Here I Write
I can do no other.
My conscience is held captive by the Word of God, the good of my neighbor, and the Oxford comma.
“Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.”
— Mary, Luke 1:38 ESV
Born for You
I first penned and published this post on He Remembers the Barren eight years ago.
Much has changed in my life since then. I now spend my church hours hugging college students rather than young children, but the sad-happiness that accompanies barrenness remains the same.
Many of you understand, for you have been reaching out to me expressing your own holiday-triggered griefs.
You are not alone in your sadness. Neither are you alone in your happiness. Joseph, Mary, the shepherds, the Christchild Himself … they all understand.
Christ the child was born for YOU!
My routine is identical every year.
I watch the last child leave the church — the first Christmas Eve service rehearsal officially in the books — then I drive home, unlock the front door, set my purse and music down on the front entryway bench, walk to the living room, lower myself onto the couch, and cry.
I usually cry for the entire afternoon.
It’s not that I am unhappy. It is that I am sad-happy.
So many hugs. So many songs. So many curious queries. So many eager entreaties for personal attention. So many little heads turned toward mine for affirmation. So many children, and none of them mine and all of them mine.
My barren heart overdoses on the sweet stimulation, and it comes out as salt water on my pillow. Grief is strange that way. It’s triggered by happiness. To be loved stirs up memories of loves lost. So many children, but none of them from my home. None of them in my home.
This year, the tears started long before any of us left the church.
“Christ the child was born for you!” the children sang into my face. The words entered my ear but landed in my heart. “Christ the child was born for you!”
The final chord faded, and the children — my children — stared openly at my red cheeks, my wet eyes. One of them giggled nervously.
“It’s okay,” I reassured, wiping at the river. I tried to think of anything but the present moment. It wasn’t time to commit to the annual cry. Not just yet. I took a deep breath. “Do you realize what you just sang to me? Those words are so comforting. Jesus was born for me! He is born for you! Thank you for comforting me with your song.”
The children simply watched, mystified.
“I will try not to cry when you sing on Christmas Eve,” I winked, still wiping, “but I might. This song comforts me, and I sometimes cry when I am happy.”
One boy scrunched up his nose. “People cry when they’re happy?”
“Adults do,” I said. “At least, some of them.”
“Why?”
No one was giggling anymore. Everyone was listening.
“I think,” I started, “it’s because adults have known a bit of sadness in their life, so when they hear something comforting, it relieves them of their sadness. Crying is a way of relieving sadness. It is a way of being happy.”
It could be explained better, I think, but the children took my answer in stride. They usually do.
We sang some more songs. We practiced some more notes. Before the children left, some of them waited in line at the piano to tell me some of their wishes, to confide in me some of their hopes, to cry onto my shoulder some of their own sadnesses, and to hug my heart close to theirs.
Such sweet stimulation. Such sad-happiness.
I cried the rest of the day.
Katie Schuermann is a baptized child of God, pastor’s wife, and author of The Saints of Whistle Grove; The Creed series, including The Big Father and His Little Boy and The Beloved Son and His Brother; the acclaimed Anthems of Zion fiction series, House of Living Stones, The Choir Immortal, and The Harvest Raise; and nonfiction favorites such as He Remembers the Barren, He Restores My Soul, and Pew Sisters. When not writing, Katie can be found making music, reading, cooking, gardening, holding babies, or trying to climb the nearest tree.
+ SOLI DEO GLORIA +
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Here I Write, Issue 38
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Katie Schuermann 