Locations & Times

I wish I could say my Christmas homecoming in 2007 looked like something out of a Hallmark movie. You know … the surprise return on Christmas Eve, the snow falling perfectly, and the family reunion that makes everyone cry happy tears. I wish I could say that was my story.

But it wasn’t.

I was thousands of miles away in a combat zone serving in the Air Force when the message came through: “Your dad is dying. You need to come home.”

That hit harder than anything the battlefield could ever deliver. One moment, I was focused on my mission. Next, I was trying to get on a helicopter, heart pounding, praying I’d make it home in time.

I did. But just barely. My dad passed away on Christmas Day, just about 38 hours after I made it home. 

And after that, Christmas stopped feeling magical. The lights didn’t sparkle. The songs felt muted. Family meals only highlighted my dad’s absence. Even though I was surrounded by people, the grief made me feel … alone.

Maybe you know that feeling. Christmas shows up on the calendar, but your heart feels out of sync. Memories hit harder than you expected. While others are celebrating, you’re just trying to make it through the day.

For years, I tried to muscle my way through Christmas … smiling, showing up, pretending the grief wasn’t so heavy. But it wasn’t the holiday season that helped me heal; it was the quieter months in between. The normal Tuesdays. The drive to work. The simple moments where Jesus finally had room to speak—usually through others.

And what He kept bringing me back to was one simple name from Matthew 1:23: Emmanuel.

I’d read it my whole life, but it took on new meaning: Emmanuel, God with us.

Not God above us, looking down from a distance. Not God near us, if we’re strong enough to reach for Him. But God is with us. With us in the storm. With us in the grief. With us, in the questions, we don’t know how to say out loud. With us when the lights are bright, but our hearts feel dim. With us in the quiet moments where the ache sits heavier than the joy.

The more I grew in my relationship with Jesus, the more that name in Matthew started to take root. Not as a verse on a Christmas card, but as something I could truly feel. Emmanuel wasn’t distant; He stepped into a broken world. Which means He steps into broken hearts, too.

Let me ask you: What would it take for you to believe God is with you this Christmas? Not the future, fixed-up version of you. Not the stronger you. Just you here and now.

As I learned to experience Jesus’ presence again, He slowly invited me to become a conduit of His presence to others. A simple truth kept whispering in my spirit: “You may be the only Jesus someone sees and feels this season.” And that changed everything.

Because Emmanuel isn’t just something we receive, it’s something we deliver.
We get to bring His presence into rooms that feel heavy. We get to offer hope to people who think they’re alone. And sometimes in giving His presence to others, we end up healing too.

I still miss my dad every Christmas. I miss his smile, his laugh, and the way he made massive Christmas spreads like he was feeding half the neighborhood. He loved serving people. That was his gift.

And now, as I set tables, serve others, or offer encouragement during the holidays, it’s like I get to carry a piece of him with me. Serving helps others see Jesus, and it also helps me feel connected to the man who taught me so much about service.

So, this year, wherever you find yourself (overflowing with joy or carrying quiet grief) remember this: You are not alone. God is with you. And God can work through you.

May you feel Emmanuel in the still moments, the loud moments, and all the moments in between. May His presence steady your heart and shine through your life in ways that bring hope to others and healing to you.

Merry Christmas, my friend. Emmanuel!

If this encouraged you, check out more articles from our Flatirons Spiritual Formation Team for practical tools, encouragement, and ways to grow in your faith and leadership. Click here.