While the anticipation of Christmas represents an exciting time of year for many, it can present unique hardships for families walking through hurt, sorrow, and suffering. This can take many forms: loss of loved ones, divorce, separation, single parenthood, miscarriage or child loss, prodigal children, other crises, etc. In this installment of Ask Rooted, we hope to provide gospel encouragement for parents and families walking through tragedy or hardship this holiday season.
Anna Joy Snuggs, Parent and Writer in Homewood, AL
As a child who grew up in an abusive family and a broken home, holidays are very triggering for me. Decorating trees, getting together with family and singing jolly songs can’t balm hurting hearts. When my father went to prison and my mother was left alone, she stepped up to the solo parenting plate. She struggled with the reality of being alone during holidays as she tried to make her kids see the joy in the season.
My mom cried a lot. She struggled to raise rebellious teenage kids. But she always read her Bible. She prayed for healing for us and for our broken home, and she continues to do so. She had to let go of some traditions and family things that brought bad memories and that triggered her abused children.
But she kept some. Every Christmas Eve, we make a homemade pasta dish—an old family recipe called tortellini soup. It brings us together, making trays of sausage wrapped in sweet smelling pasta. Then we sit around the table and enjoy a meal that we all helped make. I still do this with my children at their grandma’s house!
The thing that stands out to me about my mom’s parenting through some tough holiday seasons is that she never gave up. She believed in God’s power and presence. She kept a tradition alive that now encourages my kids to keep gathering with loved ones, even in hurtful holiday seasons. God has been with us and has shown us the joy of the holiday season. If you are hurting, broken, abused, or downcast this holiday season, know that God is still with you. Make a meal with the ones you love, even if it’s frozen lasagna, and taste the goodness of God.
Mike Ruamthong, College Director at Redeeming Grace Church in Fairfax, VA
Having walked through divorce and my first holiday season as a single parent, the most important thing I learned was this: don’t suffer in silence. The pull toward isolation is strong and especially so when you feel like the only one whose life doesn’t match the joy on the Christmas cards friends and family give to you. But when I pushed past that fear and accepted the invitations people offered, God surprised me with his care. Sitting at another family’s table, answering a friend’s check-in call, letting the church see and respond to real need—those were the very things that reminded me I wasn’t alone. Let others carry a piece of the weight with you. That is one of the ways the Lord loves His children.
I would also encourage you to set gentle expectations for yourself and your kids. You don’t need to recreate what once was or try to keep everything looking normal. Grieve what hurts and celebrate what you can. Start small and simple. Read the Christmas story before bed. Go look at lights around your neighborhood. Make hot cocoa together. In those quiet and ordinary moments, remember that Immanuel, God with us, is not just a Christmas word. He truly is near to the brokenhearted. His presence is steady enough to hold you together even when life feels fragile right now.
When joy and sorrow sit right next to each other, I’ve found myself returning again and again to passages that hold both honestly. Psalm 34:18 has met me in some of my darkest nights: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” That verse gives me permission to feel crushed. It tells me God isn’t backing away from me when I am. He’s closer than I feel.
I also come back to 2 Corinthians 4:16–18. Paul doesn’t deny how hard life is. But he also reminds us that the pain we feel right now isn’t pointless or permanent. God is somehow using even this to prepare a glory we can’t yet imagine. And Revelation 21:4 has become more than a personal friend to me. When the holidays feel like they’re highlighting what’s missing, that picture of Jesus wiping away tears with His own hands feels incredibly personal. These passages help me hold both grief and hope without pretending. They remind me that Jesus sits with us in the sorrow now, and one day He will take it away forever.
Walking through the holidays as a newly divorced single parent was painfully disorienting. Everything familiar suddenly felt foreign, and moments that were “supposed” to be joyful were often the very ones that stung the most. But it was in that ache that the grace of the gospel became more tangible to me than it ever had, even in seasons when life felt put-together.
The holidays also slowed me down enough to cling to Immanuel in a way I never had before. Joy and sorrow lived next to each other, and that tension made “God with us” feel more precious, not less. Jesus stepped into a world that was messy and full of grief, and he brought light into the dark. That gave my daughter and me something solid to hold onto. It wasn’t the holiday we dreamed of, but it was a Savior who stays close to the brokenhearted and keeps his promise that he will not leave or forsake his people. In that way, the hardship didn’t hide the gospel; it made its hope shine even brighter.
Melissa Powell, Adjunct Instructor in the Department of Health and Human Performance, University of Tennessee Chattanooga
In 2007, I got married, lost my mom, and became an aunt. I was not yet 30 years old, but I was the matriarch of the family. By the time the holiday season arrived, I was exhausted from the roller coaster of emotions, from living in the joy of a new marriage and new niece and the fog of the first year of a significant loss. In a burst of creative energy that can only come from the brain of a 20-year-old holding a newborn baby, Birthanksmas was born.
Birthanksmas became our family’s new holiday tradition – a Birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas celebration all in one weekend. It even has a logo. Fast forward 18 years and we will be sending that beautiful niece off to college this fall, with all the Birthanksmas swag (t-shirt, coffee mug, beach towel, etc.) she needs to remember that her family loves her. Sometimes God gives the gift of a fresh start.
This year we are in the fog of significant loss, but without the fresh start. Our school community lost two children and a teacher this year. One of those children we had the privilege of knowing well. We are feeling her loss daily and deeply within our household, among friends, and with her family.
