The Dark Cloud of December
I can see it on the horizon. Billowing. Gray. Slowly inching closer and casting its shadow on the landscape. Not ominous or threatening, but returning faithfully like a dark cloud every year for the last nine years. The heaviness is palpable.
Sometimes, the cloud catches me by surprise. It creeps in so slowly I forget it’s coming. As I flutter around finishing holiday to-do lists, I wonder why everything seems harder somehow—as if I’m moving through a pool of molasses while wearing a weighted blanket. Even everyday tasks are tedious. My motivations wanes. My patience is wafer thin.
And then I remember: December 23 is coming. The dark cloud approaches.
Grief is strange that way. On one hand, it doesn’t keep a calendar—moving in waves to a rhythm even now I can’t seem to master. But the cloud? The dark cloud I have come to rely on. Not a December goes by that it doesn’t cast its pall. It’s a grief I’m learning to anticipate, to create space for even.
For as much as December 23 changed everything—how it ripped my previously safe existence to shreds—I’ve caught whispers of redemption. Even the grief itself has become its own brand of comfort, its presence connecting my mama heart to the son who left before I was ready.
Because behind the shroud of deep grief is great love. Pain is the measurement, an indicator that what was lost had weight. Significance. Earthly and eternal value.
As much as I want to ignore the cloud, to pretend that cheer is my only holiday emotion, denial is a hollow, fearful, and fragile existence. We can only fake “happy” for so long before we crack and become undone. While grief is hard and heavy and unpredictable—that cloud ever shifting and changing—loss is never without a measure of love and an invitation into deeper grace.
You see, God likes to come close in the clouds.
He came near the Israelites in the desert, each day appearing as a pillar of cloud and staying present despite their unfaithfulness. When the Ark of the Covenant was brought into the tabernacle, “the glory of the Lord filled his temple”—a cloud so thick the priests couldn’t carry on their work (1 Kings 8:9-11). God came close on the mountain where Jesus, Peter, James, and John stood, surrounded by “a radiant cloud composed of light” as the Father declared once and for all, “This is my dearly loved Son, the constant focus of my delight. Listen to him!” (Matt. 17:5, TPT). Jesus ascended from this earth up into the clouds (Luke 24:51), and on the clouds He has promised to return (Matt. 26:64).
The clouds are not the enemy. Yes, they often bring storms, rain so thick it’s hard to see. But in the clouds—even the dark ones—is an invitation into His Presence. A promise of Emmanuel, God With Us. A sovereign God reaching down to “water his earth and show his love” (Job 37:13).
And so I stare at the horizon expectant. In this dark cloud, He is near.
feature image: Kieran Lewis (@kieranleelewis) via unsplash
