Two days ago in Youngstown, Ohio, on the 25th of December, we woke up to ten to twelve inches of snow; 19 degree high temperature with a wind-chill factor of 5; and I couldn’t have felt warmer than if I were standing outside in a bright, blue-skied 85 degree July afternoon. Admittedly, the crackling fire in front of me helped some, but the warmth I felt wasn’t isolated to the half of my body facing the heat source—I felt it from front to back, from my head to my nearly frozen toes. The warmth was love.

This year, my family, like your families, had to re-imagine what a winter holiday celebration would look like. Rather than lament what we lost or could not do, we tried to return to the distant memories of our childhoods when freshly fallen snow was something to cheer and celebrate, when the world was literally a blank canvass just waiting for us to go bounding out into it to make our mark, rather than barricade ourselves inside and hide away.

We opted out this year, outdoors that is, for Campfire Christmas. My dad bought a fire bowl, stacked presents in polite piles in the garage to keep them from blowing over or away in the whips of wind and swirls of snow, put the coffee in an insulated carafe, set out camp chairs—more than six feet apart of course—and had plenty of wood at the ready to keep the fire roaring.

It was actually my favorite Christmas, maybe ever.

It was cold, well below freezing. It was weird. But it was heartwarming and breathtakingly beautiful.

What was so beautiful about it wasn’t the shimmer of the powdery snow sparkling in the firelight on a frigid winter’s night, it was the fact that people were willing to try something different, unconventional, and maybe even a little uncomfortable, to be together in a way that kept everyone safe and showed everyone how much they mattered.

This year, in spite of all the darkness, loss, isolation, and pain, has been brimming with examples of acts of light, love, connectedness, and joy.

I recently saw a statistic that an overwhelming number of people surveyed, 80% I believe, did not want to see a return to “normal” after vaccines are administered and safety precautions can be relaxed. I’m absolutely one of them. 

The incredible disruptive forces of the pandemic and civil unrest because of unchecked, state supported violent racism, erosion of our democratic system, and deterioration of any kind of common ground to stand on have forced all of us to stop, look around us, and ask “What in my life matters most to me? What would I be willing to put myself out in the bitter cold or suffocating heat for? To make myself uncomfortable for?”

My answer is people, both known and unknown. We fight, we risk, we live for each other. 

We’ve had to do a lot of reshuffling this year. Much like Ben Henderson, an Edmonton City Council member said about his city now investing as much into winter activities as summer activities in public spaces, we should continue and keep our re-imagined, reprioritized investments and connections to each other. We have seen the return on these investments several times over. Even the smallest act of kindness—sending a text or finding a gift bag on your doorstep—can dramatically impact someone’s day, week, or year.

This is the last Sunday of 2020. We’ve made it, and darn it, we should celebrate that. This is the last Sunday in the longest year of the longest decade ever, I’d argue. I hope some of you have a fizzy mimosa or a strong Irish Coffee next to your flickering candles. I raise my mug, and its anonymous contents, to all of us for sticking together and showing up for each other. 

This is huge. I don’t know if we all realize that. That act of rewiring ourselves and our routines to keep showing up is significant, transformative, and revolutionary. And this example, virtual church, is only one of hundreds we’ve made throughout the 9-10 months we’ve been adapting to, living with, and finding peace in spite of the multiple plagues this year thrust upon us. 

Take a moment and think about all the ways you, just you, have had to change how you show up in the world—for yourself and for others. 

Take another moment to think about all the ways that others have had to change how they showed up for you.

For me, when I reflect on this even for 30 seconds, all of the innovative but instinctual ways we created to keep connected to each other, to keep our individual threads from unraveling and to keep the fabric of our community from disintegrating, is truly awesome. Many people, at this church and other circles in my orbit, have said that these new ways of connecting, especially the virtual ones through Zoom or similar services, have stitched together even more options for connecting than were present before.

The takeaway here is that even faced with the seemingly insurmountable, impenetrable challenges of this year, we found ways to overcome, to work around, to power through together. Because we know that the answer to the question, “what matters most” is each other.

Almost every Saturday since June I’ve walked with a small group of mostly women around Lake Glacier in Mill Creek Park. BlackPeriodt, the group that organizes the walks, did so to promote health and wellness and raise awareness of the health disparities experienced especially by Black women because of systemic/institutional racism. We walk on the hottest most humid mornings and continue into the most biting, bitter cold ones. Because this simple act of walking together, even when it’s uncomfortable, is a symbol of our dedication, care, and love for each other. 

As we prepare for a new year, make resolutions or set intentions, I encourage us to keep our re-imagined new routines and rituals centered on connection, caring, and moving beyond our current levels of comfort. To fully embrace our whole lives, including our challenges and struggles, not hide from them. To find joy and warmth in doing things differently and strength and resolve in our love for each other.