Hope

I started the Christmas season with a bang.  I love this time of year, I really do.  I go full-on jingle the day after Thanksgiving.  Decorating, clothing, gifting, baking--you name it, I'm doing it.  I get down and I get busy.  I want to spread the cheer, spread the message of Jesus Christ, and spread the hope.

I love traditions--and I'll admit it, I'm a bit of a control freak, so I usually do the majority of the decorating and baking.  This year, when it overwhelmed me and Noah took over--I cringed at first, but man, he really did an amazing job.  I told him that was the best gift he could give me.  This is what I want my kids to learn--a gift doesn't have to be wrapped up with a bow.  It is such a tremendous undertaking, and he even managed to get Ezra involved and excited, which is something I've been struggling to do.  Noah has stepped up as the third Elf on the Shelf, and he's stepped in so big on the days I really need an extra boost.  I wish his little brothers could really see how much he loves them and wants this season to be special for them.

This year, it got to be too much.  Depression settled in for some reason.  I've let go of many of what I usually consider "must do's" and I'm concentrating on the "barely getting by's".  When only half the tree lit up, and Ezra threw some jumbled up lights into it, I shrugged my shoulders--Eh, whatever.  It's us.  And, in some places, it might be called art instead of half-hearted.  We'll do better next year, right?

I started to feel as if I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.  I'm moving through sludge.

Then I was hit with a complete--I don't know what to call it.

A friend died.  A very dear friend.

The news knocked the breath from my lungs, and my body to my knees.

The pain with which I already miss her is visceral, a physical pain.

I want her back.  It's not fair.  It's not right.

I need to know that she made things right with God in the end.  I need to know she's with her daughter and grandson.  What I really need--is to be able to hug her again.  I just want to hug my friend again and tell her how much I love her.  To tell her I never stopped loving her.  I can't function well enough to wrap presents for my kids, or even attempt to make headway through Christmas baking.  I have no idea what Christmas breakfast or dinner will look like.  I keep putting off my grief, but I'm not doing anything else, either.  I can't laugh, I don't want to eat.

I need a break.

I need hope.

She and her husband were the ones who led me to my salvation.  When I first met her, she didn't immediately invite me to her church--she invited me, a complete stranger, to her home, instead.  I was so badly in need of that unconditional love and friendship, I went.  Her family instantly became mine.  That's how she was, she loved hard and genuinely, perhaps to a fault, and made everyone immediately family, whether you entered her home once, or three million times.  It was another several weeks before she introduced me to her church.  I found myself, and God there.  I found friendship and family.  They taught me about hope.  I learned so much from them.

They helped us pray Avery into being, and passed him around so proudly when he finally arrived.  They prayed hope and miracles when doctors told us there wouldn't be such things.  He was our little secret at the last youth weekend retreat I attended; I wore a hoodie with a front hand pouch so I could keep my hands on Avery without anyone thinking about it.  My friend's daughter would hug me from behind, tucking her hands in with mine, lacing our fingers together.  We'd giggle and she'd whisper, "I love you, Baby," in my ear, as we hand-hugged Avery together.  

I know, as sad as I am, the reality is, my friend did get her Christmas miracle.  She is no longer in pain.  Her family has seen so much shit and grief, she is finally at rest, and I hope, I pray--at peace.  This is the hope I'm given in a tiny baby laying in a manger.  I am promised I will see her again, and we will be reunited in eternity.  I know we will dance and rejoice as she once again welcomes me into her home.  But, for now--I grieve.  I mourn.  I'm angry.  She said she was going to beat this--no little old cancer was going to get her.  I'm hurting so much.  I'm sad.  I miss my friend.  I want to shake my fist and scream.

Always putting family first--and everyone was family--I know this is not how Angie would want things.  This is not how she would want me to feel, or want me to mourn.  But--I.  Just.  Can't.  Move.

Please, this season is not about rushing through the stores or putting priority shipping on that last item you just have to have for Aunt Pearl.  It's not about who has the most gifts or the best-lit house, or the biggest party.  If your house isn't the cleanest, Christmas is still going to be okay.  If the family Christmas craft doesn't get done until after Christmas, it will still be okay.  If the baking isn't pristine, the memories will still be the important thing.

This season is about family and making memories.  It's about laughing and being with those you love.  Take tons of pictures, and be silly.  This season is about the hope, and the promises we've been given from a sweet little baby named Jesus, borne by a mother who endured more than any mother ever should.  Hold on to those promises and that hope.  Live by Angie's example: love deep, love hard and love genuinely.  That is her legacy.

Please hug your friends.  Tell your family you love them.  Share a fun secret or two and giggle.  Read to your kids.  Check on your loved ones.  Resolve anything you've left open, and call that friend you've been meaning to check in with.  Please just go hug your people.  Love them well.

