Each year, near the winter solstice, my church holds a “longest night” service when there is more darkness than sunlight. This year titled “Lament & Hope.” This slow-paced contemplative service strips away the pageantry of a typical Sunday morning worship service and provides a quiet protected space to acknowledge life’s hardships–the grief we carry. The loss, the worry, and the fear are the focus. No urge to fix. No meaningless platitude given. No should-haves spoken. Just acceptance that was is felt is real and accepted. A key part of the service is for participants to light a candle for items, people, issues that are heavy on their heart… the candlelight, created in community, lights our path as we leave the sanctuary. Here is what I wrote about this years’ service…

Last night I sat in sanctuary… both a place and sensation.

Low lights with soft shadows… both a balm from life’s holiday glow and reflection of our insides.

A large, vaulted ceiling room adorned with holiday greens, candles, and religious icons… both cavernous and comforting.

Row after row after row of empty pews… both a sense of lonely isolation and representative of loved ones no longer present in our lives.

A small group of individuals with space between us… both a physical bubble as our tenderness emanated around us and yet clustered in one section craving company.

Spoken scripture, sung songs, shared meditation… both comfort and not enough.

An invitation to light… both a lifeline and heavy hearted step to take.

Others rise, reflect, and reach to light candles for their loss, loved ones, unknowns, fears, pain… both to honor and claim them in an effort to live with them in the “and” between love and loss.

The pause… both weighted and overwhelming.

The exhale… both to release and take in.

The tears… both endless and not enough.

The grief… both alone and in community.

The glow… both a call and comfort.