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.