In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
The world of Christina Rosetti’s poem “A Christmas Carol” is a world frozen in place. In the first two lines, she creates a stationary landscape and invites the reader to step inside and look around. The second line especially captures this atmosphere of stillness. Say the words slowly, and allow yourself to feel the hard consonants: earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. I am not sure if Rosetti intended to evoke the feeling of being stuck or the feeling of stillness, but depending on the day, I can appreciate both.
In the last two lines of the first stanza, she imagines snow burying the stationary world. As the world stands still, the snow is the only thing with motion–snow on snow, snow on snow. The snow blankets everything in its path, until everything is buried.
Christina Rosetti wrote this poem when she was in her early 40s, not much different from the age I am today. Around the same time, Rosetti suffered a life-threatening illness and subsequent diagnosis with Graves’ Disease (autoimmune hyperthyroidism)[1]. Her family and her doctor believed that Graves’ Disease was a heart condition, but in her writings, Rosetti described her suffering in a way that reflects a more modern understanding of autoimmune disorders. Even though she recovered from the life-threatening part of her illness, her health remained weakened from that point on.
In my own experience with an autoimmune disorder, I have found that I can be both stuck and still at the same time, even if the feeling of being stuck wins out more than I’d like. When my symptoms flare, everything slows down. My world shrinks down to the size of my body on the couch. I lie still as iron, stopped hard as stone. Like flake after relentless flake of snow, I find myself buried first under blankets, and then my dog. The healing warmth whispers to me about stillness. Stuck and still.
The stillness and simplicity of the first stanza of the poem do not give any indication of the miracle that is to come. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if as Rosetti wrote this inspired piece she pictured her own stuck stillness, her own frailty, as a place worthy to be the resting place of Christ.
Is it possible that when I’m stuck in the car waiting for my kids’ activities to end, that I can find stillness and receive divine transformation in that space? (So many hours in the car. People remind me this time is fleeting, but in the moment, it can feel eternal.)
Can it be that when I’m too fatigued to do the zillion things pre-autoimmune me managed to do, the miracle of new life is still possible in my stillness? (Imagine that: the miracle doesn’t depend on me. What a relief!)
Could it possibly be true that even as I feel more and more weighed down by the unrelenting tasks, responsibilities, and needs around me, that even in that stuck-ness, hope may find room to be born? My heart tells me it’s possible, even when my body isn’t sure it can believe it.
As you begin this season of Advent, may you experience hope in your stuck places. May you find stillness and openness there. And, may you receive the beautiful news that even your desolate places are worthy to become the birth place of Christ.
Lighting the Candle of Hope – Advent, week 1
Reader 1: The Christmas hymn “In the Bleak Midwinter” begins with an image of a winter world frozen solid. In this scene, everything stands still — the earth, and the water — with only the snow in motion. This landscape seems an unlikely place for the birth of the Savior of the world, but author Christina Rosetti dares to wonder if this unlikely place might just be the right place. Perhaps the place that seems most hopeless is precisely the place where the gift of hope is needed the most.
Reader 2: In Psalm 130, the writer finds himself in a difficult place. He writes: “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice!” Doesn’t this sound hopeless? Yet, just a few verses later, the same writer declares: “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope.”
Reader 1: Hope can be like standing at the bottom of a giant hill – or even a mountain – wondering if you have enough energy to make it all the way to the top. Hope can be like lighting a candle on the darkest night of the year. Will one little light make a difference?
Reader 2: On this first Sunday of Advent, we light the candle of hope (light one purple candle) as a visible reminder of the hope we have in God because of Jesus. As it says in the book of Hebrews: “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
Reader 1: Let us pray. We begin this Advent season with one flame of hope. We ask that you would cause hope to shine brightly within us, even as we take the difficult and uncertain journey of life. Lead us to you and to the day in which we will have no need of a lamp or the sun because you will be our light. In Jesus’s name we pray – Amen.
[1] “Our Self-Undoing”: Christina Rosetti’s Literary and Somatic Expressions of Graves’ Disease, from the Special Issue Medical Narratives of Ill Health
In the Bleak Midwinter Advent Series
*The Premise