My mother died in October of 2015. That November through December, I worked overtime at my church job, so parishioners could have fun opportunities to celebrate the season. I served hot chocolate on Carol Sing Night, when young families came for sing-alongs and sweets; I set up lighted trees and garland throughout the sanctuary; I chose recorded instrumental tracks to play softly all day, every day, throughout the church offices.  My friends were amazed at how well I was doing, remarking how strong my faith must be. I was on the committee for the staff Christmas party. People recognized my Santa hat everywhere. We staged elaborate concerts. I willingly put in fifty hours or more, seven days a week. My body buzzed with energy.

Until I went home.

There, weary to the bone, I binged on chocolate, mindlessly scrolling through TV channels, laying awake long into the night. I cocooned myself in a blanket of fleece and numbness, ashamed of my pain. My husband quickly learned to stop asking how I really was.

I pushed everyone away with fake smiles, quick laughter and busy hands. I denied my grief, but my body and soul could not.

Advent reminds us to look ahead with hope, but not always from a safe place of peace or contentment. There’s a reason that “O Come Emmanuel” includes the line, “…ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here.”

That Advent was hard, but also one of the holiest for me, because grief and loneliness demanded its rightful place in my heart. It gently, resolutely refused to leave, no matter how long I worked or how much I tried to get into “the spirit of the season.” It finally broke my resolve and left me open to the pain of healing. It outlasted my stubbornness. Contrary to making “the rough places plain” that Advent made the valleys even deeper, a gift I would not appreciate until later.

Over the years, I learned that grief is indeed an important part of “the spirit of the season” not to be denied. Without opening ourselves to its eventual appearance, we can’t open our hearts to much of anything else either. It’s the price of peace, I suppose. Advent light without recognition of Advent dark becomes another empty holiday season. But Advent with recognition of loss – well, that is the beginning of something totally new. Something as big as the night sky. Advent with room for grief is Advent with room for joy, too. I almost wish the four Sundays of Advent included “Grief Sunday.” But how do you decorate for that?

That Advent of 2015 freed me to ask myself now what lies empty within, so I can listen patiently for its echo. I’m not afraid anymore. The spirit of the season is wider than just forty days in the wintertime. Wide as a canyon. And although I don’t have a lighted tree to celebrate it, the deep darkness of Advent is now a permanent friend to me, a trusted companion as we travel the heart’s journey to our true home.