Because sometimes the holidays are hard.

Confession: I sort of loathe the time of year between Thanksgiving and New Year's. December has been a difficult month for me for years, made worse so by my Nana's passing away 5 years ago, on my 26th birthday. I'd be lying if I said many of my December memories are not laced with hurt and disappointment. This coming December is promising to be the most difficult yet. Already I am an emotional mess (seriously, I cried in the Walmart parking lot the other day when my boys put their coins in the Salvation Army buckets.) 
As I try to brace myself for the emotions, I find myself wanting to fall asleep in a Turkey-coma, not waking up until New Year's day. Unfortunately, I have a life which demands my consciousness every day of the year, including the hard ones. I also have a huge desire to provide my boys with happy December memories. So what do I do?
I cling tightly to the only real reason to celebrate anything, Jesus. His love is the greatest gift in my life. He is my reason for breathing, for getting out of bed each day and pouring out all the love I can.
I know December 2015 will be hard for me. I am certain there will be many days I cry out to God to just give me the strength to breathe. But I am confident Jesus will meet me smack dab in the middle of all my hurt and carry me through, just as He has been faithful to do for years.





"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
 Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.
 I rejoiced greatly in the Lord that at last you renewed your concern for me. Indeed, you were concerned, but you had no opportunity to show it. I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through Christ who gives me strength." Philippians 4:4-13

The Vase (a metaphor)

It was a favorite of mine. It was beautiful and precious and oh-so fragile. I had treasured it from the moment it was “mine.” I had done my best to protect it and keep it beautiful. A handful times over the years, it had fallen and suffered damage. Once it even split right in two. Every time it was damaged, I gently tended to it, trying to restore it, but it was never quite the same.

Then, one morning, I watched as he picked it up and slammed it to the floor. It shattered everywhere and I felt the hot burn of angry tears sting at my eyes. For a moment, I just looked at the mess, seething in anger at him for being so cruel. Then, my heart broke over the brokenness which surrounded me and I got to my knees and began working.

I vainly tried to locate and identify each broken piece, to figure out how to put back together the shards which vaguely reminded me of one of the most precious things in my life. I cried and I cursed and I gently tried to mend it. My hands slowly became covered in cuts as the thing I once loved somehow turned into a weapon against me.

As the blood began to cover my hands, I looked at my work to see what I had thought was slowly being put back together, was actually just an ugly mess. I became infuriated as I looked back and forth from my bloody hands to the mess before me. I had tried so hard. I had done everything I could. But this? This was now nothing more than a painful mess.

The anger burned hot, deep inside my gut, and my head became foggy. I picked up the “fixed” part of the mess and hurled it at the wall as I screamed loud and crazy, “I HATE YOU!”

I crumpled to the floor, amidst the shards and blood and reminders of my failed attempts to fix it, and I cried. I cried for what was, but can never be again. I cried at the realization of my futility. I cried at the mess I was going to have to clean. I cried because I let this broken thing bring me to a point of hatred. I cried, because sometimes, it's the only thing left to do.