It was on a December 27th (long enough ago that I got the news over a corded phone) that my family was ending.
At least the blow waited until after the 25th, but is there really ever a “good time” for such things?
The result was a double whammy for Christmas. Not only was the month now historically connected with tragedy in my mind, but every family gathering since has screamed its ongoing incompleteness. The count in the room is always short.
Others have similar stories (and I’ve heard a lot worse). Christmas has a way of reminding you of what you’ve lost, or never had to begin with. A brief week of sanity before going back to the grind, fear, and disappointment.
So I’m the last person to tell anyone to “just get over it and celebrate”. The Bible defends our grace-given ability to approach God with our pain. Psalms is full of it. Jeremiah vents to God even though he knows exactly why God is inflicting his nation. Even Jesus does not try to hide his sweat and blood from his Father.
So please don’t hear me saying that God doesn’t care about our disappointment. It matters to him.
It eventually occurred to me that instead of taking my disappointment to God, I might instead be letting it usurp his throne.