When I Hit My Knees, God Reminds Me....

Ironically to the tailspin this time of year typically sends my depression into, Christmas is my favorite time of the year.

I love giving gifts--year round.  But at Christmas?  It's pure gold.  The more cheer I can spread, the better.  Imagine someone throwing confetti and glitter around while dancing and prancing and flitting around like a five year old child, with a ridiculous smile on her face--that's me.

Two nights ago, I stayed up past midnight doing the near-literal impression of swiping my credit card left and right all over my laptop.

Swipety-swipe, it's Christmastime, people!!!!  Let's DO this!

Man, I was having fun!  I wasn't even buying gifts for my own family.

And for me, that's the really fun part--jumping in feet first for other people.

Last night was another story.

As I scrolled through Instagram, I stopped at one of the Christian pages I follow.  This page supports moms in need--moms who take care of children with high needs, husbands who have had medical crises and now have medical needs, moms who have their own medical needs, and so on.  There's a family with a little boy with cancer we've been praying for since August, although he was diagnosed long before that.  At the beginning of November, he was rallying.  He was going to make it.  He was going to be okay. There were so many of us praying.

The notification on the Instagram page last night was horrible, grim news.

He didn't make it.

He died last week.

I cannot swipe my credit card and bring him back for his family.

I cannot swipe my credit card and end this family's agony.

I curled up on my couch and just cried.  It was that kind of cry--even now, writing this--that kind of keening cry that only a mom can cry when a child, even when he isn't her own, even when she doesn't know him, is lost.

I went out to my front porch, where my front yard is lit up with Christmas lights like a runway, and I just cried.  I just sat there, holding myself, crying, pouring out my heart for this family I've never met.

I hit my knees and I inside my head, I just screamed at God--WHY?  What is the point of this?

I don't know if there is a point to it.  I don't know if I care if there is a point to it--a child died.

There is no silver lining here.

Sometimes, in moments like this, when the world stops, it feels as though I can't go on.  And the world does need to stop.  A little boy died.  A mother is mourning.  I don't want to go on.  What is the point?  The hurt is just too much to bear.  The pain is too much.

And when I think it's too much--I know I have to bear it, I have to teach my children to bear it, I have to continue on because I have my own three miracles to raise and lift up.

There is not a silver lining, but as I know, with every tragedy, when I hit my knees and cannot stand and cannot bear it, I know my God is still standing.  I know He can bear it.

Just as my front yard lights up our street, I am reminded that my Abba is the One who lights up the darkness.

I don't know the 'why,' and God may not give me the answers, but I know my Abba remains sovereign, no matter how tragic the situation is.

My Abba reminds me:
     Look for the helpers--Be the helper.
     Look for the light--Be the light.
     Look the good--Be the good.

I cannot swipe my credit card for this family, and others like them, but I will continue to hit my knees, and I can continue to remind this family they are not forgotten.

Eternal Love

We lost a president last week.

It hit me hard, but not for the reasons I thought it would.

Yes, he was an incredible man, a wonderful human and a war hero.  In my opinion, he was a good president (but please don't make this post political).

Most of all, he was an upstanding husband.

George H. W. Bush set all the precedents when it came to being a dad--not just a father, but a dad--and a husband.  

He was always more than a president.  First and foremost, he was a family man.

When former President Bush lost his beloved wife in April, in my saddest heart of hearts, I did not believe he would last much longer.  They were the kind of couple who would not last long separated--they needed each other like water and air--like God.  

I can't imagine the pain former President Bush's heart was in without his beloved.

I know his children and family are bittersweetly rejoicing as former President Bush and his wife are now reunited with each other, and also with their little girl.  

As I said though, his death hit me hard.  

Being apart from Shawn is not a pain I ever want to endure.  I can't endure that kind of separation from him.  I can't bear it.

The former president's death has had me thinking about being reunited with Grace.  Meeting her for the first time, but it will also be a reunion.  And Shawn--what if I'm reuniting with him?  What if I have had to live without him?  What if he's had to live without me?  And for how long?   

Sure, Shawn and I argue, fuss and fight--but God has always meant us for each other.  We make up, and we're sorry.  We do our best to put God first, we're stupid together and fun together--and I can't ever imagine life without him.  

I don't want to ever imagine life without him.

Former President Bush and his wife, Barbara, set an incredible example to the rest of us as parents and as spouses. 

I am so happy they are eternally reunited, not just with each other, but with their precious daughter.  And I'm grateful for the example they set for all of us.  

Most of all, I'm grateful my own eternal love.  Thank you God, for providing for me.