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Writer's pictureKaty Hollamby

Jesus and hygge



Dear friend,


I love the whole idea of hygge. For those of you who don’t read as many magazines as me, hygge (hue-guh) is a danish word which has been very fashionable in the last few years, in describing the art of creating coziness and intimacy in the colder months. It’s about warmth, friendship and blanketing-up; often characterised by fairy lights, snuggles and steaming mugs to wrap your hands around.


What I’m conscious of underneath this lovely (over-used??) idea is an embracing of the season. There is a sense of leaning into cold and finding the beautiful space within it. We don’t need much help with that in summer because it’s so easy to enjoy the sunshine. In the cold and grump of winter it’s much harder to pretend we are at one with the world.


So how does that translate into the seasons of the soul? In a culture where we are responsible for our own happiness, and therefore do whatever we can to avoid or control pain and sadness, how do we learn to embrace the different seasons of our lives?


For Sam and I at the moment it feels like a season of disappointment. After pouring into our community for five years there is little visible impact, certainly much less dramatic change than we are praying and hoping for. The doctors have told me it will be years rather than months to get better. And we have seen so many people seem to come close to walking with Jesus only to change their minds and walk away.


Disappointment stings. It leaves you with a bitter taste in your mouth and nasty questions. ‘Why didn’t it work out like I thought it would?’ ‘What did I do wrong?’ ‘How can I make sure I never feel like this again?’ Worst of all, ‘Why did God let this happen - doesn’t he love me?’


I don’t normally go there with these questions. I normally rationalise them as unnecessary, obnoxious and immature and tell myself to get on with it. I know, cognitively, the answers to these things. I know I must believing something wrong to be so totally disappointed bu God. But I think that’s a dangerous game to play with our hearts. To go back to the seasons analogy, it’s like pretending it’s summer when it’s gloomy, damp and freezing outside.


“Though the fig tree does not bud

    and there are no grapes on the vines,

though the olive crop fails

    and the fields produce no food,

though there are no sheep in the pen

    and no cattle in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the Lord,

    I will be joyful in God my Saviour.


The Sovereign Lord is my strength;

    he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,

    he enables me to tread on the heights.”

Habakkuk 3:17-19


Last week we faced a fresh disappointment. Something that took a lot of work and time, and was backed up with a lot of prayer, felt like it fell on its face. Sam and I were gutted. I was at home and so I had the luxury of time and space to have it out with Jesus. If I’m honest I don’t normally do that. I more often deliver myself a lecture minimising my feelings and telling myself there’s no problem. But I properly shouted and raged at God, and I told him what I thought of his “plan”. I told him that he couldn’t possibly be faithful if he insisted on constantly letting us down. I told him I was done. I told him he better sort it out and act in line with what the Bible says his character is - namely kind and faithful. I cried. I went for an angry stomp round the block.


Nothing much happened immediately after that, but I was conscious of a change inside me. Obviously just accepting your own feelings is incredibly powerful, allowing you to process and breathe again. But more than that I felt able to listen again. In the space I had created as I poured out my heart to him, I began to feel him just gently speak his promises to me, filling me back up. Where I acknowledged pain, there was space for healing.


In the howling gale of my soul, I found the quiet, still place of intimacy with Jesus. And it was precious and beautiful, even though it was small, and I would still prefer sunshine on the beach.


I think there are principles even without Jesus here: acceptance and stillness. But I am grateful I am not alone in that place. I am grateful that I am loved by someone other than myself in the place of peace, that someone cares for me and takes the load from me. I am grateful that Jesus is there to remind me that if it’s not a happy ending, it’s not the end. And I can trust the truth of that because it’s not wishful thinking or vain hope, it’s built on the truth of who he is. Jesus is better than anything the world has ever offered me.


And so the journey to becoming more peaceful, and more whole, does not come with feeling less pain. Perhaps describing pain as thirst is more helpful - it is not somewhere God wants us to stay, but it is an invitation to draw closer to the one who satisfies our thirst. I can choose to push in to Jesus, to make cosy corners in the darkness, or to hide on my own.


“I will be joyful in God my saviour... He is my strength...”

Wellness is not about inner strength and self-peace. It’s not about immunity. It’s about dependence on the one who is strong.


My wonderful auntie said recently that it is dependence, not independence, that gives us our humanity. Life is not about trying to be more independent, more separate and less needy. It is about being totally in need and allowing God to meet that need. Reaching out to other people in that is vital too. We are not meant to be alone.


That’s why Jesus tells us that “the kingdom of God belongs to those who are like these children.” (Luke 18:16) It is the dependent who discover freedom and fulfilment in Jesus and are able to fully love him. Sometimes the aloof and the emotionally untouchable seem closer to plastic than fully human.

I want to feel the heart of God, and partly that is about learning to feel the pain of life, find him in it, and then lay it down at his feet. If we care about people, if we truly love, there will be pain. But with Jesus the love is what lasts.


Sometimes when I pour out my disappointment I can leave it there. Sometimes just the pouring out means I feel better and the sun comes out, just like this weekend. But sometimes it requires a more long term hygge set-up, where I can camp in the storm til the spring returns. And it will return. He will make everything new.


“Let us acknowledge the LORD; let us press on to acknowledge him. As surely as the sun rises, he will appear; he will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth.” Hosea 6:3


Thank you to all of you who share your storms with me, it is good to know we all face times of real struggle and there is hope. Thank you too to my friends who let me think out loud with them. How precious each one of you is.


Katy x



 

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