If I saw one article or blog post about how to have a stress-free, joy-filled, slowed-down, quiet-hearted holiday season this year, I saw at least two dozen.
In addition to providing useful tips and encouragement, these kinds of pieces are helpful because they give us hope that such results actually are possible, even as the glittering, decorating, purchasing and consuming accelerates around us.
My family didn’t have a television when I was growing up. This was in the 1970s and 80s, long before the Internet transformed life as we know it. Sans TV, we kept up with what was going on in the world mostly by reading the newspaper.
I loved our local paper, and never more so than at Christmastime. Every year, the Kansas City Star reprinted an essay by the late humorist Bill Vaughn titled “Tell Me a Story of Christmas” that choked me up just a bit, every time I read it.
If Oscars were handed out to participants in the Christmas narrative, I think Elizabeth deserves the nod for best actress in a supporting role.
The first chapter of Luke tells us that she and her husband, the priest Zechariah, were “righteous in God’s sight.” Sadly, though, “they had no children because Elizabeth could not conceive, and both of them were well along in years.”
This devout Jewish couple had struggled with infertility but had long since given up waiting for a baby, simply because it was biologically impossible.
They were too old.
Before I started this blog last year, I had a conversation with my college roommate—a dear friend who has been reading my writing for more years than I care to count. Knowing my love of the Associated Press Stylebook, she wondered if I would abandon journalistic conventions and adopt bloggy techniques like putting periods after one word for emphasis.
I had no intention of ever doing that, nor have I actually done it. Until now.
This week, my little Molly turns 11. And the only way I can sum up how this makes me feel is this: Simply. Not. Possible.
Some months I’m so sure about the song I’m going to share with you. Other months I waffle back and forth until something suddenly crystallizes in my head and then I know—this is the one.
The latter happened this time.
It’s December, but this isn’t a Christmas song. It’s not one that everyone around here loves, but I do. I’m somewhat lacking in rhythm, but this tune absolutely makes me dance around the kitchen island when I’m making supper.
With a build up like that, you can hardly wait to hear it, right? So here you go: Big Daddy Weave’s “Praise You.”
Holidays in the wilderness are tough, no matter the struggle. But the desert of infertility presents particular challenges because so many of the festive celebrations and cozy traditions revolve around children. I’m not there now, but I remember all too well how the ache deepens at this time of year. If you know of someone who is walking this lonely road, this post is for you.
You may never have thought of this before, but people who deal with infertility often feel like misfits in a society that is so oriented around children. This is especially true in the church, where motherhood is considered to be one of life’s most noble callings.
Take it from someone who knows: Your infertile friend doesn’t want you to feel sorry for her, but she does want you to care.