Breakfast at Tiffany's: A mother’s first empty-nest Christmas

The year of my son, Jonah’s birth was one of such hope and of answered prayers. The youngest sibling of two older sisters, Jonah displayed a deeply affectionate and joyful demeanor that seemed ingrained in him from the beginning. He was the jolliest of babies. The Hebrew meaning of Jonah is “dove,” which symbolizes peace. So, I didn’t think it a coincidence that one of his favorite sounds to make was much like the coo of a dove. To me, he was reminder of God’s love and promise of peace, all wrapped up in this happy, dimple-cheeked gift from heaven.

            You see, one of the struggles I faced as a young, stay-at-home mother was long bouts of depression and anxiety often triggered by underlying physical problems. These dark seasons created the overwhelming illusion that I was alone, helpless and a disappointment to everyone—including God. Crying spells were not uncommon for me. I can remember such a day when the weight felt particularly unbearable. Jonah was merely an infant of four-five months old. I had just changed him on his changing table when the pain of everything I was feeling came rushing out in a deluge of tears. Needing human affection, I gently laid myself over the top of him so that I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. While many babies might try to wriggle themselves free, a miracle happened that day. Without as much as a whimper, I felt Jonah’s short, chubby arms reach around my neck to the top of my shoulders, his tiny fingers patting away—as I had done to soothe his crying so many times before.

            As the years flew by and he grew into a young man, I came to rely on the daily reassurance of his presence, his lighthearted humor and the innocent wisdom that would often pour forth from his old soul. Another special thing about him was that he had always loved Christmastime, and every December with him was full of excitement and fun memories. Then in what seemed like an instant, he was packing his things and moving out to forge his own path in the world. I had always tried to teach him to be independent, but nothing could have prepared me for the way my heart shattered when that independence took him away from me much earlier than I had planned for. As this December unfolds—my first holiday season without him here—I find myself longing for days past when the laughter of children filled my home.

This year has brought with it a new normal that I’m not quite sure how to deal with other than to pray and ask God to meet me in my sadness. And meet me, He has. I hear the words of this old Christmas hymn resounding in my mind:

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;

it is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,

for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!

            What joy mixed with sorrow Mary must have felt upon the birth of her precious son. Lauded by hosts of angels yet born in a lowly stable. Gifted with riches from afar with a feeding trough for a bed. He was extraordinary, yet so ordinary. The Bible says that Mary “kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). She marveled at the blessings spoken over her son when the prophet Simeon beheld him and called him the glory of Israel—while trying to make sense of what Simeon prophesied of her: “Yea, a sword shall pierce through thine own soul…” (Luke 2:35). And I can’t even begin to imagine the pain Mary felt as she watched her precious, adult child brutally tortured and killed before her very eyes.

            Mary could have easily allowed her grief and pain to trap her in a state of perpetual oppression, living out the rest of her days in utter isolation and uselessness. Would it have lessened the effect of her son’s ultimate purpose for coming into the world? Not at all. But she would have missed out on the greatest blessing of all which was the experience of true salvation. Instead, Mary embraced all that the birth, life and death of her son meant for her and the rest of the world. She was present in the Upper Room with those who “continued with one accord in prayer and supplication” and “they were all filled with the Holy Ghost…” (Acts 1:14, 2:1-4).

While I ponder these things, a specific line of “O Holy Night” repeats in my spirit like a broken record: “And in His name all oppression shall cease.” Pastor Tony Evans talks about how at its core, oppression seeks to limit and control individuals, preventing them from reaching their divinely ordained potential and ultimately disrupting God’s plan for their lives (‘“Freedom from Oppression’ (Part 7),” in Tony Evans Sermon Archive (Tony Evans, 2009).) At times I am tempted to let the feeling of loss piercing my heart this year overwhelm me, which could easily turn into life-altering, purpose-hindering oppression. But the strength of Mary through a trial most mothers will never come close to experiencing encourages me to embrace with hope every aspect of joy and sorrow I feel this holiday season and every season to come. Because of the birth of Jesus, we can, along with Mary, look forward to the day when “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away” (Revelation 21:4).