"i just wish i could skip the holidays," she told me, as she dreaded the days that meant more memories flooding to mind. memories of the little red-head life that left too soon.
i get it. ian gets it.
because the holidays don't always look like we want them to. or like we think they should.
because some of us are in a house alone thanksgiving morning. some of us don't have a home. some of us have closed wombs and kids with wandering souls and gaping heart wounds and some of us, some millions of us, weren't even given the chance to breathe this year.
some of our holidays don't fit into pinterest-shaped boxes.
some of us, when we get back to work, will be asked how our holiday was and we'll fake a smile and say "great." but it didn't really feel great.
sometimes, holidays hurt. because the pressure of expectations builds and the reality of our lives doesn't change on a thursday in november or on december 25.
yet, there's that blood. that blood that was wrought to fill us every day. the mercy blood that doesn't skip holidays but is there, available, when we dig in and let it cover us.
For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us. As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame;he remembers that we are dust.
that blood is there, and when we allow ourselves to enter in to it and know that all of this, before and behind, is grace, we can put one foot in front of the other.
we can fight to have hope. and fight to give thanks. and fight to love. because Jesus did it for us.