It’s definitely time. I need to venture into the barn attic and bring down the makings for our family thankful tree.
Sorry! You’ve reached this post on an old out-of-date page. To read this post, please hop over to my newly designed page right here.
Making a Thankful Tree with my family is always one of the highlights of our year. It’s that awesome. So click here to read all about it.
Seriously! See you there.
She and I were longing for hope. This week, we found it everywhere. And we’ve grown.
I sometimes felt God’s face was far from us the recent, difficult months. But I learned that He wanted us to grow by seeing his hope in other’s faces, in prayers and gifts of friends, and even where I was least expecting it…
Dismal disappointments. Problems we can’t fix. Hours of puffy-eyed tears of a parent who can’t take away her child’s pain. Some days are filled with such things. I’ve had a week full of those days. I’m exhausted. I’m prayed out. Prayers that were detailed and descriptive and full of scripture on Monday degenerated to weak silent moans on Friday. But through it all, there was beauty in the sorrow.
Today after pulling into the drive after long hours in the car, after medical tests and doctors visits, and after more questions with only glimmers of peace in the answers, I walked down to the garden.
When did we start thinking things needed to be quick and easy? Nothing’s quick or easy if we’re going to really learn something.
It’s been a tough week. One of my toughest in 46 years.
We released the ceramic animals from their blocks of styrofoam and arranged them under a rustic wooden stable. She had helped me with this coveted chore–unboxing the nativity scene–every December that she remembers. She was aiding me over a decade ago, when her sweet, pudgy fingers gave me no assurance that a sheep wouldn’t be dropped or a shepherd’s staff broken. Small, unsteady hands handling them through the years resulted in today’s precariously super-glued donkey legs and chipped Wise Men urns.
This nativity scene has been a cherished part of every one of her childhood Christmases (even those she can’t remember); she’s adored the characters, handled the animals, and cried over pieces when her eagerness led to their brokenness. So her words would have caught me off guard, except, I had already been thinking the same thing.
“Ya know, it’s all kinda… weird. I mean it’s not right.”