed plans this year, we both wallowed in a mutual depression over the loss of these hugs. I said I was surprised to be so sad because shouldn’t I be relieved to be excused from the hard parts of a traveling Christmas season, especially with little children? Mike told me he recently read in a New York Times newsletter that a big part of why it feels like such a loss to not go home at Christmas is that even when our family causes us stress, our family is where we know we belong. There is a physiological sense of security in reconnecting with our people. Going home is a necessary connection point when we feel out of sorts, which is the kindest way I could describe how I feel this year.
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I thought of a story recently with my middle child, Elliott. He was four years old at the time and asked me a question that came from nowhere, as most four year old questions do.
"Where do they live?" he asked.
"Who?" I said back.
"Them. Right there,” he said matter of factly pointing out the window at our neighbor's house. “We live in Minnesota but where do they live?"
I paused, perplexed, trying to make sense of his question. Where does our neighbor live? It took me a minute before I recognized his confusion. He knows we live in the state of Minnesota. But "state" doesn’t carry the same definition to a young child. To him, the state where we live is our home, behind these four walls.
It’s the long couch where we pile up together to eat pizza in front of a movie on Friday nights.
It’s the bedroom he shares with his siblings, where he bugs his sister and giggles with his brother much too late after the lights turn off.
It’s the kitchen where we bake cookies, where messes are allowed and mom practices her patience.
And this year, it’s where we’ll open presents on a quiet Christmas morning, just the five of us.
If you ask Elliott where he lives he’ll tell you "I live in Minnesota." But when he tells you that he isn’t referring to the good hockey, the hot dish, and all those lakes. It’s our home he thinks of. This is where he lives, here with his family.
As I thought about this memory, I realized that I am the connection point for my children, Mike and I and the family we are growing. When my children seek security, they come to us. This home and it’s walls, where we have spent nine months laughing and crying and messing up and learning together, this is where we belong. I have become the place my children will one day need to return to.
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In the first chapter of the book of Ruth, Naomi has a very similar awakening. The depth of her grief following the loss of her husband and children singes with familiarity on my skin as I read it.
“Now Elimelek, Naomi’s husband, died, and she was left with her two sons. They married Moabite women, one named Orpah and the other Ruth. After they had lived there about ten years, both Mahlon and Kilion also died, and Naomi was left without her two sons and her husband.“ — Ruth 1:3-5
The words “Naomi was left without” chokes me. Isn’t this the ultimate subtitle to our 2020 cinematic experience. The list of what we are left without this year is deep.
But it’s Ruth that reminds Naomi what she has, what she is. It’s Ruth that reminds Naomi that she is not alone, is not without. She may be grieving the loss of her people, but she is also one to whom others belong.
“But Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.” — Ruth 1:16
I want to embody what Ruth calls Naomi to be. I want this for my children but I also want this for my community, and in my church. We need to be a place where others want to go, want to stay. We need to show our neighbors that our people are their people. Our God is their God. We need to listen to Ruth when she reminds us that even in our collective grief, when we welcome our people home in us, we will find that we too are right where we belong.
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I shared this reflection as a part of the Holy Trinity Lutheran Church Advent Evening Prayer Service under the theme of “Belonging.” You can watch my reading of it here.
