(Not) Home for the Holidays: How the Incarnation Makes Room for Longing and Belonging
by Rosa Gilbert
(Not) Home for the Holidays:
How the Incarnation Makes Room for Longing and Belonging
by Rosa Gilbert
It’s December 1st. My husband, daughter, and I are making our way back to Ohio after a lovely Thanksgiving weekend spent with my in-laws. You’d expect me to be happy—and I am—yet I can’t help but notice the invasive darkness on the road before us. How it surrounds me, hangs low over me, and reminds me of realities I can’t shake.
It’s December 1st, which means there are only twenty-four days left until Christmas. Twenty-four days until I am, once again, not home for the holidays. Not in the company of my parents, who decorated their entire house in anticipation of our—now canceled—arrival. Not in the company of my grandparents, who age with every passing year. Not in the company of my siblings, whose laughter and banter I dearly miss. All thanks to a lost wallet, and with it, a lost immigration travel ID. So much for a Christmas miracle, right?
Being an immigrant is complicated. I can’t always go or be where I want to, and I live in a constant state of “in between.” I put down roots where I am, but I find myself longing for the place that once held me: my beautiful home of the Dominican Republic. During seasons of celebration, it feels almost impossible to rejoice without being reminded of what I’m missing out on. I miss the beach—its swaying palm trees, its warm air, and the soothing sound waves make when they reach the shore. I miss our family Christmas traditions—the hustle and bustle that takes over my mom’s kitchen as she starts up her holiday baking business, the Secret Santa at my grandparents’ house, and our annual trip to Samaná Bay, where we like to ring in the New Year. I wonder: Did Jesus feel as torn as I do during his time on Earth, as he longed for the peace of his heavenly home?
Aberdeen Livingstone, a poet I subscribe to on Substack, recently wrote that, “Advent begins in exile,” and what a comforting truth that was to me. It means I can know Jesus understands exactly how I feel, and he can truly relate.
Picture this: a baby, but no ordinary baby. This is the Word made flesh, willingly entering the world he created—birthed in pain and blood and dirt. Hungering and thirsting for the rest of his life earth-side. Carrying the burden of strangeness and the weight of what it means to be human. I don’t have to wonder if Jesus longed for home—I know he did. How could he not?
The Incarnation is a longing—for redemption, for restoration, for Light—and I’m allowing myself to step into this year’s Advent season with this truth in my heart. I want you to be able to step into it, too. Maybe you’re a foreigner like me, who wishes they could travel across the ocean to be with their family. Or maybe you just feel like a foreigner. Perhaps you’re able to go home, but you are encumbered by the difficulty of strained relationships. Maybe you prefer to stay away all together. Or maybe you long for a home that simply does not exist. Whatever the circumstances, all of our hearts long for something. Something better. Something more. And we wonder, is this longing all there is?
But then… a baby’s cry pierces the night. There’s a stable in the distance, and we’re all invited. Not in Heaven, but here, in this fallen world. We can sit and take in the scene—the stench of unbathed animals filling nostrils, the coarse hay poking through clothes, the hard ground causing backs to ache. The glorious miracle of the Incarnation, of the Son of God wrapped in swaddling clothes and laying in a manger, did not happen outside of our reach. It took place in a dirty, lowly stable. Christ humbled himself, born “in the likeness of men” (Philippians 2:7), because he knew that without him, our hands would never be able to touch that which our souls longed for most. Christ left his perfect heavenly home to make a way for us. The incarnation is a longing, but it is also the beginning of belonging. It is the beginning of a deep relationship with the one Person who can understand and satisfy all of our deepest longings.
So, come, let us kneel by the manger and linger awhile in the stable, in the painful in between, but let us do so with hope. Light has already broken in. We must not forsake the confession of our faith: that this baby did not remain cradled in his mother’s arms forever—but became a man who bore the weight of sin, our sin. He came to give us his yoke (Matthew 11:28–29), to carry our sorrows (Isaiah 53:4-5), and to share in our weaknesses before the Father (Hebrews 4:15). Emmanuel, God with us.
I know this coming month won’t play out like I had originally intended it to. There will be no planes taking me down to the island, no Noche Buena dinner with my extended family, and sadly no road trips to the beach. I also know I’m not the only one facing unanswered prayers. You sit here with me, too, in your own way. Praise God that this is not the end of the story.
Dear brother or sister, Jesus makes room for our earnest and honest longings—he felt them too—but he wants us to remember they are not the destination. Rather, belonging is. We might find ourselves in a season of “not yet,” but because of the Incarnation and what Christ has accomplished on our behalf, we know we belong to all “that will be.” We know he will come again. When the wintery dark surrounds us, or threatens to engulf us, we can rest in the assurance that in our hearts, the Light already burns bright. Advent is only the beginning of our journey back home.
A Prayer for the Season:
Father,
Thank you for your Son and for the Incarnation. I praise you for your redemptive plan, which is beyond my human comprehension. I thank you for everything, even for those things that do not go according to my own plan. Help me lean into Jesus this season, as I bring my longings to the manger, knowing he understands. May I see him for the gift he is, and may I remember my heart can find belonging in him—my true home.
Amen.
A Poem to Meditate On:
FIRST CHRISTMAS
by Madeleine L’Engle
He did not wait till the world was ready,
till men and nations were at peace.
He came when the Heavens were unsteady,
and prisoners cried out for release.
He did not wait for the perfect time.
He came when the need was deep and great.
He dined with sinners in all their grime,
turned water into wine.
He did not wait till hearts were pure.
In joy he came to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.
To a world like ours, of anguished shame
he came, and his Light would not go out.
He came to a world which did not mesh,
to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
the Maker of the stars was born.
We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!
Art: from Nativity with Saint Francis and Saint Lawrence, by Caravaggio, 1609
ROSA GILBERT
Rosa Gilbert is a stay-at-home mom and publishing assistant at Calla Press Publishing LLC. Born and raised in the Dominican Republic, Spanish is her first language. However, it was through learning English at a young age that she fell in love with words. Her work has been published at Clayjar Review, The Way Back to Ourselves, Prosetrics Literary Magazine, Calla Press, and Vessels of Light Literary Journal, among others. She lives in Ohio with her husband and daughter. You can find her writing at https://rosagilbert.substack.com and @rosagilbertpoetry.