| Today is the winter solstice in the northern hemisphere, the shortest day of the year. For some of us, this year has felt like a series of long, dark nights. We have done our best to hold on to hope, peace, joy, and love, even one tiny spark at a time, but it hasn’t been easy. As we prepare for the end of 2020, and hopefully much brighter days ahead in 2021, I invite you to take a moment to reflect on all you have experienced this year, and to receive this blessing. When you step out into the darkness, May you remember. Remember the losses and frustrations and anxieties you have faced. Remember the resilience and kindness you have discovered, in others and in yourself. Remember, though you may feel small under the endless sky, that you are cherished by the One who created it. When you step out into the darkness, May you feel. Feel fear and grief and anger, for they are holy and wholly appropriate at this time. Feel hope and gratitude and joy, for they are holy and wholly appropriate at this time. Feel your breath, your heartbeat, the love of God surrounding and sustaining you. When you step out into the darkness, May you see. See how even a single candle in a window is enough to pierce the dark and guide you home. See planets half a billion miles away reflect the sun’s light, a promise that it’s still there. See that no matter how long and cold and dark the night may be, the Light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. Dawn is coming. |
On Tuesday morning, my boyfriend’s mother died. No warning, no easily determinable cause of death. She just up and died. He and his family were in shock. So I went with him to stay at his sister’s house, while the whole family tried to absorb this news and begin adjusting to their new normal. Time seemed to slow down. The grief in the house was palpable. On Wednesday morning, I sat with Will and his family around the kitchen table as his sister Ginny read us the obituary she was writing. And that evening, Will, his sisters, and their father spoke with the funeral director to plan their mother’s service. A few minutes later, Will invited me to take a walk with him down to the dock on Lake Murray, where he asked me to marry him. 
It’s been a week since Orlando. It’s been a year since Charleston. Anniversaries of tragedies can resurface all the feelings of shock, anger, and grief that we initially felt. The grief of public tragedies lately has been overwhelming for me. Through the combination of clinical depression, a deep sense of empathy, and a vivid imagination, I get stuck imagining myself over and over in the place of the victims when I hear the horror stories in the news. I had to stop listening for a while. But still again and again my mind returns to the Pulse nightclub a week ago, and Mother Emanuel AME church a year ago. The only thing that makes it bearable for me is to do 
Stacy N. Sergent 