A Weary Pregnant Lady Rejoices
Today I waddled back (hello random pregnancy tailbone pain) from the school drop-off, feeling a little nauseous from the glass of water I’d dared to sip earlier; a little heart-heavy from mindlessly scrolling through news stories shouting about the recession and the incoming mental health crisis and the pending World War 3 in America over election results; a little hopeless looking at our dreary housing estate which looks oh, so different at night with all of it’s twinkling lights; and a little purposeless without somewhere to go thanks to another stint of the 'work from home’ restrictions.
I slouched into the house with the weight of the world on, not my shoulders, but my heart. If it was just my shoulders then I could shrug it off but this weight felt internal. I boiled the kettle and pressed play on my *insert Christmas tree emoji* playlist that has been on repeat since October.
I almost skipped ‘Oh Holy Night’ because I wasn’t in the mood for a ballad. I need sleigh bells and quick beat STAT. But I got distracted with the breakfast dishes and hummed the lyrics.
'A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.’
Oh man, have we ever needed Christmas more than we do this year?
I think the extra early lights, extra early trees, extra early music, extra extravagant elf on the shelf (we don’t even have one and I still hate to see that wee punk show up) confirms that everyone is in agreement. We are weary. Hearts are weary. Souls are weary. Our very bones are weary. We need a thrill of hope.
And to be honest, when January comes I'm not sure the early decor will have cut it for me. Belting out the carols may drown out my post-school-run blues for 10 minutes, but I’m not sure they have the power to pick me up from this train-wreck of a year. I’m not sure if baking all the cookies, inhaling all the cinnamon, or wearing all the matching jumpers, will tranquillise the memories of all the world stopping, all the people dying, all the fallout effects of lockdown. I’m not sure the aesthetic, expensive, scandi wrapping paper will paper over the fact that family members are missing from the Christmas dinner table. I'm not even sure my son's beaming face on the 25th December will be enough to see me through 2021.
I need the baby born in a stinking stable to a 14 year old girl. I need the God who stepped down from his throne and felt the hurts, pains and disappointments of this fragile human life. I need to know He has felt every hill and valley and ordinariness in between (the man was a carpenter for goodness sake...you think your 9-5 is mundane?). I need to know He has felt it all, and conquered it all on a cross. I need the God who keeps his promises. I need the God who has authority over everyone and everything to the point that he orchestrates a Roman census to take place so that the Messiah’s mother would be in Bethlehem when she went into labour - just as it was prophesied in Isaiah. I don’t just need the God who keeps his promises but I need the God who keeps his promises for 700 years and still makes good on them. I need the God who chooses the Middle Eastern scum of the earth i.e. the Shepherds, as the first worshippers who are written into the Christmas story forevermore. I need the God who is still writing the story.
When Jesus was born, the world was just as weary as it is now. There was abuse of power, homelessness, death, refugees fleeing oppression, violence, injustice. The list goes on. Sound familiar?
That baby born in a manger means this world isn't all there is. There’s a deeper hope that comforts us when nothing else will, a deeper peace that defies our feelings, a deeper love that fulfils every longing.
At a time when we're told to keep our distance, I rejoice that Jesus is close. This world has never been wearier, but I have never rejoiced more.