Joyful, even when not triumphant

We are worn, fragile. But Christmas is the story of God entering diminished places.

By Joel Warne

December 25, 2022 at 12:00AM

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My mom, Elda, died 15 years ago. I carry a vivid mental picture of her hands. They weren't pretty.

Mom's hands ran the wash for our family of 10 through a ringer washer, and hung it outside to dry summer and winter. Her hands changed diapers for eight babies, held eight babies to her breast, and packed about a half dozen school lunches every day. Sometimes they tapped out important messages on our bottoms.

While the rest of us watched TV at night, Mom sat at the end of our long living room couch, pushing cheap lotion deep into her rough, red fingers while reading her many devotionals. Over time, Mom's hands became ever more veiny, knobby and knuckle-y. She scolded herself for her unsightly hands and tried to keep them hidden.

She couldn't hide them in her casket, though. On the day of her funeral, Mom's hands lay there, a testimony to her — her values, her heart, her choices.

My father-in-law Emil provided for his family of nine as a plumber and later, after a serious injury, as a house painter. Working those tough jobs, he handled chemicals that today we know are dangerous. At the time, they weren't so well understood, and they would lead to Emil's long battle with emphysema. Early family photos show a strong, lean young man working his trades and building his family a home. Those images contrast with the worn frame of his later life, after a thousand acts of faithful service and love.

In these days of challenge and stress, some of us display our own versions of Mom's hands or Emil's weariness. In saying yes to our callings to serve families, friends, churches and communities, some of the impact registers.

I have friends who in faithfulness to their duties suffer relentless headaches or a loss of appetite. Others labor with gripping anxiety. A few have endured a general system overload, resulting in mental and emotional freeze-ups, mushiness, malaise.

Compounding this suffering, some feel shame for finding themselves so human, so fragile, even somewhat disabled compared with their earlier selves.

But our diminishment in this life can create space inside for something profound.

At Christmas, many celebrate God as Emmanuel, a name meaning "God with us." The one who created us affirms our humanness by participating in it.

"During the days of Jesus' life on earth, he offered up prayers and petitions with loud cries and tears … ." (Hebrews 5:7).

Christmas is the story of God entering diminished places. In the Gospels, Jesus enters pain, exasperation, rejection, grief and physical decrease as his preferred address.

What if this kind of God understands what it means to be a human being in times like these? What if, instead of lamenting our inability to be mini-gods — polished, at peace, indestructible — we experience our frailties as the place God loves to live?

"Our inner poverty deeply accepted is the gate of heaven," writes therapist and author Jim Finley.

A couple of days before Mom died at age 78 from a worn-out heart, I asked whether she was afraid of anything. "No," she said. "Not afraid. Thankful." I was surprised. "I'm grateful to my tired heart," she continued, "for serving me all these years, helping me care for Dad and you kids."

Mom was no longer hiding her frailties, or pushing against them, but offering them understanding, thankfulness and compassion. Making peace with her own diminishment, she made room for the deep, multi-layered truth of Christmas.

Joel Warne is the co-director of WellSpring Life Resources in Plymouth.

about the writer

about the writer

Joel Warne