I’m Trying

The holidays are uncomfortable this year. I knew it would be this way; I dreaded it for the better part of the year. So maybe I’ve caused my own grief? If not caused it entirely, I’m sure I’ve at least added to it. I’ve walked around for months poking and prodding at the tender places of loss and fear, knowing they would bloom in earnest as the year began to wind down and the celebrations because to build up. And, of course, they have.

Five years ago, my grandmother passed away at Thanksgiving. The holiday has been bittersweet since then, a delicate balance of all the good I take stock of as I count my blessings, and all the sadness that washes over me as I relive memories. Her death, of course, came just hours after my family’s abrupt return from Nepal and all that entailed— most importantly, our separation with Babita.

So you can say that Thanksgiving was kind of ruined for me in 2014.

And now, Advent and Christmas. Last year, I celebrated while recovering from pneumonia. Nearly every member of the family was on an antibiotic as we fought off one sickness after another… and of course, it was that antibiotic which caused Simon’s three month battle with Serum Sickness. Which overlapped with the heartbreak I revisit daily—my mother’s passing. And then, of course, there was the flood. And John Mark’s ER trips and hospital stay. Not to mention the three casts and one boot our family got to enjoy this year.

Somehow, all of that— all of the mess and the hurt and the ache of those months— seems to have its roots in last Thanksgiving and Christmas. And I’m struggling to pick up the mantle of joy here and now, because the echo of fear in my heart is threatening to clamor louder than my peace.

Friends tell me this is a normal part of the grieving process. My husband reminds me to be gentle with myself. Scripture whispers “grace, mercy,” every time I open the pages of my Bible.

I’m trying, I am.

Last night, after a wonderful afternoon spent laughing and feasting with my father and stepmom, my family ventured outside. I’m still hobbling a bit and had to tread warily, but a bonfire was promised, and the smell of the smoke clinging to my kids’ cheeks as they rushed in and out to give me updates and steal bites of leftover turkey was more than enough to make me brave the uneven terrain in the dark. And that was where Thanksgiving finally met me.

Huddled close to the warmth of the fire with my family, I felt it. Gratitude. I forgot, for a moment, the laundry list of the Things That Went Wrong, and instead, found myself listening— really listening— as we all took turns sharing one thing for which we thankful.

“This house.”
“Jesus being born.”
“Being able to go to school full-time.”
“Christmas lights.”
“The older kids walking with the Lord into their callings.”
“My violin teacher.”
“Finding a church home.”

There, in the darkness, with the chill pressing at our backs and the embers swelling up and swirling in the air, I submitted to the blessings this year has held; these things that have been right here, all along, growing fruit in the shadows of the hurts.

Afterwards, we sang. Maybe this isn’t something you do with your family. But can I suggest that maybe you try? Hearing that chorus of voices— none of us professionals, none of us trained— singing songs from “Jingle Bells” to “Silent Night” undid me. My family knows that I cry at the drop of a hat, but I was still somewhat thankful that it was dark enough to keep my tears to myself. It felt like a personal moment, a private revelation, and I was happy to have the chance to tuck it into my heart and hold it there, unspoken.

I’m going to need moments like that this holiday season. I’m going to need Simon’s eagerness to talk about Jesus, and Mary Hannah’s servant heart, and my husband holding my hand and reminding me to drink this all in now, because it’s only here for a second. Those are the snatches of joy that will balance the indescribable twist in my heart I feel when seeing a Santa-themed popcorn tin (my mother loved those more than any other person I’ve ever met), or hear one of my children cough, or make my Mamaw’s buckeye balls recipe. Somehow, all the pieces will fit, and I will celebrate this season with a peculiar mix of happiness and loss.

My soul somehow says that this is the Advent I am supposed to have.  My discomfort, maybe, is exactly what God wants. How much more can we embrace joy when we still remember the taste of pain? What lessons does this season hold for me? What can I now understand about the character of God that I was unable to fathom before the events of this year? I don’t yet know. But I know there’s something here. Pain is not wasted in God’s economy. “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” I believe that.