There is something about the joyful festivities of the season that creates a stark backdrop to our suffering. Whether it’s the flu that knocks us out of the fun or the ache we feel at the sight of an empty seat, the joy of Christmas can magnify our grief.

We feel suffering more acutely in the Advent season. And maybe… we’re meant to.

This year I’ve been following the liturgical calendar as I prepare for Advent, and the traditional passages of Scripture the global Church has used for centuries have surprised me. They aren’t jubilant—at least not at first. They’re solemn. Even a bit dark.

See, I always thought Advent was a build-up. A countdown to the 25th—reading about Mary and Joseph, revisiting the prophecies, leaning into the excitement of a coming Messiah. And yes, advent means anticipation. But the anticipation the church fathers had in mind was much closer to the groaning of creation described in Romans 8:22-24.

Rather than a glittered-up countdown to a birthday party, Advent was designed to be a season of holy longing—of waiting for Christ to break through our darkness once more.

In the earliest traditions, Advent resembled Lent. A somber season. A stretch of intentional (and uncomfortable) waiting, like the doorkeeper in Mark 13. He waited in that in-between state of liminality, and I often wonder: How long did he stand there? Was he weary? Was he tempted to quit looking?

Limbo is uncomfortable for all of us. Yet this is exactly where the Church still stands today—hopefully longing, eyes on the door, hearts stretched between what God has promised and what we have not yet seen.

Of course, the hope of Christmas is absolutely cause for celebration. Christ wrapped Himself in the tender flesh of an infant to save us and secure eternal Hope. We should rejoice!

But Advent also brings us face-to-face with the “not yet” of our faith. Because the brokenness of this world—ugly, unfair, and painful—has not been fully mended. Tinsel cannot cover the homeless camped under 75 on a cold night. Gifts cannot heal cancer wreaking havoc in tiny, innocent bodies. Even the most lavish Christmas party can’t mend fractured marriages or soothe complicated family wounds.

This world is broken. Things are not as they should be.

Advent invites us not to look away from the darkness, but to acknowledge it. To sit in the not-yet and anticipate the future return of Christ. We lose something precious when we rush past our pain at Christmas. Advent is a season to confront the void Christ came to fill. If we polish the chasm, we unintentionally mute His victory.

The British chaplain, Frederick Langbridge, once wrote:

“Two men look out the same prison bars;
One sees mud, and the other stars.”

Christians are people who learn to look beyond the mud and toward the Star of David, toward the brilliant light that announced the Savior of the world. We worship a God whose compassion compelled Him to enter our darkness with us. Emmanuel. God with us. He stood in the same dim prison we stand in today and promised us a way out.

Joy for the Christian is not circumstantial. It is rooted in eternal hope—anchored in the promise that Christ will return and finish what He started. And yet, just like the doorkeeper, we don’t know when.

As we wait, we remember: the presence of grief does not mean the absence of joy. Advent gives us room to hold both. We can acknowledge the darkness while beholding the Light. In my experience, it’s often in the deepest dark that the gospel’s radiance refracts most beautifully.

So what do we do with grief during the holidays?

Maybe we choose not to look away. Maybe instead of numbing ourselves with shopping and decorating and endless activities, we pause long enough to see the brokenness around us—and consider where God might be asking us to enter in. Maybe we sit with those who are grieving, not offering quick fixes or platitudes, but simply offering presence.

The beauty of the Christian story is that God is still with us. As we wait for Jesus to return, whether this season brings unbridled joy or quiet sorrow, the Holy Spirit dwells within us. His light shines through us into a dark world. And Romans 8:26 tells us that in our weakness, when we’re too weary to pray, the Spirit Himself intercedes with wordless groans.

Sometimes the “anticipation” of Advent looks less like carols and more like silent tears offered to a holy God. And the good news of Christmas is this: we cry out to a God who sees us, who is with us as we look through the prison bars—and who is coming again.

Today, it might feel like night for some of us. But the stars are still brightly shining. And my prayer is that even the weariest soul would find its joy in that light.