Lord, we cry out to you. Where else would we go with our deep loss? Our hearts are split open and our spirit is crushed.
You have promised to be close to the brokenhearted and to draw near to us if we will draw near to you. So we come with open hands and wounded hearts, looking to you to carry us through our grief and walk us through this season. We come to you, the only One who can heal us and lift our head.
I have a confession to make: we’re one week into December with no tree up yet. We have a balsam fir wreath on the front door thanks to a brother and sister-in-law in Maine and we’ve had Christmas music playing since December first. I’ve bought exactly two presents so far with two that I already need to return, which puts me at net zero.
The other day, Annalise asked me to please bake something. Sure, I answered, and asked her what she wanted, thinking she had some particular craving.
“Just bake,” she answered. “Just bake anything.” Oh, sweet girl. I smiled inside because she was so spot on – this single mom chapter of life has me doing so many things with little time for the baking I used to do.
Our neighbors have had trees and lights up since Thanksgiving weekend. A scroll through Instagram shows friends with kids in Christmas jammies and Advent traditions well under way.
I could start to feel very behind on Christmas.
This time of year. Sometimes I want to bottle it up to spill onto the days when the world gets churlish and uptight.
There’s so much to love about Christmastime, like tapered trees headed home on top of cars and the familiar clang of the Salvation Army bell when I grocery shop.
Here in Florida, the temperature’s dropped enough to finally match the decorations going up through the neighborhood.
Today, as we savor this season and countdown to Christmas, I’m sharing a few of my favorite things. Some are old favorites and some are new discoveries.
About 15 years ago, I decided I’d had it with Santa. Dan and I were the ones saving and shopping and wrapping and staying up Christmas Eve to put together 42 pieces of a Barbie house while Santa got all the credit.
And that hit home. Santa was getting far too much attention in a season meant for Jesus.
In a season meant exclusively for Jesus.
That year, I went through the whole house and bagged up every Santa decoration, ornament and book to take to the thrift store. We stopped writing letters or lists for Santa, standing in line for pictures at the mall and playing up the fiction that is Santa.
Instead, we collected manger scenes and set them around the house, on the tree, on the front lawn. We bought books that reflected the real Christmas story and started our first Advent traditions.
I’ve lived most of my life giving shallow thanks.
Sure, I’ve been grateful when big things happened. I’ve thanked God when he came through or saved my neck.
I’ve thanked God for answered prayer and for those things dear to me — salvation, my family, health, provision, freedom to worship.
But for most of my life, I never saw the simple gifts, the small mercies, the personal love notes all around me.
It wasn’t until I lost the love of my life that I found deep gratitude.
In those weeks and months of hard grief, I was fighting for hope and aching to see God’s goodness when the world felt so horrible.
Opening to a fresh page in my journal, I numbered down the left-hand margin: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. That day I thanked God for the obvious things he was doing.
The next morning, I continued my numbered list: 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14. I forced myself to think back over the day before. I noted God’s provision, how he lifted my head, small joys.
And so began a practice of daily thankfulness and the gift of daily surprises.
