My children are eleven and eight now, but memories of their “threenager” years trigger my post-traumatic stress. I clocked many hours in the hallway outside my child’s door, knees pulled to my chest, a glass of wine in my hand, and tears in my eyes. I was convinced I was failing as a mother. I wish I could go back in time and wrap my arms around my younger, inexperienced self. With the utmost kindness, I would say, “Be gentle with yourself. You’re doing the best you can.”

Seventeen years ago when I asked Kristin to be my bridesmaid she responded, “I’ll be there with bells on. No seriously, I’m wearing bells.” It was such a Kristin thing to say. Her wit was unmatched, her light and her beauty were incomparable. I am blessed to remember her words so clearly, to bottle her brightness on a page and share it with the world. “Words are our tools of resurrection.” They breathe life into our loss.

Sure, we can start out faithful, but we won’t stick with it. We get distracted, we give in to temptation, we lose motivation, and we succumb to laziness. When the ground beneath our feet starts to shift, we lose our balance. We forget to be faithful. So how do people like my Opa manage to live a life of faithful submission to the Lord and others? Because faithfulness comes easier when we rely on a faithful God.

Often the best gifts are disguised as disappointments, like the perfectly plump stuffed bear my brother gave me in a crumpled old grocery bag when I was young. I slept with that bear every night for the next eight years. It’s those gifts that remind us that wrapping isn’t everything. God’s gifts to us don’t always look good and perfect, but His purpose for them always is.

Think of how easy it is to scatter confetti, a substance that seems to multiply all on its own. It requires zero effort, but the result is a colorful, celebratory, mess of happiness! Imagine filling your pockets with confetti at the beginning of each day. Every little piece represents a smile, a warm gesture, or an act of generosity. Now, make it your mission to scatter that confetti, emptying your pockets by the day’s end.

Patience and prayer. These are the antidotes for my worrisome heart. It’s possible to find joy in hope by choosing to fixate on all the positive potential my son has, rather than all the negative. Instead of imagining him rubbing elbows with a cellmate, what if I imagined him surrounded by a community of faithful, God-loving friends? I can turn my worries about the worst outcome into prayers for the best outcome.

A number of the disciples were fishermen by profession. I bet they knew what to do when a storm came up. But at some point, the waves became too much for them and they started to panic. They forgot, however briefly, that they weren’t alone. Had they only remembered the Son of God was in their midst, they would have found peace in the chaos.

Then, a miraculous thing happened. My tears that God so faithfully and lovingly collected were used to water my dry and desolate soul […] With wisdom and generosity I will never comprehend, God waited to provide joy when He knew I needed it most. Only when my cup of tears was overflowing would there be enough tears to sow songs of joy.

I have aged. I have grown complacent. The shine of my new faith has long since worn off. How miraculous it is that God’s love for me has only grown stronger. He adores me just as much today as He did the first day I welcomed Him into my heart. There is nothing worn, dusty, or subdued about His love for me. His passion for me is still aflame; no rekindling is needed. I only need to read His love letters to see that.

When we begin the arduous task of sifting through our stuff, choosing what to keep and what to part with, these are the things we should insist on hanging on to. We need to surround ourselves with reminders of who we are, the people who love us, and how far we’ve come. God speaks truth to us through the stories found in the good stuff.

Even when we don’t anticipate it, God does, and He provides everything we need to navigate our new territory. He does not lean back and wait for chaos to ensue, rather He leans in, encouraging us to take a look around and find the gifts in the unforeseen.

When I step outside today and feel the cold droplets on my scalp and squish oversaturated ground beneath my feet, perhaps instead of pouting and searching the skies for the sun, I should instead search my heart.

I’ve spent most of my holiday break thus far making piles of Amazon boxes for my husband to break down (because this is his favorite way to love and serve our marriage). I am also tackling all the house projects nobody cares about but me. Come January I will complain about how quickly the time went and how little “me time” I had. After refusing to sit still for two weeks I will claim I have no margin for self-care. THIS IS HOW I THRIVE.

There is something about the holiday season that magnifies our loss and suffering. Loneliness becomes a living, breathing force to be reckoned with. The number of suicides increases at an alarming rate. Oh how this must grieve the heart of God. This season is intended to celebrate His love for the world, a love expressed through the gift of His son, Jesus, who came to give us life to the fullest (John 10:10). If your light has gone dim, let Jesus’ light break through the darkness on your behalf.

It’s a far cry from the mature, thoughtful lyrics of Natalie Cole’s My Grown Up Christmas List, but let’s be real: I can’t stop a war or heal broken hearts. I CAN throw on some Crest whitening strips and bronzer lotion.

“Prov, we’re decorating the tree. Would you like to join us or would you rather read your book?”

“I’d rather read.” She said this as if it was completely in character for her to bypass a family tradition. I bit my tongue. This was new. I didn’t like it one bit. I thought for sure she’d put down her book once we got started and pulled out some of her favorite ornaments. She didn’t. And a little piece of me died inside.

Our loved one is no longer living, but we are. There is grief in the loss and gratitude in the survival. Difficult as it was, we came out on the other side. We still have a story to share, a life yet to live.

The expression “over the hill,” felt like a real thing, like I’d actually spent the last forty years trudging up a steep hill, but instead of celebrating when I reached the top, I collapsed, sobbed out of pure exhaustion, ripped off my high heels (because someone who never hikes wouldn’t have the proper footwear) and threw them over the edge in dramatic fashion, vowing never to climb a hill again.

We walked through our new home in California two weeks ago for the first time. Guess what color the walls were? Grey. Grey as an overcast Seattle sky. I groaned. But then something unexpected happened; my husband looked at me and said, “Paint the walls.” I’ve waited eight years to hear those words.

When my children were infants and struggling to fall asleep, I’d sing “He’s Got the Whole Word in His Hands,” as I paced with them around their nursery at night. Sometimes I’d laugh to myself at the image of God holding SO many things in His hands at once (grandparents, barnyard animals, oceans, and mountains just to name a few). How could He possibly juggle it all? I can barely juggle my purse, phone, and coffee cup as I walk to my car each morning.