The Weight I Laid Down on Christmas Eve

I have been thinking a lot about Christ’s humility lately. Not the kind we reduce to a single word or a polished idea, but the lived kind. The kind that stays. The kind that restrains itself when walking away would make perfect sense.

When I picture Christ during His suffering, I do not picture something distant or symbolic. I picture restraint. I picture love that remained present when it would have been justified to leave. I picture mercy chosen again and again, even while carrying pain He did not deserve.

That understanding did not come to me easily. It came through grief.

My brother was murdered. Writing that sentence still feels strange, even now. The man who took his life stood trial, and everything in me wanted justice to be loud and final. I wanted answers. I wanted resolution. I wanted the ache to mean something concrete, something that could be wrapped up and set down.

What I did not expect was how heavy suffering becomes when it is paired with bitterness. That weight was unbearable. It pressed into everything. My thoughts, my prayers, my breathing. I began to see that anger was not protecting me. It was consuming me.

It was Christmas Eve, years ago. One of those nights when the world feels quiet but your heart does not. I stood inside my house holding a letter I had written. A letter of forgiveness addressed to the man who had taken my brother’s life.

I did not feel brave. I did not feel especially spiritual. I felt broken and unsure and, honestly, very human.

I remember the walk to the mailbox. It was not far, but it felt long. Every step felt deliberate, almost ceremonial. I remember thinking about Christ as I walked. About how He endured misunderstanding, injustice, and pain without hardening His heart. About how His humility did not erase suffering, but transformed it into something redemptive.

Forgiveness did not remove my grief. It did not make the loss suddenly okay. It did not rewrite the story. But it softened something inside me. It created space for healing where anger had been taking up all the room. It allowed me to suffer without becoming consumed by suffering.

I think that is what Christ’s humility has taught me.

Humility in pain does not mean pretending it does not hurt. It does not mean rushing healing or minimizing loss. It means choosing not to let pain decide who we become. It means trusting that love can exist alongside loss. That mercy can be an act of strength, not weakness.

Christ did not deny suffering. He walked through it. Fully present. Fully loving. Fully surrendered.

My understanding of His humility has shaped how I respond to suffering now. I do not have to rush my healing. I do not have to explain my pain away. But I can choose to let Christ walk with me through it, even when the path feels impossibly long.

And sometimes, that looks very small.

A slow walk to a mailbox.

A trembling prayer.

A heart offering what little it has.

And trusting Him to do the rest.