A few years ago, when my dad was really sick, I started thinking about Joseph. Not the one with the colorful coat in Genesis, but the one standing beside a feeding trough in Bethlehem, the one who raised Jesus as his own, the one who very likely died between the cradle and the cross.

Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell the story of Jesus speaking to the crowds when His mother and brothers show up and ask to talk with Him; but there’s no mention of Joseph. At the cross, Mary kneels brokenhearted with grief. And I have to believe Joseph would have been there if he were still alive, weeping beside his wife with his son and Savior before him. But once again, there’s no mention of Joseph. Instead, protecting and providing for her to the very end, Jesus tells the disciple John to regard Mary as his own mother from that day on.

Joseph’s death isn’t included in Scripture, but I found comfort in knowing that Jesus understands loss on a deeply human level. Isaiah 53:3 calls Him a man of sorrows, and so yes, He must be familiar with grief.

We’ve all experienced loss in some way this year. Jobs, income, hope, relationships, dreams, health, the life of a loved one. The list goes on and on. But I’m sitting here today, staring at the small figurine of Joseph in my nativity set, thinking about the hope of tomorrow.

That isn’t a metaphor.

December 21st, the winter solstice, is the darkest day of the entire year in the Northern Hemisphere.

The night will stretch as far as it can go tomorrow. Daylight will fade quickly and darkness will settle in like a weighted blanket wrapping around the world. But the boundary line has been drawn: this far and no further.

Right when we find ourselves saying, “I can’t seem to catch a break or catch my breath. The weight of waiting is just too much. The waves just keep coming, the storm is still raging, and I’m desperate for hope, for dawn, for new life and answered prayers.” Right then, the longest of nights meets the shortest of days.

It’s a gift tucked into the deepest dark — a time limit and a guarantee. Yes, the night will seem to swallow everything in a matter of hours… but we’re inching toward the promise. And in His kindness, God saw fit to enter the dark and start the clock.

For now, loss lingers and hearts break and grief overwhelms. Loved ones walk away or pass away, dreams disappear, the weight of waiting is nearly too much, and hope can feel like a risk. But the God-man who said “Come to Me, all you who are weary” is the same baby who came for us. Long before we turned toward Him, He came and made a way for us, protecting and providing until we’re finally, forever Home.

We might be limping toward the end of the year, but we’re also one day closer, one step closer, and the beautifully true thing is that we can show up as we are. Jesus didn’t say “Come to Me, all you who have it together.” It was never “Come to Me after you’ve done XYZ and achieved 123.” It’s simply — come. Weak, weary, grieving, confused, heartbroken, angry, exhausted, doubting. As you are, however you are, come and find that Home has already come for you.⁣

Next week we’ll celebrate the Light of the world that pierced the night, the One who still wakes the day and paints the sky, the One who couldn’t stand to do anything other than come closer, closer, closer.

First, for just a tick-tock of time, the night will have its moment. But it’s only that, a wildly brief moment within eternity, and the man of sorrows is familiar with the shadows. There is no darkness too dark and no moment too much for Him, and so we really can dare to sing “joy to the world” in a long, silent night, declaring with the Psalmist:

“The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance. I will praise the Lord, who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me. I keep my eyes always on the Lord. With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.”
Psalm 16:6-8 NIV

One day, the day will go on forever. One day, night will be no more (Revelation 22:5).

The clock is ticking. Closer, closer, closer. Always, Light is pushing back the dark.

But tomorrow? Tomorrow the earth joins in, a declaration spread across creation:

From here on out, the night gets shorter.
From here on out, it only gets brighter.
No matter how deep the darkness, Hope has something to say.
Even now, dawn is on the way.

For more encouragement in the midst of loss that lingers or the heaviness of a dark night, pick up a copy of Kaitlyn’s book. Even If Not will help you shift from the suspicion that God isn’t kind or present to the truth found in Scripture: on every single page of the story, He is with us and working all things for good.

Listen to daily devotions from (in)courage like this one wherever you stream podcasts!

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