Finding Joy in Times of Sorrow | A Virtual Pilgrimage of Incarnation Reflections for Advent - Week 3

Fr. Michael returns to introduce this week's new speakers and to explore what it means that "the desert will exult!" Or put another way, what it means to be joyful when we are grieving.

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Transcript

Happy Third Sunday of Advent—Happy Gaudete Sunday!
Gaudete is Latin for Rejoice!  Rejoice!  We’re drawing close to Christmas.

This season stirs deep emotions. The nights glow with Christmas lights, yet next Saturday marks the longest night of the year. Holiday music fills the air; stores overflow; parties fill the calendar. It’s the happiest time of the year—and yet, for many of us, it’s also a season of aching hearts. Empty places at the table. Loved ones gone home to God. Broken relationships. Unfulfilled dreams.

We’re called to rejoice at Christ’s coming, and part of us can—but another part still grieves.

Isaiah captures this paradox beautifully:   

The desert and the parched land will exult.. They will bloom with abundant flowers and rejoice with joyful song

That’s the challenge of this season—to hold both the joy and the sorrow, and trust that new life will emerge. It’s a call to holy patience.

As St. James reminds us:

Be patient, brothers and sisters, until the coming of the Lord.
See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient with it.

In one of the busiest seasons of the year, we’re called to patience.
In the darkest time of the year, we’re called to light.
In the season of rejoicing, we must make space for grief.

That call to patience takes on flesh when we face the loss of those we love.  This week we hear from two gifted speakers who help us live in that holy tension.

First, Paula Kowalkowski  will share her journey through darkness after the death of two loved ones. I understand that journey, perhaps you do as well. My father died just before Thanksgiving over 25 years ago. My mother passed over ten years ago. The loss still stings, especially at Christmas.

Grief takes time to heal. It cannot be rushed—but the healing can be delayed. When my father died, my mother fell into a deep depression that lingered for two years. Only when a friend gave her a small dog did something shift. “My little dog Molly saved my life,” she told me. 

Here’s a poem I wrote about her grief and mine: 

The Picture On My Desk

Her eyes are laughing. She’s smiling at me,
standing in the doorway of the cottage I knew so well,
her little dog, Molly, held gently in her arms.

The plaque of five sparrows peeks out
from behind her shoulder, a loving reminder
of the five she birthed and taught to fly.

Her lovely face is only slightly shadowed
in this photo, so nicely framed
as it sits on my desk.

Eleven years, seven months and four days have passed
since that shadow deepened,
darkened her eyes, stole her smile.

I cannot help but feel the sting in the air
as the seasons change.
This sudden sadness catches me by surprise.

My heart shudders.
The well of grief I thought long ago had emptied
now waters my eyes.

Tell me, my friend,
do we ever stop missing those we love?

Loss can pierce especially sharply during Advent ----  And sometimes, as with my mom, it’s our pets who gently help us through what no human can.

Many of us share our homes with animals—dogs, cats, lizards, birds, hamsters, you name it. How fitting that at the first Christmas, Jesus was born not in a palace but  in a place meant for animals—a humble stable. The King of Kings arrived surrounded by creatures, not courtiers.

Our second speaker, Fr. Jim Kubicki, SJ, reflects on those animals at the manger—both the real ones at Shepherd’s Field in Bethlehem and the symbolic one that filled his Christmas creche. 

 I close with another poems about the creatures who live not only around us, but within us. 

Animals at the Manger

I delight in our Holy Mom, Mary, and just St. Joe,
and the angel choruses singing sweetly o’er the plain,
and the good shepherds and kingly visitors with expensive presents.
Yes, of course, God is glorified in their presence.
But this year I thank God for the animals at the manger.

For I long for a God who can love all of me,
not just the pious, priestly, prayerful man of God
but the animal man—dumb as an ox,
obstinate as an ass, frightened as a lamb,
horny as a toad, spunky as a sparrow.

I need to bow before a God who isn’t afraid to be seen
with the unseen parts of me.
Born into this zoo of life,
He alone can love (and teach me to love)
this menagerie living within me.

I need a God who calls the beasts to the feast,
who welcomes those parts of me that haven’t quite evolved—
the monkey man, sneaky as a crab,
crabby as a cock, cocky as a cat—
a God who loves all that I am (and all that I’m not).

I’ve had it with plastic deities
and their checklists of naughty and nice.
Yes, even Santa’s getting on my nerves.
Spare me a visit to Macy’s.
Bring me to the manger of the God-child Christ.

His prayerful laughter, His holy cries,
His swaddling diaper full of humanity—
this infant perfumes a barnyard of earthly smells.
Yes, thank God! Thank God, for a God
who welcomes such animals at His manger!