For many years, while living in Phoenix, our ministry family found intimate community inside the walls of a beloved church on Christmas Eve. Last year, in our small seaside town, we were wondering where we might worship, if our absence would be noticed by the community we’d enjoyed over the past four years after a church split. This year, our circumstances haven’t changed much.
In the early days of ministry in the desert, our back yard met the asphalt of the mega church parking lot where my husband served as one of fifteen pastors. On Christmas Eve, we padded our shiny shoes through a battlefield of pecans; hair haloed by orange trees, their bounty brushing our velvet and lace. We pushed a large wooden gate open in the center of a cinder block wall like the closet door of Narnia, walking into the sun setting golden, bouncing her light shadows off rows of windshields and arms swinging with gift bags.
Seventy-five people followed us back home after worship, ushering in the heart of Christmas.
It started with a few pastors and their wives needing respite between an early evening and midnight worship service. Soon our casual invitation grew into a tradition. We began pushing furniture against the walls to make room for a swelling staff and close friends, the overflow sitting cross-legged on the floor with laps of chili con queso and tamales. My children still talk about those years with fondness.
That familiarity of community ended ten years ago. We didn’t realize what we took for granted until experiencing our first Christmas in a new place.
Over the past year, we’ve walked through the stages of grief with the broken we barely know. After losing their home of worship in a church vote, we’ve witnessed family separating, like arguing over who prefers chicken more than roast beef for dinner, holding their empty plates waiting for crumbs with mouths drawn open. We’re all still a bit misplaced.
We’ve continued holding onto our own family traditions like grasping a life raft in the ebb of ebony darkness, moonlight as our only compass.
I’ve learned by now to be quite content whatever my circumstances. I’m just as happy with little as with much, with much as with little. I’ve found the recipe for being happy whether full or hungry, hands full or hands empty. Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am. (Philippians 4:11-13, MSG)
Our faith can seem sturdy, like a fortress of inner strength, until loss presents itself. The crutches you’ve been leaning on that were invisible to your senses reveal themselves and once again, you realize that you are dust in desperate need of saving.
Adversity is the rope pulling you toward the shores of hope, don’t despise it. Hope is learned, not something you are born with. May the Hope of the world become flesh in your circumstances this Christmas and gratitude be the song you hum continually
Shelly Miller is smitten with the art of story to transform a life. She writes about her own struggles as a child of divorce and alcoholism, and the way God redeems it all as a clergy wife raising two teens. With experience as a full-time missionary, advocate for orphans in Rwanda and leader of women’s ministries for small and large congregations, she is passionate to help people realize calling despite circumstance. Connect with her on her blog Redemptions Beauty, on Facebook and Twitter.
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Shelly, you said it so well “hope is learned” and there definitely is a grieving process when we lose community. You encouraged me with your story.
So glad you were encouraged Tammy. And Brene Brown inspired me with those words in her book Daring Greatly. I’m pressing into the grieving process and learning a great deal from it. That is redemption at its finest, don’t you think?
“Hope is learned, not something you are born with” these words are so very true. Shelly, this is a beautiful post and having grown up as a preachers kid I can relate to church splits and the grief associated with it.
By way, I would LOVE to come to a party at your house! I bet you throw a great one!
I miss those big gatherings, but we’re doing an office party in a week so I’m looking forward to all the festivities. And if you were in the neighborhood Mary, you would surely be on the guest list. Thank you for commenting, glad to see you here.
Oh, Shelly, we could write a book about communities loved and lost, couldn’t we? I’ve decided it’s the living with and the living without (both) that reveal the full glory of community. How good to know we are every day closer to the day we’ll enjoy perfect community.
Christie, you are so right, its what God is revealing. I wouldn’t understand the message he is delivering without the lack of community. It’s not what I would choose for my circumstance but of course, hindsight is much clearer isn’t it? Glad to know we are in the same boat because you are good company.
This Christmas Eve, I’ll be spending it with the ill at the hospital.
Not by choice, but still… couldn’t, the possibilities are opening now to me, couldn’t it be the best way possible to spend Christmas Eve?
This community you talk of… it’s the night before a broken world receives hope, the best gift of God and I’m sure, if I don’t resist my Christmas Eve plans, the Lord can open up doors for a shared communion of opening the greatest Gift of all, whether it be with patients or with coworkers.
Giving it over to Him, now. Thank you, Shelly, and thank you, Diane for hosting one of my favorites. 🙂
You always have such great perspective Duane, thank you for sharing it here with us. What a gift you are to anyone who has the privilege of knowing you. Those patients will have Christmas in the face of your kindness. Oh my.
Yes….adversity is the rope pulling us toward the shore of hope ….nothing has been as painful as the tearing of our fellowship …both spiritual and for me blood…but nothing has brought greater redemption in my life…sorrow and joy mingled together…only can His love and grace meet us here…only His love can breath hope into this pain…blessings to you this holiday season as you continue to breath in His grace and learn of the great hope he has!!!
It’s such a joy to watch the evolution of your life Ro, the way you’ve walked into new confidence and rally the troops with encouragement. Thank you for sharing your tender heart and always coming alongside with a shoulder of empathy and acceptance.
Our family has also known the lonesomeness of a new church at Christmastime. But you are so right, Shelly: such experiences strengthen our faith. I’ve learned that my security cannot rest on human relationships and what’s familiar. My security–that is, my deep-down peace and contentment–must be rooted in Emmanuel. God is with me whether I’m with family and friends, or new acquaintances. (The next time we move, you have my permission to remind me of this truth!)
I know you get this Nancy. And we’ll remind each other, its a pact. Hugs to you friend. Thanks for following me to Diane’s place.
I just said it to a group of stroke survivors that I spoke to tonight: sometimes we have to lose part of our life to find the gift in it. This is so lovely, Shelly. It’s hard to imagine you without community–such the hostess and always full of grace. Praying this Christmas is extra special for your family.
This is so true Laura, how we have to lose something in order to mine the deeper truths of what is right in front of us. God redeems our loss for His gain (and ours) and in the end, he give beautiful perspective. I’ve thought about this often in the context of Nelson Mandela, all those years he lost his freedom, yet it changed him and made him into an even better leader.
The church I grew up in had 3 Christmas Eve services – with the last one beginning at 11 pm! When I was old enough to stay up for it, that midnight service was by far my most treasured time of worship during the Christmas season. I just loved raising my candle along with my church family in this collective effort to praise Him for the light he brought to our dark world.