Grief is: making a decision to choose joy. (Some days your body chooses for you, and it’s rarely joy- like panic attacks. 💩 happens 🤷♀️) But some days you get to choose whether to stay in bed or whether to fight the powerful compulsion of pain.
The compulsion to isolate. To hide. To anesthetize. To rage against another. To ignore. To pretend your whole life hasn’t fallen apart. The pain of grief is compelling. It’s such an utter agony, words often fail. But the analogy that comes the closest is the sound that denim makes when you rip it apart in your hands. The sound of your soul being wrenched into shreds.
So Christmas. -sigh-
I was already known as a Grinch in residence. Everyone comes with a back story, and I am no exception. For me, Christmas is dysfunction, loss, heartache. Every pop style Justin-Bieberesque version of Little Drummer Boy is a nagging notification of what “isn’t” in my life. I dread Christmas and always feel a rebound in January that I survived another round of sugar cookies and egg nog.
And then Micah died. The man who cheered the twins on to jump on me every year at 6am on December 25th. The man who never understood my Grinch-ness because “it was Christmas, and Christmas is good!” He’s gone. My handsome, strong, cheerful Elf is gone. And it’s up to me now to help my babies become elves and not grinches.
So today, I chose joy. When I really want to escape to Tahiti until January 2nd, I stood my ground. We were invited to be in the #FestivalOfLightsParade. (Which is such an honor ❤) And even though I was feeling Tahiti, I chose to buy coordinated mittens and we got haircuts and I went for a run (free sanity rx) and I chose joy. Because Christmas isn’t actually about me or my pain, even though I could swear that it is.
Christmas is about Jesus, God with us, the hope of the world. HOPE has a NAME, you guys! Emmanuel. He chose to come and save us from ourselves. And so we celebrate. And so I chose joy. And I chose to be an example to my babies of hope. Because Hope is alive. And He lives in us.