November 16, 2017
This is the next line in the hymn that need to write about it if I’m going to continue with the resting series. It’s intimidating for me right now to try and start an entry in something that meant so much to me a year ago, something i thought I knew about, saw direction and purpose in and then, well then the fire happened and upended my entire life. And now it’s a year later. A year where I thought I lost my way so many times, a year that changed me, challenged me and made me face fears I didn’t even know I had. And now I sit at the exact opposite end of the lake, my view 180 degrees different than it was a year ago. I’m closer to the water, I live in a protected little cove where the winds aren’t as strong and we hardly get any waves at all. It’s small and cozy and whatever we have left is here with us, hung up on the walls and placed lovingly on the shelves and in the cabinets. We replaced almost everything we lost. Almost. Everything that was replaceable except the Murano glasses and some clothes. And what wasn’t replaceable, well, those things have left a hole in my heart that I don’t even want to try and fill. I could never fill a Christmas tree again with things that meant as much to me as those ornaments did. Each one was precious, filled with memory and tradition. All of the nonsense ones were discarded, the only ones left were the ones that mattered. The round resin choo-choo with 1976 embossed on it, the little chubby angel with Curtis 1960 written on the back by grandma Jean, the clay pitcher from New Mexico with Nellie’s birthday written in, the silly computer that said “Finding someone fine while dating online” and the teddy bear in a swing that read “Baby’s First Christmas 1984”, my nativity village with so many headless and armless villagers, the Christmas Around the World advent calendar with all the puffy velcro'd people that every child that has ever been a part of my life has played with. So, what now? Because the time is here. It’s now. One week from now we will wash the dishes from our Thanksgiving meal and it will be the season of Christmas, time to put up the tree. But will we? Put up a tree? A real one? I’ve never had a fake one. Should I start now? With nothing to put on it. A theme tree? Pick a color. Fill it with empty glass balls and glitter. Purple and gold. Blue and Silver. SO elegant. SO not me. Or do we skip it? Skip it all. The tree, the wrappings, the myriad of gifts for anyone and everyone. I don’t have it in me this year to do it all. So what DO I do? And what DON’T I do. That’s the question on my heart today. How do I grasp the magnitude of His lovingkindness and its vastness this holiday season? How do I make it different and still embrace the things that really count? How do I find the JOY He wants for us without trying to recreate something I already know I can’t? Vaster, broader than the sea. The sea. Maybe we should go find the sea. And sit, and contemplate His lovingkindness. Just me and Jim. Just us. And God. And the sea. Yes.
And then this happened….baking my banana bread and cleaning up for the holiday fun. Blazing across the sky perfectly in front of my house. I ran. Oh, I ran out in to the rain crying and laughing and praising the God Who is not far off and not too busy to send me hope, to affirm His promise, to me. Yes, to ME. I caught every brilliant color and then it just faded away. It did what it came to do, encourage me, remind me, bless me in a way that only God could, only He knew what I needed. Like heaven just said hello to me. My heart is bursting. I don’t even know what to do next but sit here and cry and laugh some more and thank Him. Thank HIM. His promises are true. And I am right where I’m supposed to be.
And there will be Christmas, here, in this cozy little cottage and I won’t run away to the sea because His lovingkindness lives right here and we will begin again anew and cherish every memory with our family that grows in love and wonder every year. All those cute people that helped decorate my tree will conspire behind my back and hand paint a slew of new ornaments to hang on our tree. And they will ambush me after dinner and watch with love while I open each one, signed on the back by the artist and cry. That’s what will get us through. 
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