Heavy.

That’s the word that’s been on my heart and mind these past few weeks as we’ve approached Christmas Day 2018.

The world seems aflame. Refugees across the globe run for cover—and other borders—in places as far flung as the Congo and Myanmar and as close as Venezuela and the U.S.-Mexican border.
Here at home, the stock market reels under the weight of U.S. debt, a trade war, fears of another recession, and a power struggle in D.C. that puts both the future of a president and a Republic in its crosshairs. America’s original sin—racism—continues to percolate, simmering just beneath the surface, exploding in fits and starts in places as diverse as Dallas and Minneapolis-St. Paul and progressive as Yale and UMass. And somehow, despite the technological advances of the past few decades—social media, instant access to news and information, better-just-about-everything—life seems harder than it did just a few short years ago. The bygone days of "Leave it to Beaver" seem not just quaint but antiquated, while "Seinfeld," what with its yada yada, low-talkers, and closer-talkers seems downright old-fashioned. I will, after all, take a low-talker to a staring-at-their-iPhone-talker any day.

But despite all the sound and fury in D.C. and continued conflagrations in the Middle East and around the world, the real source of heavy is always at home, isn’t it? Heavy is personal. Always.

For Holly and me, it’s our first Christmas alone. Two sons, both elsewhere. Parents, still with us, but far away. For Holly, it’s now been 10 Christmases since she’s seen her sisters, her nieces, her nephews, from whom there’s estrangement and brokenness. An entire decade without a family Christmas.

Heavy.

In my work-a-day world, I now serve people whose fondest Christmas wish is for health and a job. I consult with people injured at work, often so severely that they’re unable to return to their old job or old careers. I work with men who’ve lost fingers; who’ve fallen more than 20 feet face-first into concrete; women who can’t stand up straight because of bulging discs in their back or nerve pain, and others who can barely lift their arms to wash their own hair.
What you learn when you spend time with these folks is that most have lost far more than a job. Some haven’t worked for four, five, six years. They’ve lost not only their job, but also their health, their identity, their sense of self-worth, and in many cases, their marriages. They want to do something, anything, to contribute. Want to take care of their families. Want to feel valued and valuable. Want to enjoy just one day without pain. 

Heavy.

Some tales are worse than the loss of health and income. Last week, Martell told me the story of his nephew’s murder two Christmases ago. At the hands of another of his nephews. Martell found his nephew’s dead, lifeless body in the apartment. And last Christmas, his nephew, the murderer, was sentenced to 18 years to life. Merry Christmas.

Heavy.

Some can’t even tell their own stories. I’ve been working with Vu, a client who immigrated to the U.S. after the Vietnam War in the late ‘70s. He was a refugee at the time and was running for his life. He fled to Thailand, then eventually wound up in L.A.—alone, broke, and unable to speak a word of English. Eventually, he stole things to survive. In the mid-80s, he was caught and convicted of breaking and entering and served four years. When he got out, he wound up in a halfway house, where they helped him get a good job working in a machine shop working on the engines of F-18 Hornets. In 2000, he relocated to Columbus, where he worked for Rumpke for years, standing on the back of a garbage truck, rain, shine, or snow, literally doing back-breaking work. Around 2010, he was hit by a car on the job and hasn’t worked since.
Part of my job, when working with a client, is ensuring they’re prepared to search for a job. Do they have a resume? A cover letter? Can they adequately explain why they’ve been out of a job so long? Do you have a copy of your Social Security card? Wait, what? No ID? At all? They took it? Who took it? Who’s they? ICE? ICE took your ID? You’ll bring paperwork to our next meeting? OK, OK.

Monday, Dec. 17, just eight days before Christmas, Vu pulls a folded up 8.5” x 11” out of a large Ziploc bag and puts it on the table in front of me. Here, he says. They took my ID and gave me this. He can’t read it. He doesn’t know what it says, but I do. “Order of Supervision.” I flip through all four pages, and I know immediately what I’m looking at. It means the U.S. government is preparing to send Vu back to Vietnam. There are three stamps on the back page, with signatures from his ICE supervisory officer. He checked in in September, in October, and in November. His December check-in is coming up. I shake his hand and go sit in my car and just stare into the night sky. I check Google on my phone. It confirms my suspicions. An ICE Order of Supervision is issued when a court has ordered the deportation of a resident alien but the deportation has not yet been finalized. For Vu, it’s not if, it’s when. A man who’s lived here for 40 years is being sent back to a country he barely knew for a crime he committed, and did time for, more than 30 years ago. And he has no idea.

Heavy.

Mike just wants a second chance. Well, a third chance really. Fourteen years ago he got busted on the job with a joint in his car. He pled the charges down, and the prosecutor recommended probation only. It was, after all, just a possession charge. But the judge was in a bad mood that day and sent Mike away for two years. What Mike didn’t know was that his sentence would last for the rest of his life. Until Mike retires, he has to check the “Yes” box when the application asks, “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” Mike is sitting with me because he got his second chance years ago, working hotel maintenance. But that second chance came with lots of heavy lifting, and his back gave out one day when he was replacing a furnace in a screaming customer’s hotel room. A few weeks ago, he thought he’d gotten Chance #3. COTA, central Ohio’s bus service, hired him as a driver. After he told them up front that he’d been convicted of a felony and provided all the details. Told them he didn’t want to waste their time or his if they didn’t want to go any further in the process. No, no, I believe in second chances, the hiring manager told him. What the hiring manager didn’t say was that his boss didn’t believe in second chances. And three weeks after Mike started his new job—just three weeks before Christmas—COTA fired him for having a felony record.

Heavy.

A month ago, my 17-year-old’s school sent us an email, informing us that one of Bryce’s high school classmates had been hospitalized with bacterial meningitis. After letting us know that our children weren’t at risk of infection, at least no more risk than on any other day, we were asked to pray for this 14-year-old high school freshman, her mom, dad, and two younger siblings. Every week, there was a new email. She’s improving, but not out of the woods yet. She’s heading home! She has a fever and has been rehospitalized—there are blood clots near her heart and lungs. Good news! She’s getting better, and the doctors are optimistic about her recovery. And then, 11:15 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 22, sad news—Dorothy passed away this evening.

So. So. Heavy.

I’ve always loved Christmas, and I still do. I love the music. I love the decorations and lights. I love the smell of the tree when I walk in the front door, and I love spending time with family. But at this stage in my life, I love Christmas most of all because it represents light in the midst of heavy. It represents light come to lift the heavy, to redeem the heavy.

Light.

Christmas manages to be the most joyous—and painful—time of the year for so many people. It’s a season pregnant with possibility. With hope. With joy. With peace. And a season tinged with sorrow. And grief. And loss. And pain. How ironic that Jesus had to experience one—loss, grief, and pain—to bring us the other—hope, joy, and peace. 

This Christmas, I’m filled with gratitude for the baby who “became flesh and moved into the neighborhood” (John 1:14, The Message). For Someone who promises that he is acquainted with the sorrows and griefs of Martell, Vu, Mike, and Dorothy's family. For a Messiah who not only understands refugees, but actually was one himself. For a God who saw fit to send his Son as a person of color to an unwed mother. And for a Savior who promises me that in his economy heavy is ALWAYS followed by light.

Whether your Christmas is heavy or light this year (or a little bit of both), we want to wish all of you a blessed Christmas and an encounter with the Baby King who will one day make it all right and all light.--Brett and Holly

“Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.”--O Little Town of Bethlehem

* Names, except for my family's, changed to protect privacy.