I love listening to Christmas music, especially on vinyl. There’s something warm and nostalgic about it—the soft crackle, the steady rotation, the familiar carols filling the room. But every now and then, the record catches on a scratch, and a sharp pop or crackle pulls you out of the moment. Everything that should sound smooth suddenly feels disrupted.
For many of us, the Christmas season can feel like that. Everything around you seems “merry and bright,” yet you feel a disruption in your heart—stress, exhaustion, anxiety, grief, or disappointment. The songs keep playing, the lights keep shining, but your soul feels slightly out of sync.
Advent meets us in that tension—where celebration and longing sit side by side.
Let’s be honest: sometimes hope feels fragile. We hope things get better, hope relationships heal, hope sadness lifts. But that kind of hope often feels like wishful thinking—crossing our fingers for outcomes we cannot control. And when life doesn’t unfold the way we imagined, that kind of hope quickly breaks down.
Biblical hope is different.
It isn’t optimism or positivity. It is a steady confidence rooted in the unchanging character of God. I learned this in seasons I never expected to walk through.
When my wife and I lost our daughter, Gracie, during birth, the silence in that room felt suffocating. Years later, when we lost our niece through tragedy, grief resurfaced with a weight that reshaped how we experienced the holidays. While others sang “Joy to the World,” my heart felt the ache of brokenness and longing.
In that space, the world’s version of hope had nothing to offer. But God met me—not by lifting me out of the pain, but by choosing to walk with me in it. And slowly, quietly, hope began to grow—not because circumstances shifted, but because God stayed faithful. And in many ways, this is what Christmas is all about—Jesus entering our brokenness to bring life.
Through those seasons, a dear friend reminded me of a surprising gift in Scripture: lament. I learned that lament is not the opposite of faith—it is the language of faith in a broken world. It was a gift to realize that God invites me to meet Him right where I am—not after I’ve pulled myself together. In grief and disappointment, I can voice my struggle. He doesn’t expect me to pretend everything is fine; He invites me to bring my brokenness into His presence. As Mark Vroegop writes in Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy: “Lament is the honest cry of a hurting heart wrestling with the paradox of pain and the promise of God’s goodness.”
And as I practiced lament, something began to shift. In the very act of bringing my pain to God, I encountered His presence—and even glimpses of His glory—and in His nearness, hope slowly began to grow again.
Psalm 77 gives a vivid picture of this. Asaph begins with raw honesty: “My soul refuses to be comforted.” He asks the questions many of us carry silently: Has God forgotten me? Has His promise failed? And then comes the shift: “I will remember…” He looks back at the Exodus—the defining evidence of God’s faithfulness. Remembering becomes the bridge between despair and hope. What God has done shapes what Asaph believes God will do.
This is the hope we are reminded of during Advent. Just as Asaph remembered God’s faithfulness in the past, we remember by looking back—back to Christ’s first coming, the ultimate proof that God keeps His promises. And we look forward to His return, the promise of full restoration. This is Advent hope.
Reflection Questions
- What moments of God’s past faithfulness can you intentionally remember this Advent?
- Where might God be inviting you to bring honest lament as an act of trust?