Seeking some Christmas joy


December has busted into our lives on full volume!  In the first two weeks of the month, I have found myself occupied with too much waiting room knitting, drinking more coffee than normal, and texting like crazy (but what a great thing to be able to text the same news to multiple people).  In the midst of all of this, two things happened that reminded me to lift my eyes and seek that Christmas joy.

First, I came home to find that my husband had put up and decorated the tree and put lights on the house.  I think he knew I was just about ready to cancel Christmas.

Then I read Kym’s post about an amarylis.  For years, my mom would bring an amarylis plant to me on Thanksgiving.  I would pot it up and keep it on the shelf at the top of the stairs.  I loved watching it grow from a brown to green to red.  It became a Christmas tradition.  When Alzheimer’s began to take away mom’s memory, the boxed amarylis stopped showing up.  I think I bought one or two for myself but then I put that holiday tradition away.  When I saw Kym’s post (and then many others on Instagram) I knew that this year, I needed to have another amarylis at the top of the stairs.  I picked one up at the store that evening.  The brown is giving way to some pale green, leaving a little dose of hope that there will be Christmas joy this season.  Just need to find a way to get a few more minutes of tiny person play in my days.

Thanks to Carole and Kat for their weekly inspirations.

prayer

hallway

“You have a choice in this world, I believe, about how to tell sad stories, and we made the funny choice.”
John Green, The Fault In Our Stars

I used to pray for a change in her.  A healing that would give back what was slowly fading away.

Now I pray for my own heart to be changed.
To see her and not the changes.
To hold lightly to expectations.
To laugh easily and let tears fall if they must.
To have the courage to write down the stories.

Choose to chase your own stories.  Find a list of prompts here.

Know joy

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We used to talk and talk and talk.
There was so much laughter.
Over a cup of coffee words would tumble out and time would pass too quickly.
She was my biggest supporter.
The words are fewer now.
Long moments of silence.
Questions asked again and again as she tries to hold on, to make sense.
I must learn to know joy in this new space.
As I leave I hear her say, “She really knows what she is doing.”
And I take joy in this love she can’t quite recall.

Rejoining- writing with prompts