by Hope Venetta | Dec 22, 2025 | Maximized Hope, Uncategorized
In my work as a therapist, I often hear some version of this belief: that we have to be more together before we can be met by God. Calmer. Clearer. Less messy. More regulated. As if love arrives only after we’ve cleaned ourselves up emotionally or spiritually. But Advent keeps interrupting that idea. The love of Christ does not wait for ideal conditions or perfectly ordered lives. Love shows up where we are already overwhelmed, already tired, already doing the best we can with what we have. As I started naming that out loud with clients, and also sitting with it in my own quiet reflection, I found myself returning again and again to the way Jesus entered the world in the first place.
During this final week of Advent—the week traditionally associated with love—I’ve been sitting with the story of Jesus’ birth in a very practical way. Mary and Joseph traveled to Bethlehem for the census. The town was crowded. Guest rooms were full, likely in the homes of relatives already overflowing with people. That part makes sense to me. Anyone who has lived through a busy season or hosted family knows that sometimes there simply isn’t space.
What stayed with me, though, was where Mary gave birth.
Not in the main living area. Not in a space prepared for comfort or cleanliness. She gave birth in the place where animals were kept. There would have been dirt. Smells. Waste. It wasn’t clean. And then it struck me: childbirth itself made a woman ritually unclean according to Jewish law. Blood. Fluids. Labor. Pain.
So of course she wasn’t going to give birth in the main living quarters.
From a purely practical standpoint, it made sense.
The space where animals were kept was already considered unclean. There was nothing left to preserve, nothing to protect from contamination. It was the most honest place for what was about to happen.
But what struck me was this: God didn’t just allow that setting. He chose it.
The love of Christ did not enter the world once everything was tidy, quiet, or socially acceptable. Love showed up in a laboring, bleeding, vulnerable body. Love entered a space no one would have chosen if other options were available.
Advent love is not delicate. It is not afraid of bodies or mess or discomfort. It does not require optimal conditions to be present. The love of Christ is willing to be born where life actually happens.
That reframes love for me.
Christ’s love doesn’t wait for people to get themselves together. It doesn’t demand emotional or spiritual cleanliness before showing up. His love moves toward what has already been marked as inconvenient, already deemed unfit, already pushed to the margins.
His love says, This will do.
And that matters—especially now.
For those of us carrying anxiety, grief, depression, burnout, or trauma, this kind of love is not theoretical. It tells us that we do not have to wait until we are calmer, clearer, or more healed to be met by God. Love does not require ideal nervous systems or perfectly regulated emotions. The love of Christ enters the places where we are already exhausted, already overwhelmed, already doing the best we can with what we have. Advent reminds me that healing and hope do not begin after the mess—they often begin right in the middle of it.
The birth of Christ tells us something essential about love: not that it waits for perfection, but that it comes close.
by Hope Venetta | Dec 6, 2025 | Uncategorized
*As seen on the Mahogany Blog on Hallmark.com
Forgiveness wasn’t even on my radar. After what they did? Are you serious? Honestly, I just wanted to get through the holidays without breaking down or snapping at somebody.
But even though I didn’t say it out loud, my body was still carrying the weight of unforgiveness. My breath was shallow. My shoulders were tight. I was bracing for another round of holiday obligations and trying to “fix my face” while sharing space with people who had hurt me, dismissed me, or acted like the harm never happened.
The holidays stir everything up.
The food, the music, the folding chairs in the living room, the aroma of sweet potato pie and tension mixing in the air. It all comes wrapped in tradition. But, sometimes, it also comes with a side of unspoken pain. While the world is out here pushing matching pajama sets and curated dinner tables, some of us are just trying to not let old wounds ruin the gatherings.
So, let me say this clearly:
Forgiveness and reconciliation are not the same thing. We’ve been taught, especially in the Church, that forgiving someone means letting them back into our life. That, if we’ve truly “let it go,” we’ll hand them a plate, hug them tight, and act like it’s all water under the bridge. But that’s not forgiveness. That’s emotional bypassing. That’s self-erasure.
To be honest, this kind of pressure to reconcile makes healing harder when the hurt runs deep from betrayal, neglect, abuse, or abandonment. Reconciliation must be mutual. It requires truth, repair, and change. But some folks will never apologize; some folks will never take responsibility. And some folks aren’t even here anymore to try.
Even so, forgiveness is still possible.
Forgiveness is not about making them comfortable. It’s about making you free. It’s not a performance. It’s not a shortcut to peace. It’s a decision to say, “I want better for myself than to carry this bitterness another year.”
Let’s be clear about what forgiveness is not:
- Forgiveness is not forgetting.
- Forgiveness is not pretending the offense didn’t hurt.
- Forgiveness is not a reason to give someone full access to yourself (again).
- Forgiveness is not weakness.
- Forgiveness is definitely not failure.
Sometimes, forgiveness looks like keeping your distance and meaning it. You can forgive someone and still hold a boundary knowing they’re not safe to be around. That’s not being petty. That’s being wise.
You can forgive your father for disappearing and still not let his absence define your worth. You can forgive that cousin who crossed a line and still decide not to sit beside them at that family gathering this year. You can forgive someone who broke your trust and still choose peace over pretending.
The holidays magnify what hasn’t been healed.
People gather. Expectations rise. Old roles return like they never left. Before you know it, you’re left trying to swallow macaroni and memories at the same time. So, before you say “yes” to that gathering, ask yourself:
Am I showing up with peace? Or am I pretending and performing?
What am I protecting? My healing or their comfort?
This year, maybe give yourself a different kind of gift. A gift nobody sees, but that changes everything. This year, you can forgive. Not because they deserve it, but because you deserve to breathe deeper. And if reconciliation never comes? That’s okay, too.
You can still have peace.
You can still walk in freedom.
You can still show up on your own terms—or not show up at all.
Whatever you decide, don’t let bitterness pull up. There’s already enough on your plate.
