“Do not assume that she who seeks to comfort you now, lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good.  Her life may also have much sadness and difficulty, that remains far beyond yours.  Were it otherwise, she would never have been able to find these words.”

— Ranier Maria Rilke

December is here.  The ground in the morning is frosty and cold.  Another year soon will rest beneath the cold, dark blanket of winter.  All around us, decorations have begun to appear, heralding the approaching holiday season.  Perhaps, I think, we layer this color and light on the harsh reality to cheer ourselves and avoid the truth about this season of endings.  We spread color and light to remind ourselves that hope is essential as the silent winter approaches.

For those who have suffered loss in the past year, the colors seem faded and the light burns dim.  The winter that has touched their hearts out of season now seems colder than ever; and they will tell you that it will take more than some glittering ornaments and a string of lights to kindle hope that will sustain them for the winter.

There is something extraordinarily cruel about grieving at the holidays.  With all the laughter and all the singing and all the light and all the color, we feel incredibly gray and dismal.  Certain that everyone will see our black-and-white selves amid all the colorful celebration, we tend to retreat to a quiet corner and know with a certainty that we no longer belong in the world of happiness, love, and celebration.  We no longer resemble that world; and trying to be a part of it is a painful reminder that we now are different and will never again be the same.

There have been times in my life when I have faced the holidays with grief so raw that it has drained me of my color.  I have felt the searing pain of separation from all that is joyful.  I have sat alone in my corner of sorrow and struggled not to let my sputtering flame go out when the cold wind blows through my heart.  It is at these cold and gray and painful times that the most miraculous things have occurred.  Without fanfare, someone will leave the world of color and step into my pain.  With the wisdom to gray down their own color, they have found a way to show me that there are shades of gray and color, levels of brightness that allow the light to shine without blinding me in my darkness.  They tiptoe in so silently and with such reverence and respect for my wounds that I barely notice that they have laid wide open their own wounded heart and let me feel that they understand.  In that silent and holy place, apart from the world I once knew, I feel a hand reach out.  It carries a small candle that I know is called hope; and gently the hand touches the fire of hope to my own sputtering flame.  As we sit silently, our heart-fires connected and glowing through the scars and the healing wounds, I feel it — warmth, in the coldest season of the year, glowing yellow deep inside my heart.

We all are wounded in one way or another; and once we have known what it is to live in a world without color and light, our wounded hearts burn with the desire to extend the light of hope and rekindle its fire for someone else who is burning low.  The greatest blessing of being wounded is the ability to ease the wounds of others.  Remember in the midst of the color to carry the small flame to the dark corners where hope is needed.  You will find that your own light burns brighter as well.