This morning we sit in the waiting room and pray while our boy has his second surgery this year. Nothing quite so serious this time and not nearly as scary but I sit and finger the scarf Monica made for me and try not to worry while we wait. Christmas keeps coming to me in fits and spurts this year and this ebb and flow is teaching me what peace like a river really must mean.
When you wear it, consider it a hug from me…
This is what Monica says in the letter she sent along with this beautiful scarf, and since I know I will need a hug while waiting…I take Monica’s along with me.
On the way to the hospital in the dim of pre-dawn, the earth rose up to meet the sky and they mingled in the dimpled places and above the hills and we drove through the milk of it. Everyone keeps saying we won’t have a white Christmas this year but there we were driving through a muted world—all awash with white.
When one’s brow is thick with worry it’s hard to see how light makes shine on the clinging droplets and the whole world is dusted in glitter.
My heart wants to pause and linger by the tree; listen to soft music and get lost in the twinkle of lights. But there are other things this year. These things feel tender…fragile—if not handled carefully, something that matters tremendously might be broken.
So we move softly through the days and cherish the flow—wait expectantly for its swift running during the ebb. And as I gently tuck a lock of his thick red hair behind his ear—watch a heavy pain-soaked tear rivulet down his cheek—
I give thanks that these hard things bring glimpses of Jesus too.