a gray day, with all the Christmas worn off

The stillness of the fog wraps itself around me; a gray day, with all the Christmas worn off.

Looking up at the cottony white sky through the stark reality of leafless trees, I feel comforted as though wrapped in a blanket. No more this season will the harsh glare of the neighbors' decorative lights dispel the quiet darkness on our side of the decoration-less street. The lower boughs from the too-large-tree I brought home, the last one for sale at the Market that day, remain on the picnic table, never formed into a wreath for the front door. Our tree, still taking up too much space in our small front room, shows itself off with the bare minimum of lights, ornaments and garlands. The irony of my art business primarily concerning itself with decorating the homes of others is not lost.

The buche de noel was never prepared, nor was a gingerbread house or sugar cookies. Eight tiny bundt cakes, sweet potato Guinness gingerbread with cream cheese frosting, came forth as gifts, miraculously, as the cakes stuck to the pan forcing me to put their pieces back together and the frosting starting out quite lumpy threatened to stay that way. Chocolate fudge emerged after a tiny bit of water spilled into the chocolate I was melting for the turtle candies, forming itself into an uncreative shape with undesired texture. In my younger years I would have never dreamed of remaking fudge, as finicky as it is, but my curiosity often gets the better of me these days. I can barely get myself to follow recipes anymore as random ingredients find themselves joining in the fun.

I have been told that my Christmas letter is often read after the holiday when those who think I have something to say savor it with a cup of hot chocolate on a winter's day. To come forth with my truth year after year is a responsibility I do not take lightly. I realized, however, after the fact, that my original idea of pointing out how outrageous it was for my now former doctor to say I was "good enough," causing me to wonder how that would go over if, for example, an airplane pilot said he did not fully inspect the instruments but it was "good enough," or an anesthesiologist said the patient may not be administered enough medicine to be put under for surgery, but it was "good enough," was lost.

We took back the gift I ordered at the last possible minute that did not show up until two days after Christmas and then was not the one desired. Ordering online, then printing out a return address label and getting reimbursed electronically, minus shipping, makes life exceedingly easier than it used to be. UPS has a customer service center about a mile from our house with two employees eager to talk and willing to tape up the package themselves. Gifts are problematic. Whatever is given is not really the point; it is the representation of the sentiment. We try, we fail, we love. We will do it all again.

This is day six, the six geese-a-laying day, of the twelve days of Christmas. More homemade food will come forth to be enjoyed. There is yet time. Reading and drinking hot chocolate come next. Pondering what is or what is not "good enough" requires more thought. And since our Christmas tree lights have only been up for about a week, I have plugged them in so they can yet shine forth as a beacon to penetrate the foggy darkness up and down our street, as this year soon comes to its end.

O come let us adore Him.

reflection

I have thought better than to copy and paste my recent Christmas letter in this blog for two reasons: 1) There is family information that will make no difference to anyone who does not personally know me--though I often think the list of those who actually know me is far smaller than the number currently on it; and 2) I have misspelled a word I just realized in horror while rereading the letter. In the letter I refer to a situation in which I was humiliated in public using the word "publicly" but spelling it "publically," which is wrong. I know no one cares. Except for me.

There are, however, some happenings along my journey worth sharing that I was not even made aware of until about a month ago. Funny how we can trudge through our lives without knowing how our prayers are being answered until we stop long enough to ask for help.

This happened, of all places, while I was pumping gas. In the moments it took for me to stand, leaning next to my vehicle waiting for the tank to be filled, my brain was free to ponder. I had just cried my way home from an Advent Retreat I had attended at a Quaker church in which my friend led the study. We were to contemplate the hope candle lit during the first week of Advent. It was December and I had been trying to find hope all year. What happened to it? Where could I find it? Suddenly, God was rewinding the tape of the year and replaying it to give me the answer.

