O Come O Come
the bitter sweet axiom of Advent and Christmas
And so I come to the most difficult Advent and Christmas I have ever had to face, which I have been dreading. A time where I can not hide from the darkness and the grief, but I must walk into it one day at a time when I feel a long way away from my closest friends and family. I am writing this as I need to get it out from within me, as a release and prayer.
For me, Advent has always been a season of impatient waiting, of longing, of searching for light in the darkness. This year, as I stand at the axiom between Advent and Christmas, Christmas Eve, I feel that darkness more profoundly than ever. The loss of my parents—the sudden absence of their life-presence, their voices, particularly the warmth and reassuring presence of my wonderful and unique Mum — has left me deeply hollow. The songs of the season, the rituals of preparation, and the anticipation of Christmas all feel foreign and heavy, like a weight I am unprepared to carry.
Among the carols that echo through this season, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel resonates most deeply with me. Its haunting melody matches the ache in my heart, and its words of yearning seem to speak directly to my grief. "O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel, that mourns in lonely exile here." In these words, I see myself, mourning in exile, far from the comfort and joy I once knew. The world feels dim, and the festive lights seem to mock my sorrow. How can I prepare for Emmanuel—God with us—when the ones who were the most unconditionally loving to me, who brought God’s love so tangibly into my life, are gone?
The verses of the carol paint a picture of a people yearning for deliverance, crying out for a saviour in the midst of despair. It reminds me of the ancient Israelites, waiting in exile, wondering if God had forgotten them. Their story mirrors my own. In this season of mourning, I, too, am asking questions that feel like echoes of their cries: Where is God in this loss? Where is the comfort, the healing, the peace that the angels proclaimed?
The darkness of this season—the long nights and the cold— and here in Canada snow and ice - feels like an outward reflection of the emptiness inside me. Advent, which once held a sense of sacred mystery, now feels like a reminder of what I have lost. The traditions my mum lovingly built—the decorating, the shared meals, the simple joy of sitting together in her home—feel impossibly distant. Their absence is palpable in every quiet moment, every unlit candle.
And yet, even in this grief, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel refuses to let the darkness have the final word. The refrain, "Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel," is not a command but an invitation—a gentle reminder that the story is not over. Emmanuel shall come. Not has come, as if the joy is only in the past, but shall come, promising that the light we long for is on its way, even if it feels unbearably distant.
This is the paradox of Advent: it meets us in our brokenness and tells us to hope anyway. It doesn’t ask us to ignore our pain or pretend the darkness isn’t real. Instead, it asks us to light a candle in the night, to trust that God’s love will meet us there. In my grief, I find a surprising kinship with the fragile, uncertain hope of Advent. More than any previous year the persons of Mary and Joseph and their struggles to resist the oppression of religious and political tyranny inspires me. The God we await does not come as a conqueror, obliterating all sorrow in a single moment, but as a fragile child, vulnerable and dependent. Emmanuel comes to join us in our frailty, to share in our suffering, and to remind us that even in our darkest hours, we are not alone. Yes I feel deeply alone, abandoned, lost, but God is with me no matter how much heart is overwhelmed, God is there.
The promise of Advent is not that our pain will vanish, but that God enters into it with us. As I sing this ancient carol, I imagine the countless generations who have sung it before me, each bringing their own sorrows, their own longings, their own prayers for deliverance. I am not alone in this waiting. My grief is not a sign of God’s absence but a space where I am learning, slowly, to recognise God’s presence, and learning to lean into this presence when everything in me wants to shout out my inner pain and anguish with all that I am feeling. But still God is Emmanuel, and I am learning to trust this truth one day at a time.
This Advent, I will light the candles with trembling hands. I will cry out with the psalmist, "How long, O Lord?" And I will hold on to the promise that Emmanuel is coming, even if it feels impossible to believe. For now, I will let the carol carry the hope I cannot yet hold on my own. "Rejoice, rejoice." I will whisper it through tears, trusting that, one day, it will feel true again.
This is the fragile, tenacious hope of Advent: that God comes to us, not in spite of our brokenness, but because of it. Emmanuel, God with us, does not ask us to leave our grief behind but promises to dwell within it, transforming it, little by little, into something new.
If you feel like I am, keeping a brave face on things when your heart is broken, remember you are not alone, remember God is not leaving you alone, and although all those around us will be gathering with family and entering in the feast on the Christ-Mass, there will be many of us leaning into pain of loss but refusing to allow this to overwhelm us. Amen.