O Come, O Come Emmanuel has been the theme for the day – this fourth Sunday in Advent.  This morning, in church, our pastor asked us, spur of the moment to sing it with him.  Already feeling the intensity of the season and the sea of emotions that come along, I sang – this song in a minor key – the key of longing – the key of sadness often – the key of waiting.  Then, this afternoon, our church held its first Longest Night service on this December 21 – the winter solstice – the darkest day of the year.  Those who had lost people this year, suffered a loss, or felt in need of comfort, came.  I had been a bit reluctant to go – to delve into emotions that maybe should be left alone – but those things tend to gnaw away, wanting to get out and gnawing is never a good thing.   So I went.

And again we sang, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.  We prayed. We joined in the liturgy.  We heard God’s words.  We had communion.  We shed tears.  And we lit candles.

O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

Do you hear it?  The plea of lonely captives to go home.  That is me on days – captive here in this life, lonely without Paul, without a much beloved friend, without parents.  I want to go home.  I am waiting for the Son of God to appear.  And then the joyous promise of the chorus – He has come!  As that Babe who does ransom us and make the homecoming possible.  He will come!  As the Lord of the Universe and bring us all ultimately and finally home.

So I joined in the afternoon service of loss – letting God into the dark.  And I found friends there – fellow members of the community of grief and mourning.  I hugged my pastor, who  lost his mother this year.  I hugged and talked with an elderly saint whose wife of 58 years  just died a few weeks ago.  We talked of the awfulness of death and separation from that most beloved friend and companion.  He is not doing well.  I ache for him and want to make it better.  I can’t, I know, but I  will pray and take him a Christmas coffee cake tomorrow.  A tiny gesture to tell him he is loved and remembered by us and we suffer with him.  Others reached out and there was a warmth and softness there – fragile souls seeking comfort together and seeking Emmanuel and waiting for Him to come.