Reprinted from December 2019
This coming week we’ll once again celebrate Christmas.
While the intent of the holiday season is that of celebration at the birth of a savior, of proclaiming the glad tidings, not everyone is filled with joy and good cheer.
There are those grieving over the loss of a loved one or a broken relationship, others facing the torment of personal depression, many who struggle with financial challenges or who have lost a job or are unable to find work, and too many who live in poverty, suffer an illness, have an addiction, or can find no guiding purpose.
Acknowledging this, some churches have offered ‘Blue Christmas’ services; ‘blue’ being equated with sadness as in “I’ll have a blue Christmas without you” or in the case of the church I attend—the Fowlerville First United Methodist—a ‘Longest Night’ Service held on the evening of the Winter Solstice.
The symbolism of offering this sort of worship service at the moment when darkness is most dominant, when light has receded to its lowest ebb, is self-evident—or ought to be.
The announcement of the service noted that “Longest Night worship services offer healing and hope to those struggling to find joy during the Christmas season.”
This gesture of lending a helping hand, of offering a lifeline, of providing comfort for those who are hurting is an effort to be applauded and emulated—both at Christmastime and the rest of the year.
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The poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) is famous for his poems about Hiawatha who lived “by the shore of Gitche Gumee,” the midnight ride of Paul Revere, and the village smithy standing under the spreading chestnut tree. Born in 1807, he had been dealing with a dark mood and personal tragedies prior to the arrival of Christmas Day in 1864.
He was still grieving the loss of his wife, Fanny, who was fatally burned in an accident at their home in Cambridge, Massachusetts over three years earlier—on July 10, 1861.
The couple had five children. She was trimming the curls of one of them, her seven-year-old daughter, when she decided to preserve the clippings in sealing wax. Melting a bar with a candle, the speculation was that a few drops fell unnoticed upon her dress. A sea breeze gusting through the window, it was believed, ignited the light material of her dress, immediately wrapping her in flames. In her attempt to protect her daughter and another child who was present, she ran to her husband’s study in the next room. There Longfellow frantically attempted to extinguish the flames with a nearby, but undersized throw rug.
She died the next day from the burns.
Longfellow, severely injured from the flames and stunned by the unexpected loss, did not attend her funeral.
The first Christmas after Fanny's death, Longfellow wrote in his personal journal, "How inexpressibly sad are all holidays."
A year after the incident, he wrote, "I can make no record of these days. Better leave them wrapped in silence. Perhaps someday God will give me peace."
The accident occurred only a few weeks after the start of the American Civil War—a conflict that would engulf the nation and result in the deaths or crippling injuries of thousands of young men from both the North and South, and cause immeasurable grief for their family and friends.
One of those young men who served in the war was Longfellow’s eldest son, Charles. Against his father’s wishes, he had run off soon after the start of hostilities to enlist in the cause of the Union. He was all of 17. Longfellow had a chance to reverse that decision, given his son’s age, but finally gave his acceptance.
Charles, like many of his fellow soldiers, came down with an illness, in his case malaria and typhoid fever. This occurred in the early part of 1863. He returned to the family home to convalesce, which historical accounts noted might have been a blessing in disguise since he was not present at the Battle of Gettysburg where, as a first lieutenant in the Army of the Potomac, he could easily have met his death.
However, when he did return to combat later that year, he was severely wounded in the Battle of Mine Run on Nov. 27 when a bullet from a Confederate rifle passed under his shoulder blade and injured his spine. The prognosis was that he might never be able to walk again.
Longfellow had no entry in his journal that ensuing Christmas as his son was back home, once again recuperating.
The Civil War during the year of 1863 had been a bloody one. Along with Gettysburg, there had been the epic battle at Vicksburg in Tennessee. But there was more to come during the next 12 months. While the North seemed to be finally prevailing, given its strength in numbers and resources, the armies of the South were putting up a hard fight. A lot more death seemed to be on the horizon before an end to the hostilities would finally arrive.
On Christmas Day of that year, Longfellow, hearing the bells of the nearby church, did what many writers, past and present, have done. He sought to write his way out of the darkness towards the light, to discern meaning in the midst of despair, and to grab ahold of the rope and pull himself out of his personal depths.
He wrote the poem “Christmas Bells” which would be edited and set to music a few years later as “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”
It begins with the familiar refrain:
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
And it continues:
And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."
* * *
When his life seemed idyllic, when he was perhaps at the peak of success and happiness, a tragic accident had turned the world upside down for Longfellow.
And even as he dealt with the death of his wife and the ensuing grief, events beyond his control, namely the Civil War, had nearly cost him the life of his son. At the very least, it appeared to have left the young man with a crippling injury.
In such circumstances, the poet was not alone. Many others over the long years, and even now, have suffered similar losses and dire prospects. They, like he, have found themselves in a dark pit, wondering if there was any escape, any solace from despair.
Even as we make our preparations for Christmas this coming week, the unexpected can happen, destroying the mood, testing the spirit. I was reminded of that reality with the news that a young lady that I’d just met had died and then the news that a cousin of my wife, a lady she had grown up with, had suffered a brain aneurysm that will likely take her life.
So, while we plan to attend the candlelight services on Christmas Eve and the following day gather around the Christmas tree with family, following those comforting traditions, the usual excitement and impending anticipation has been tempered. This holiday season, for us as for many others, will have a bit of ‘blue’ to it, along with the more festive colors.
But there have been other holiday seasons laced with the sadness of losing a loved one; other times when the challenges of life and living seemed overwhelming.
I have few words of wisdom (if any) to offer those suffering from trials and tribulations that seem insurmountable, except to put one foot ahead of the other and keep moving forward, to find purpose and pursue it, to be grateful for those who provide comfort and kindness, and to follow the light however faint it may seem.
For all the doom and gloom the world seems to bestow, hope, like a star over a manger, shines forth. And when all else seems lost, it holds fast.
The light of hope. Wise men and humble shepherds have pursued it, countless others as well, each and all seeking that place of salvation.
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Steve Horton is a mid-Michigan journalist and editor-publisher of the Fowlerville News & Views.