On one of my worst Sundays in recent memory, I decided to spend the afternoon with a group of people who had gathered in the fellowship hall of a Presbyterian church downtown to make scarves for the homeless. I have been sewing since I was 10 and knew that no matter how badly I felt about situations I was having to endure, I could sit and sew. The challenge would be to keep myself from pouring out my emotion on unsuspecting strangers. Stitching hearts onto scarves turned out to be the healing balm I needed. I would begin to talk and laugh with others at the table by the end of the day.

Looking for classes, a counselor, something to hasten my healing, I stumbled upon a Bible study that would be led by a man I knew from years before at a church nearby. Walking into a group of 16 people and only knowing the leader was much harder for me than anyone probably realized. I forced myself to participate knowing that if I did not speak the first meeting, I would probably not return for the second. As part of the class I even wrote a prayer that I shared along with my tears. They kindly invited me to their church, as I thanked them, returning to my own.

Silent retreats on the first Friday of the month became a regular event for me during the summer months. It had been so long since I was afforded the time to sit and listen for God's voice in the bird songs, the wind, and the raindrops on the lake. It was a rehab for my soul, a fountain of joy for my spirit. No talking allowed. Thank you Jesus.

I had been working hard to regain my health with no results. I had worked out, eaten correctly and had not lost one pound. Not one. Sitting across from my physician whom I have not trusted since he switched me to a synthetic hormone in the midst of menopause, causing the bottom to fall out of my life, and hearing him tell me that I was "good enough" as I considered the weight gain and fatigue let alone the many, many nights in which sleep completed eluded me, a switch clicked in my head. ENOUGH! I would finally force myself to find someone who could really help me.

By the time this new medical person would run the lab tests that amounted to pages and pages of how depleted I was and how stress was the culprit, I was ready to fight. Again. For my body, however, it is taking more time. But there is hope.

In October when I was relieved that the women's only 5k had to be cancelled because of rain since I truly was not prepared for it, I found myself at a women's retreat, and then called out from the pulpit by an old friend. She may not have thought much of it. For me to be publicly (NOT publically) recognized, instead of humiliated was the source of great hope. It was especially satisfying since I was sitting with women with whom I used to go to church. I was being valued and shown love.

By Thanksgiving I eagerly attended the Interfaith Thanksgiving service at a local synagogue even going early to sing with the choir, something I never fully intended to do at my own church. By this point, I felt somewhat invincible when it came to wandering into places of worship alone. 

God showed me that I had in fact found hope in every place I had looked. Hope greeted me at the door with open arms. Hope gave me a place to sit and listened to my stories. Hope walked hand in hand with me during my loneliest days. Hope never disappointed, though I had forgotten it was there at times.

What follows is how I ended my story in my Christmas letter about finding hope.  

"I read and prayed, constantly seeking healing for my wounded heart, but it seemed to be breaking open further. With each new experience, my ability to care for others expanded. New people with new issues; different believers yet the same truth.

I struggled to understand a God who kept peeling off the bandages I was finding to bind my wounds. And yet, by gently keeping the wound open, and not allowing closure, I have become aware of what true healing looks like. Healing is intricately linked with compassion. I always thought if my wounds could ever be completely healed, I would become a more effective leader, friend, child of God. Just the opposite is true. Disappear the wound to provide superficial closure, and the healing work stops. In order to bear another’s burdens, our hearts need to remain open, as in: never really healed.

We are to open our hearts to whomever he places on our journey. We are to seek him when we are not equipped to handle life, which is always. He binds our conscience and our hearts. As the Great Physician, he skillfully stitches us together in the way that is best for each of us, not according to our ways, but his—which ARE good enough! This is where hope is."

I then make a lame attempt at a joke about the Year of Jubilee versus Cherries Jubliee; one being a time of celebration and the other being covered in liquor and set on fire. It seemed funny to me at the time as I come to grips with my desire to celebrate often going up in flames, alcohol or no alcohol. 

Life is tough. It is. And no amount of coaxing will get me to state otherwise. That does not, however, mean that I have lost hope. In spite of my own proclivities, hope has found me.