Rejoicing in What Is

 Christmas carries a particular kind of anxiety for many of us. Not the dramatic, unravelling kind, but the quieter, more human kind. The wondering kind. Will this be enough? Will it be received the way we hope? Will the care behind it be felt?

There’s also the list. The list that seems to follow people from room to room as December unfolds. Groceries to buy, homes to tidy, gifts to wrap, baking to finish. Small details pile up, each one whispering that something might fall apart if it’s forgotten or not done quite right.

And yet, for many, the deeper anxiety isn’t found in the errands or preparations.
It lives in the moments that carry the most meaning.

If I’m honest, for me that moment is Christmas Eve.

I put so much pressure on myself to get it right. I want the services to be full of wonder and delight. I want people to feel the weight and warmth of tradition. I want it to be beautiful, meaningful, a little magical. I want people to leave feeling like the church has helped make their Christmas a little more holy and meaningful, shaped by tradition. 

And underneath all of that is a quieter fear I don’t love admitting.

Will anyone come?

Christmas Eve has a way of shrinking my imagination until numbers start to feel like the measure of meaning. I pace. I count chairs. I stress about attendance as if this one night is the pinnacle of everything that matters. I do notice empty pews on other Sundays, of course, but Christmas Eve feels different. Heavier. Louder. Like a verdict instead of a moment.

This morning, driving to the church, I found myself talking to God the way I do when my thoughts won’t settle. Not with polished prayers. Just honesty.

“Hey God, I need some help,” I said.
“Help me rejoice in what is, instead of what it could be.”

The sentence surprised me as it came out of my mouth. It felt truer than I expected.

Rejoice in what is.

Not what I imagined.
Not what I hoped for.
Not what I measured in advance or replayed afterward.

What is.

The faces that show up.
The candlelight that still flickers.
The story that is still told.
The quiet faith that carries people through the door, even if they come late or sit near the back or leave quickly afterward.

At Christmas, so many of us grieve what could be. The full table that isn’t. The family harmony that feels just out of reach. The past version of ourselves we wish we could retrieve for one more year. The picture-perfect moment we were promised but never quite received.

Rejoicing in what is doesn’t mean pretending the ache isn’t there. It means refusing to let longing be the only voice in the room. It means noticing the goodness that is already breathing, already present, already doing its quiet work.

For me, it means trusting that God shows up whether the pews are full or sparse. It means believing that meaning isn’t manufactured by numbers or performance, but by presence. It means remembering that the Christmas story itself was small, overlooked, and wildly unimpressive by most standards.

A baby.
A borrowed room.
A few witnesses.

And somehow, that was enough.

I want this sentence to follow me into the new year, not as forced positivity or a denial of hope, but as a grounding truth.

Rejoice in what is.

When life doesn’t look the way I planned.
When ministry feels tender instead of triumphant.
When relationships are imperfect but real.
When joy shows up quietly, without fireworks or certainty.

Maybe living into this means practicing gratitude without qualifiers. Letting moments be enough without turning them into evaluations. Trusting that God is not waiting for things to improve before calling them good.

This Christmas, and in the year ahead, I’m trying to loosen my grip on what could be. To stand more firmly in what is. To rejoice not because everything is perfect, but because grace keeps showing up anyway.

And maybe that’s the real wonder after all. Merry Christmas 

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