Reflections

Happy New Year. Since I mentioned Spotify wrapped a couple of days ago, I’ll share that I had to put one of my top songs into practice this first day of 2026. My 3rd most played song on Spotify in 2025 was “You Can Do This Hard Thing” by Carrie Newcomer. I won’t tell you how many times I listened to it. Just know that it was a lot.

Along with the song, I was presented with the opportunity to add to a collection of prayers I began writing and compiling some time ago, prayers for “re-entries” or times when you return to a familiar place as a changed person. Today, I was called to one of those difficult places.

God wrote one of those re-entry prayers on my heart today as I was called to the hospital this morning. Of course, I went, but it was a hard thing. The hospital is near my home. Distance was not the problem. Grief explosion: it’s the same place where my husband, mid heart attack, looked me in the eyes and asked me if he was dying. That, and fleeing to race a helicopter from there were the last memories I had of the place. I drive by it often, but that doesn’t require going into the building. Today, I had to go in. I did it. I did the hard thing. I showed up for a dear one and was grateful that I did. I cried when I got home. Tears are cleansing.

I am doing my best to keep showing up, grateful that God keeps showing up for me. If you are in a “do hard things” season, know that you are not alone. Remember that on a re-entry, you are just going back to a familiar place, but you are a changed person, who is equipped for this, whether you realize it or not. Peace.

According to the internet, the week between Christmas and New Year’s is called Twixmas (from betwixt), Dead Week, or other nicknames like Chrimbo Limbo, Feral Week, or the Twilight Week. All of these names point to that aimless feeling just before the calendar flip. Do you know that feeling? Are you feeling feral or doing the chrimbo limbo this week? This year it’s hitting different for me, maybe because it feels so similar to the lostness of grief. It feels familiar, but don’t assume that means I could tell you what day of the week it is.

I heard on a podcast today that grief expands one’s capacity to feel. Yep. That’s good news as it applies to all the feelings: good, bad, and ugly. I trust that when my joy makes its full comeback, I will be able to experience it deeply.

Well, here we are on the cusp of a new year. I made it. I’m doing this. Looking back, I’ll probably have no idea how. Heck, I don’t need a retrospective to say that. I can say it now. How am I even doing this? By the grace of God.

Of course, I want to start the new year strong, brave, and fearless. But I am weary of being all that: holding it all together when you’re falling apart. After considerable pondering, I am choosing my word of intention for 2026 to be gentleness. May I be gentle with myself and others. As my favorite poem, Desiderata, says: “Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.”

I’m glad we are here on this journey together. Let’s step gently into 2026.

Photo of the Lego centerpiece built by my grandsons and a cow rock for grandpa’s grave created by my granddaughter. It was so good to be with family today.

I spent today with my son. We listened to some holiday brass as we baked cookies. We watched a couple of Christmas movies. He helped with a couple of household things. I did his laundry and fed him, as moms do.

Hubs came to mind throughout the day because he would always eat the cookies warm, before we could even decorate them, washed down with a glass or two of eggnog. Then he’d sing a little song, “Christmas cookies and holiday hearts…” We agreed that we have no idea where that song came from. We’d never heard it before, which was strange because I’d never describe him as festive. In any case, we sang the line of the song in his memory with smiles and a grunt or two for him not being here. Doggone it. I don’t miss the eggnog coated glasses though. Gross.

The vibe around here is merry melancholy. Here’s my current letterboard message. It’s been a year. Have yourself a Christmas.

As Christmas draws nearer and nearer, the load feels heavier and heavier. It’s not exactly dragging weight like Jacob Marley’s chains. Think: shoveling heavy, wet snow. When your spade first hits the snow, you think, “This isn’t too bad.” It’s lightish, but quickly fills your little shovel to capacity, mysteriously multiplying in weight, requiring you to lift it with all your might, only to toss it into an ever growing discard pile. Just when you thought you’ve cleared the brunt of it, a plow drives by, hemming you in with impossibly dense road snow. December grief feels like that.

