Long, long ago, my husband, Jared, and I took a personality assessment to find and rank our core strengths. The cool thing about this process was that after you received your list of strengths, it provided a guide to help you work with other people’s lists of strengths.

After we compared lists, we burst out laughing. It was clear — spelled out in black and white — that Jared’s top strength was dead last on my list.

Adaptability.

To anyone who knows both of us, adaptability (or lack thereof) is clear in our personalities and the ways in which we go through life. Jared jumps at any chance to be spontaneous and thrives in change, while I grump my way through anything I perceive as a speed bump on the path of my routines and rhythms.

This realization of our stark difference in adaptability changed our marriage, for the better. It helped us view each other in a new way, also for the better. Instead of feeling like a stick in the mud, I started seeing myself as thoughtful and considerate, offering us space to make decisions with care. Instead of impulsive and fast, I started seeing Jared as curious and excited, pushing us gently out of our comfort zone.

Now nearly two decades into our marriage, we still see those dynamics play out, though the once-wide gap between our adaptability preferences has diminished significantly.

I continue to learn about my strengths and weaknesses, what gives me joy, and what drains my heart.

And I continue to learn about the way I view adaptability.

All this time, I’ve assumed my resistance to adapting meant I hated change. After all, I don’t like the times when my comfortable patterns and way of life are forced to change. It’s hard for me to look at times of change with joy and expectation, and all too easy to see them through a grey lens of dread and gloom.

I swear, I’m a real joy to be around. Ha!

Recently though, I’ve realized that perhaps it’s not change itself that I struggle with. I love the changing of the seasons. I welcome the changes we’ve made to our home. I love seeing the leaves change color, and changing over my wardrobe for the temperatures, and changing out my holiday décor. I don’t mind adapting our family’s schedule to accommodate whatever sports season we’re in. I happily change over favorite playlists and hairstyles, shoes and coats, and even some relationships that have served their course and purposes.

I don’t actually think I mind change itself. What I have a hard time adapting to, sitting with, and walking through is grief.

Grief is at the heart of any difficult change. I’ve learned this in recent years through a few specific situations.

When we left a church after twenty years of life spent there, it was the grief that pierced my heart. We knew it was time for a change, and we were ready to make one. But the grief of the situation as a whole was raw, and the grief was what we needed to process. I had to adapt through grief to the loss of my church home.

When changes came to my workplace at the time, ending some jobs and cancelling events and discontinuing products I loved, the change itself was manageable. The grief, however, took time and work to walk through. I had to adapt through grief to my professional life looking much different than I’d expected it would.

When I see how grown my once-tiny children are — knowing we sit at the top of the growing-up rollercoaster, ready to tip over into warp speed as we barrel down — it’s not that the change is unexpected or even unwelcome. But it’s the grief of the true and final end to our baby days. The grief in the end of toddler messes and clothing measured in months, of no more little teeny feet and problems whisked away with a kiss. Big kids are fantastic, and I’m not sad that they’re growing up. But two things can be true, and I grieve the end of the little years even as I embrace and enjoy the changes. I have had to adapt through grief here, too.

Through these experiences and more, I’ve learned that it’s grief I want to run from, not change itself.

My mom always told me that in painful and difficult times, “the only way through is through”, and so we walk. We walk just like Jesus did in His grief, and I am so grateful He paved the way.

Jesus grieved and, in doing so, gives us space to grieve as well. Space to feel general sorrow (Isaiah 53:3), to ask for a different path (Luke 22:42), to mourn the loss of a loved one (Matthew 14:10-13), to feel forgotten by God (Matthew 27:46), and to just plain weep (John 11:35).

In each of these stories, we see Jesus as the fullness of man, and God with skin on, the divine sent to be Immanuel — God with us. We see Him live and love and weep, and we know there is space for us to do the same as things change, and so we adapt, and we grieve.

My friends, change will come to the things we want to remain the same forever. Grief will consume our hearts, our lives, and our days. And yet, we walk through it all, by the grit of our teeth and the grace of our God, knowing He walks beside us.

May you find comfort in His presence. May you show kindness to yourself as you grieve and adapt. And may you celebrate it all — the glory of these ordinary days — during this special Christmas season and always.

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