Advent is the season that the church offers followers of Jesus to practice waiting with hope. My favorite Advent readings are from Isaiah. He prophesied the birth of a Son who would be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace (Isa. 9:6-7). The one who will bind up the brokenhearted (Isa. 61:1) is named Immanuel, meaning “God with us” (Isa. 7:14). God’s reputation and rescue do not depend on my cheery disposition or happy holidays. No one knew that better than Isaiah. This year, I will lean into Advent with my grieving daughter and our grieving friends by holding out the hope of the gospel, foretold by Isaiah, in the birth of Jesus Christ.
Dawson Cooper, Parent and Rooted Staff Member in Birmingham, AL
I was 29 when my mother passed away from cancer. As Christmas approached, almost seven months after she died, I was still struggling with grief and its tangible effects on my daily life as a wife and mother. My children were 10, 5, and 2—Christmas anticipation was palpable at my house with wishlists for Santa being made, an “Elf on the Shelf” demanding to move each night, and Christmas programs and celebrations galore.
But I dreaded the traditions that I had always loved. I remember decorating our tree that first Christmas after she died. She had always given us ornaments that were meaningful and oftentimes funny. I tried to not be so sad and to stuff the tears. I remember my husband finally just hugging me in front of the tree and letting me cry. That was exactly what I needed. He could speak the words to our boys that I wasn’t able to. We needed to acknowledge that those ornaments made us miss my mom, or “Baba” as she was known to my boys. They could also remind us of who she was to each of us and how much her life meant to us. Those “firsts”—holidays, birthdays, ordinary days—are going to be hard no matter what.
But instead of resisting the tears, letting them fall became and still is cleansing. Our conversation that night went from one of sadness to one of remembering and even laughing at the silly ornaments she had given us. We did it together as a family, not shying away from showing emotion, but entering into it together.
In that same season, the name “Immanuel” became so dear to me. Matthew 1:23 says, “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel (which means, God with us).” God With Us meant that God was with me in my grief. He was with me when the ornaments and traditions made the pain of losing my mom difficult to bear. God had sent his only Son, himself bearing loss, to die for me that I might not be separated from God. In doing so, Jesus was acquainted with the sorrows that life brings. He was so “with us” that he too wept at the death of Lazarus. He is so “with us” that he sees every tear that falls.
In a season of grief, I found comfort in knowing that I was not alone. The God that I worshipped and believed in was not a distant God. God entered in the darkest of nights as a baby in a manger—bringing light to a dark world—reminding his people that he is with us.
Allyn Bock, Rooted Staff Member and Former Children’s Director in New Haven, CT
Less than a week before Christmas, my husband and I found out at a routine ultrasound that our first baby had died in utero. As we left the doctor’s office, snow flurries turned to icy rain. We drove in silence, numbed and frozen from the inside-out. We packed quickly and headed to our family a few days early, leaving behind a stockpile of brown paper packages tied up with string, the contents all some variation of You’re Going To Be A Grandma/Aunt/Uncle/Big Cousin, etc.
The memories we’d planned for that Christmas were like a mirror shattered, their jagged edges sharp and reflective: everything reminded us of the hurt. The Baby’s First Christmas ornaments. The plates of deli-meat charcuterie and pots of caffeinated coffee I could now partake of. The tinny Christmas music and fake, garish garlands draping the halls of the local emergency room. And everywhere, on every social media platform, pregnancy announcements galore. Lots of babies were “coming soon.” Just not ours.
As he always does, the Lord met us tenderly in those weeks and months following the loss. It was not without deep wrestling, the constant questioning “why.” I am reminded of Jacob, who wrestled with the Lord. Then he walked away with a limp for the rest of his life. Some days we limp, too. But it reminds us, ironically, of the sweetness of that season – sweetness we can now see in hindsight. Two things stand out to me as I reflect on that Christmas past. May they encourage you if you face a miscarriage, stillbirth, or other tragedy this Christmas present.
First, when there are good moments, embrace them. That year, our traditions felt hollow. I moved in a cloud of grief, going through the motions for the sake of my family. There were a few moments, however, when those motions rocked me into a sense of security. I laughed aloud at a movie. I enjoyed a cookie. I passed out gifts with a grin. Then the grief would descend, and I would remember, and feel guilty for so quickly feeling a moment of happiness. But that is not godly guilt. Our Good Father allows hardship, but he does not force us to wallow in it with no respite. His mercies are new every morning. I wish, in hindsight, that I’d had the grace with myself to see God’s grace and gift in those moments, not forcing smiles, but thanking him when they came.
Second, the Psalms tell us that “the Lord is near to the brokenhearted, he saves those who are crushed in spirit” (34:18). Perhaps more than at any other time of year, that truth feels especially real as we pause to reflect on Immanuel – God with us. He is not a distant God who leaves us alone in our pain. Rather, he came to bear our pain. I think of the carol, that holy night when “the King of kings lay thus in lowly manger / In all our trials born to be our friend / He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger.”
We have a Savior who sympathizes with our weakness. We have a Good Father who deeply cares for his children. Even when sorrow puts blinders on that truth, we have the manger to look back to – for God so loved the world, he sent his only Son. He knows the pain of losing a child. And thanks to that loss, we can know the glory of eternal life with our babies and our heavenly Father.
If you’re looking for support and encouragement to disciple your children, consider using Rooted’s Family Discipleship video training course with your church or small group.