It’s just one month. Don’t get your lights all in a tangle, woman. Keep it together. You’ve got to keep showing up. A regular December is challenging enough. This one? Into levels previously unknown.

In between crying out to God for extra grace and courage, I’ve been asking myself repeatedly why this all feels so extra. Of course, I’m missing my person. Duh. That’s part of it. You see, the secondary losses hit like an avalanche this month.

My comfort and joy are playing hide and seek, finding an unbelievably good hiding spot. After all the advent extra services, meetings, visits, planning, and such, the comfort of home always soothed my weary spirit. Home was an oasis for my soul, the place where we spent the bulk of our time doing life together. Not this year. I’ve made every effort to hygge the heck out of my home: candles, cozy throws, holiday music, Hallmark movies, simple holiday decor, etc. It’s festive for sure, but so lonely when your heart is hurting and healing.

Leading up to last night’s Blue Christmas service, I was seriously doubting how I’m going to make it through Christmas services this year. The secondary loss avalanche is real. My creativity is creeping back at a snail’s pace. Cry out to God for grace and courage. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

With God’s help, I did it. I made it through the Blue Christmas service. At the end, I spontaneously asked folks to join hands as we sang Silent Night to close the service. For a few seconds, I closed my eyes and took in the sound of the voices around me. The Spirit held my heart as love poured in. The dawn of redeeming grace. Thanks be to God

If I had a nickel for every time I picked up a pen, my notes app, or sat down at a keyboard to throw some thoughts together this month, I’d have a dollar or two. But then, like many other good intentions, such as doing holiday baking, deep cleaning the house, or preparing a special meal for myself, it doesn’t happen. The usual demands of December are depleting my energy at an accelerated rate this year. Thanks, grinchy grief. My recovering perfectionist self says, “Do what you can. It will be enough. No one is expecting you to do all the things.” Okay. Now to believe that.

The other morning, a thick layer of hoarfrost coated the trees. As I drove about the countryside, the glistening grabbed my attention, which quickly returned to the icy roads which I needed to navigate. This is how I experience grief these days. Occasionally, some sliver of peace, wonder, or dare I say joy, will surprise me, offering a glimpse of grace, until the griefy road I am on makes itself known once more. My road alone to travel, with a few extra bumps along the way, especially in December.

For those striving to understand how grief works, including myself, believe me when I say it’s not all-consuming at this point. While the tears do not constantly flow, they are mostly held back just beyond my barrier wall of suckitupbuttercup. A song, a memory, a Christmas tree ornament, an empty house, the vast, vacant side of the bed on these freezing cold nights, “dead” letters (how I refer to Christmas cards and other mail addressed to him), the lack of presents for him under the tree, and dinner for one. All these things and more can rouse the grief monster.

Christmas isn’t the same, nor will it ever be. Same goes for me. Not the same person. To my fellow travelers navigating grief this holiday season, I share a line from the country song, “If We Make It Through December” which rings true, “If we make it through December, we’ll be fine.” We will make it through. Hope abounds. May you find pockets of peace this season and experience God’s love in unexpected and glorious ways.

Stressed, blessed, and all the rest. Two nights in a row of ice road driving. I made it home safely, albeit with white knuckles and frazzled nerves.

I got teary during worship again this week. Dennis came to St. Luke’s for Wednesday nights and trumpet days. I sat in our usual front row spot tonight. The empty seat next to me felt like an abyss.

Blessings included time and meals with dear ones, celebratory birthday cake for 6 birthdays within a month at council last night, unexpected gifts, hugs after church tears, and a lovely arrangement for my porch from some special folks. I’m sure I am missing some. Love you all.

I arrived home after the icy drive to a late birthday gift from Ryan with exactly the sentiment I needed.

I don’t recall exactly when I got this mug, but I do recall having a good laugh over it. This time of year can be extra peopley. As someone who appreciates her downtime to recharge, this mug is a pefect fit for sipping some hot cocoa or tea while decompressing with a Hallmark movie.

