On home and the holidays.

I have a special little tree of my own in my home, and it’s full of gingerbread men.

The collection started the first Christmas after my first son arrived 18 years ago, and continued as my collection of “little men” grew to three.

Three plump-cheeked, smiling, laughing boys.

Three now nearly grown, handsome sons.

 
It’s just a tree, to most folks.

But to me, it’s HOPE.

See, like many–too many–I struggle with the holidays. If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you know I have PTSD from childhood. And while I try–and often do–find much joy in the songs and the celebration of my Savior, a part of me remains skittish, fearful, and yes, even afraid. That’s the lifelong “gift” of being a survivor. The elusive feeling that “something bad is going to happen” lurks long and dark in candlelit corners.

So maybe you can see why this tree…one that celebrates the new home, the new family, the dedication to safely raising sons who won’t have to know the traumas we’ve been through…this tree brings me hope.

It brings me thanksgiving that while healing is hard it bears fruit.

That while the world intends to harm, the Lord can transform pain into good.

That while darkness threatens the innocence of too many children, light can and does prevail.

And so I pray this prayer today for those of you like me, for whom the holidays are a bit rough and crinkly, that you’ll find your own special way of celebrating the good and lovely, the beauty God traded for the ashes of your pain, the praise God exchanged for your mourning when He sent his Son for you.

Pray with me?

Dearest Lord and Savior, help us remember that while You are defined by overwhelming grandeur, You came to us in the simple.

That while choruses rock and praise, You are most often heard in the silence of those who tremble and fear like the shepherds.

That while we wrap up and cook up and tidy up, You’re more often found–and never leave us alone–in our messes.

That while we rush about and push through lines and traffic You wait to embrace us in the still, small hours.

That no matter how dressed up, lit up, choreographed, orchestrated, our attempts are to make Christmas about fortissimos and crèchendos, You are the only true light.

We fall on our knees, Lord.

Oh, how we fall.

Thank you, Lord Jesus, that through Your love and healing…

…You raise us up to dance again.

 
And that You bring us safely, wholly, home.

 

a thanksgiving blessing.

not much room for grace all packed

tight

up against fear

and anger

and the world

  

don’t even

know what 
we’re thirsty

for anymore

just

that we’re parched

so 

dry and parched

  

come

set a while

and

be

*

still 

  

come,

for all

and for all

is

*

ready

  

not to be served

but 

to serve

and find smooth cool sweetness 

filed away with the old

recipes 

we know by heart

*

again

  

and hear the sound

of

*

still

grateful

*

grace

  

*****

“For the beauty of the earth,

For the beauty of the skies,

For the love which from our birth

Over and around us lies,

Lord of all, to thee we raise

This our grateful hymn of praise.”


~Folliot Pierpoint

*****

  
Happy and blessed Thanksgiving, everyone!

*Dedicated to the students and staff of Herron High School.

Another day another dollar.

I came home worn and beat down from another day another dollar
spent surfing stations trying to escape the heart rend of a brave man in
orange
breathing his last
Another day another dollar spent putting hands on cancer and aging and healing and dying
Another evening wanting only to put my feet up but there
he
is
my wide-eyed son too old to waste a single moment soothing my own ache when he says
Look, mama
So I do
And our toes curl against the warm wet stone of the patio where we stand watching the storm clouds push to the east as the fire of another day-end ignites the sky
Pink then purple then last of all
orange
And there ain’t no dollar I wouldn’t pay to make sure I don’t miss
me
my boy
and the sunset.

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