The first Christmas wasn't a pristine, Instagram-worthy affair. Discover the message of hope we can carry with us when our own Christmas plans seem wearisome.
The Ache of White Christmas: Longing is Part of the Holiday Story
"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know..."
There's something achingly vulnerable about those opening lines, isn't there? Not the triumphant joy we often associate with Christmas carols, but something quieter—a confession of longing, a whispered admission that things aren't quite what they used to be.
When Irving Berlin wrote "White Christmas" in 1940, he was a Jewish immigrant who had found tremendous success in America but never quite shook the feeling of being displaced. When Bing Crosby recorded it two years later, the world was at war. Young soldiers stationed in the Pacific listened to it on crackling radios, eyes closed, trying to picture home. The song became an anthem—not of celebration, but of ache—a collective sigh for peace, for normalcy, for the way things should be.
That ache? It's still with us.
Maybe this Christmas, you're approaching the season with a knot in your stomach rather than anticipation in your heart. The stockings are hung, but one is missing. The carols are playing, but they sound hollow against the backdrop of medical bills, marital tension, job loss, or crushing loneliness.
If that's you, we want to speak directly to your heart: It is okay not to be okay during the holidays.
The pressure to perform joy during Christmas can be suffocating. We smile for the photos while our hearts are breaking. We sing the songs while fighting back tears. We try to create magic for our children while feeling empty ourselves. And underneath it all runs this current of shame—the feeling that we're somehow failing at Christmas, that we're letting everyone down by not being merry enough.
But what if the very heart of the Christmas story speaks directly into this kind of weariness?
The God Who Enters Our Exhaustion
The first Christmas wasn't a pristine, Instagram-worthy affair. It was messy and inconvenient and fraught with uncertainty. Mary and Joseph were displaced, traveling when Mary was nine months pregnant—not by choice, but by imperial decree. There was no room at the inn. Jesus was born in a space that smelled of animals, laid in a feeding trough because there was nowhere else to put Him.
The shepherds who came to worship? They were society's outsiders, working the night shift, too poor and too "unclean" to be welcomed in polite company.
The magi who traveled from the East? They arrived to find a young family in hiding, fleeing as refugees because a paranoid king wanted their child dead.
This is the story we're celebrating—God entering not into our idealized dreams of what Christmas should be, but into the actual reality of what life is. Displacement. Exhaustion. Fear. Uncertainty.
Emmanuel means "God with us"—and the staggering claim of Christmas is that God is with us not despite our mess, but right in the middle of it.
The Invitation Still Stands to Find Rest in God
In Matthew 11, Jesus extends an invitation that doesn't expire when December arrives: "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
Not "Come to me when you've got it all together." Not "Come to me after you've created the perfect Christmas." Not "Come to me when you're joyful and grateful and appropriately festive."
Come to me heavy laden. Come exhausted. Come overwhelmed. Come as you are.
And what does He offer? Rest.
Not a to-do list for earning rest. Not a five-step plan for achieving rest. Not a promise that if we just push through this season, rest will be waiting on the other side. But rest itself—given freely, offered generously, available now.
Rest as an Act of Faith
Here's what's radical about accepting Jesus' invitation to rest during the Christmas season: it requires trusting that God is big enough to hold what you cannot carry.
The world screams that everything depends on you—that Christmas will be ruined if you don't do more, create more, fix more, produce more. But what if you simply... didn't?
What if you said no to the party you don't have energy for? What if you simplified gift-giving because your budget (or your emotional bandwidth) can't handle elaborate? What if you let some traditions go this year because keeping them would break you?
What if you told your children, "This year is going to look different, and that's okay"? (Spoiler: they will probably be more relieved than disappointed.)
What if you asked for help—concrete, specific help—instead of white-knuckling through alone?
These aren't signs of weakness. They're acts of wisdom. They're declarations of trust that God doesn't need your exhaustion to accomplish His purposes, that He loves you too much to demand you perform for Him.
Hope That Holds
Romans 15:13 offers this benediction: "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope."
Notice what it doesn't say: "May you manufacture hope through positive thinking and sufficient Christmas spirit."
It says the God of hope fills us. Hope isn't something we conjure; it's Someone we receive. And His hope isn't contingent on our circumstances improving or our feelings aligning with the season.
The God of hope meets us in our weariness and offers Himself—His presence, His peace, His rest. Not because we've earned it or achieved the right emotional state, but because He is good and we are His.
This Christmas Accept God's Invitation to Rest
However, this Christmas looks for you—whether it's joyful or difficult, simple or chaotic, surrounded by loved ones or marked by painful absence—the invitation remains: Come and rest.
Let the God of hope carry what you cannot. Let Him be your peace when the world demands your performance. Let Him meet you in the ache, the longing, the "not quite right" feeling that "White Christmas" so perfectly captures.
You don't have to dream of a better Christmas. You have Emmanuel—God with you, right here, right now. And that, more than any perfect holiday, is where true rest is found.
Want to explore more ways Christmas songs and stories can encourage us? Sign up for Sonlight’s Microlearning emails; while our current series highlights lessons we can learn from classic Christmas tales, these emails continue throughout the year and include a 5-minute podcast, free downloadable activity, recipes, and more!