Yesterday evening, I spied the mug in the cabinet. As I took it out for a cuppa, I began to cry when I read its message. I almost made it through this “first” Thanksgiving weekend sans waterworks. Why the tears over a mug?

I’ve got silent nights in droves.

Grief experts encourage making plans: for the holidays, the anniversaries, the days you anticipate will be difficult, etc. Great advice. I’ve made plans. I have places to go and folks I can call. I do things with my people. Dare I say, sometimes I even have a little bit of levity and laughter. It even feels ‘normal’ to some degree.

But then I come home to my silent situation. No human to greet. No one asking about my day. No trumpet music. No laughter. No television blaring. No one asking me for something from the fridge. No one to listen to my latest rant. No one to watch a program with. The nights are extraordinarily silent.

Thankfully, I can embrace the solitude, but that doesn’t make it easy. My new reality is emerging as layers of grief are peeled back. I am becoming. Soli Deo Gloria.

Well, I ditched my planned “moment of thanks” tonight and spoke from my heart. Thankfully, the Holy Spirit showed up. I confessed that I’ve been dreading Thanksgiving, especially the whole “everyone share what you’re thankful for” when this year feels like the hardest ever.

Of course, we always have something to be thankful for because God just keeps on giving despite our wavering faith and levels of gratitude. As it turns out, we humans can be griefy and grateful at the same time. I am immensely grateful for all the ways God has shown up this year through my family and the other folks walking alongside me. God provided what I needed exactly when I needed it. God’s grace is truly sufficient.

If you’re struggling this year as I have been, you are not alone. You are loved. God’s got us and will make a way. Always.

Blessings, friends.

November 25. One month until Christmas. Grief tsunami warning issued.

C’mon, you’ve got this. Do you though? Really?

Yeah, you love Advent! Hope, waiting, expectation, and all that jazz.

Not feeling great about it. Feeling griefy at the moment.

Well, yeah. Of course you are, silly. You’ve made many plans. You’ve got tons of love and support. You need to keep showing up.

Okay, but what version do you want to show up? The one doing her best to get through these firsts? The one questioning why God created her, of all people, to be brave? The one who is not going to pretend to be okay when she’s not okay? That’s exactly who is gonna show up. That’s who you get. It might be messy. The sermons might be subpar. There may be tears at times. There may be a few laughs, too.

Joy will break through, because that’s what joy does. Joy and pain can coexist.

So that’s why Joy to the World is an Advent hymn. May God’s love break through all hearts astir this season and always.

I just finished Alan Wolfelt’s book “Understanding Your Grief: Ten Essential Touchstones for Finding Hope and Healing Your Heart,” and found this excerpt to be spot on:

“You can take all the people in your life and divide them into thirds when it comes to grief support…. One third of the people in your life will turn out to be truly empathetic helpers. They will have a desire to understand you and your unique thoughts and feelings about the death. They will demonstrate a willingness to be taught by you and a recognition that you are the expert of your experience, not them. They will be willing to be involved in your pain and suffering without feeling the need to take it away from you. They will believe in your capacity to heal….. Another third of the people in your life will turn out to be neutral in response to your grief. They will neither help nor hinder you in your journey. And the final third of people in your life will turn out to be harmful to you in your efforts to mourn and heal. While they are usually not setting out intentionally to harm you, they will judge you, they will try to take your grief away from you, and they will pull you off the path to healing.”

I’ve experienced all of these responses this year, maybe not in thirds, because I have many friends in caring professions who ooze empathy. How blessed am I?! When you are in the thick of it, your people will reveal themselves. You will know who you can rely on, and it may just surprise you. Remember, grief makes folks feel uncomfortable, so responses to your grief will vary. I’ll say this 1,000 times over: It’s not you! Be true to yourself and your grief journey. It’s your path to own and to walk. However long it takes. We can do this.

Thank you to everyone walking alongside me. Love and appreciate you all.