I hate December (this one especially - it has been tough, and not necessarily just for the reason that's most obvious), but I love Christmas (especially the smells and the decorations and what it means for my eternity).
We've been reading through the Jesus Storybook Bible with Blake at night, and I love it. I love the dialog, I love the way the story of redemption is called "God's Secret Rescue Plan," and how His love is the "wonderful, Never Stopping, Never Giving Up, Unbreaking, Always and Forever Love." I read these well known stories, made fresh and alive, to my son, and I weep for the joy of it... and for the pain. And Blake probably wonders why I am still crying, because I got the husband and daddy we were praying for, so really - what is the problem NOW, WOMAN?!
Today was a cathartic day, as I was able to attend the funeral for a woman who I've known since birth, or at least since I was cognizant of knowing someone. She died far too young (52), and the service was tenderly beautiful, honoring both her and the Lord. And I wept and wept and wept - but not for Marcia. I envy her. I wept for the sorrow being shouldered by her husband, daughter, grandkids, and friends. I wept for myself, missing Blake and being reminded of how lovely and terrible funerals are because death has been defeated but is still our enemy. I wept for the hope I have in Christ and for the longing I have for His tangible presence that is as yet unfulfilled. I wept when friends affirmed that I know grief too, that Blake's and my love was tangible and impacted others, and that time will continue to ease the ache (from another who knows crippling grief).
I did more crying today than I have in a long time, and it was good and it was hard and I really hate December.