A Pause

G and I have sat here reading about Christmas, about Ann Voscamp at A Holy Place and why her family no longer does gifts, about being more like Jesus.  And we watched a youtube video by a preacher on adoption and our depraved indifference.  Then I went, showered and put expensive face cream on my now exfoliated face and the sadness of it all hit me.  Face cream.  Finding joy in a stupid face cream.

Christmas seems empty this year.  We're staying at our home, so no niece to try and make magic for.  We aren't doing big gifts, just little ones, and while I am excited to see G's face with the ones I picked out, I'm hoping the day passes quickly, that my brother arrives and that we can move onto the 26th, G's birthday.  And I know that it's supposed to be about Christ, but without kids around Christmas feels as hollow as that tomb He rose out of.  We had expectations of no longer being a family of 2 this year, and the pets are great and I'm trying not to be bitter.  So many friends are pregnant this year and I do that thing where I say how happy I am for them, and I really truly am, but then I look around our empty home and I'm sad for myself.  I have been crying so much lately, even from things that should not make any person cry.  I read The Boy Who Changed The World to G and I can't make it through the whole book because my eyes keep welling up.  I can't seem to hold it all together.

Then the question hits me:  "Why am I trying to?"  It's okay to be sad, to admit it sucks.  It's okay to think as you fight about the messy home that you wish it were messy with toys and books and little empty bowls that used to hold cheerios.  And I'm recording this all here because I want to remember what desperate and lost feels like.  Once I've got that child, as I'm about to yell up the stairs for someone to come clean up this mess or else I want to pause and remember this and find joy in the mess.  To remember and ask them to come down and play or just dance.  When I stress about Christmas plays and sprinkles scattered across the counter I want to remember this and say a prayer of thanks for the little hand who caused it.  I want to remember and bring out another recipe to teach them.

I'm trying so hard to be patient, to wait for next year, when G returns and we begin trying again to find the missing puzzle pieces to make this picture more filled out.  I didn't say whole because I've yet to even try and comprehend the final picture.  I do know we have an amazing magical closet filled with games and puzzles that is waiting too.  Planning for the future is what keeps me going, what gets me up out of bed on the days where the quiet house is too much.  It brings me hope.  I sat the other day trying to figure out how many stockings I needed to make, how much material I would need.  I want them to match (because that's me) and I want to make plenty.  I think we decided eight would do, and if we needed more we'd make them in a coordinating color.  It sometimes sounds silly and crazy to me, but I am trying to hang on to my sanity the best way I know how.

So I learn to make a gingerbread house.  I try and make it perfect because it's just us and I've yet to learn to allow myself to be less than (though I often feel so).  But I dream of the days a gumdrop coated graham cracker confection sits proudly in my dining room.  And I have faith that it's not so far away.