two sides of the same coin

Christmas has always always always been my most favorite holiday. I couldn't care less about the gifts I receive, but I love the grandeur and the celebration of it all. I love celebrating the gift of God's son. I love the traditions that my family started when I was a kid. I remember Christmas Eve nights looking at lights in our pjs while Mariah's Merry Christmas album played in the truck. I remember singing the background vocals on "Jesus, Oh What a Wonderful Child" with particular fervor. I remember watching A Christmas Story with Dad every year before everyone else woke up. I remember reading Luke 2 as a family before we opened gifts and the smell of Dad's homemade biscuits wafting through the den.

I now have a son who rocks those same background vocals, is enamored with Christmas lights in pjs, and thinks biscuits are a boy's best friend. Christmas really puts an exclamation point on his joy, which is saying a lot if you've ever seen him (except for that Christmas program this week...whew that was a hoot and a half and a story for an entirely different blog). The magic of the season and the celebration just tend to heighten our joy and sense of fulfillment.

But Christmas also has a way of putting an exclamation point on our grief. We're coming on our third Christmas without my father-in-law, yet it still is just as raw as the first some days. I think about what he would have wanted for Christmas, but I think the real answer is time and family. I think about how he would have reacted to our "depriving" of that boy, as he often said when we didn't spoil him right away. I can still hear his booming bass voice in my ear during the candlelight service at our church - an event he made sure never to miss once we moved up here.

He isn't the only one we are missing this year. This year, our BSD will be spending his first Christmas with another family. He will experience their traditions, their love, their celebration - even if only for this first Christmas. We will never know Christmas with him, and how my heart aches for that. My grief is someone else's joy. On the flip side of that, I also think of our precious HWD's birth family, who asked for an update at Christmas this week. They miss him as well and long to share traditions that are unique to them with him. My joy is their grief and sorrow. It's so interesting to me how the same situation causes two completely different emotions, depending on the side of the coin you're viewing.

I was sharing with a friend this week that it is 100% OK not to be jolly this time of year. No one can force a particular emotion on you, and it is normal to not feel as jolly as you normally would. Loss is hard. To be frank, it sucks. There are now 2 empty seats at our Christmas celebrations, and it will never be easy to think of what the day would look like with two little boys running around our tree and creating all kinds of mayhem.

But I will be present for the son who is running around our tree creating plenty of mayhem on his own. I will see his joy, a reflection of the joy of the Lord, and I will thank the Lord that his promises are fulfilled, and that His perfect plan is enough for me. "The joy of the Lord is my strength - Nehemiah 8:10." Merry Christmas everyone.

sadness

It's funny how grief, sorrow, and longing work. There are moments in which you can easily meander through your day without really facing your feelings. And then there are days in which you wake up in a fog and can't seem to wrap your brain around what you've faced. You get absorbed in a beautiful - and sometimes sad - book containing essays about love. You forget the important paperwork you needed to take to the doctor for your adoption physical since your home study is about to expire and has to be renewed. You wonder if you are truly losing your mind or if the medication needs to be changed - again.

And you get really angry with God that you have to fast to have your blood drawn, because "if we had a baby by now, we wouldn't have to do this." And then you acquiesce and submit, knowing that He still has a plan - even if you don't know how it will play out. You see all the family pictures at Nanny's house and smile about a live well-lived and a legacy that reaches into 3 generations and 6 great-grandchildren. And you feel an immense hole in your heart as you miss the portrait of number 7 that should be hanging on the wall. And for the first time in a long time, you are able to voice your feelings to your wife - a small miracle in itself.

It turns out that just voicing how you feel actually relieves some of your sadness. It doesn't take it away, because BSD will always be a part of your family. His monogrammed bib, hat, and onesie still sit atop the highest shelf in your closet, and you don't have any plans to get rid of them. And while some days might be more difficult than others in terms of facing your sorrow, you know that just by facing the day, you are brave.