Upcoming Christmas time is always bittersweet for me. I think maybe when you live in the reality of complex medical mothering, you feel an added pressure to make every holiday extra special. I feel myself rebelling against this, mostly; To be honest, even before Sunley, I wasn’t a huge fan of the busyness that holidays bring. I don’t like being told what to do, even when it comes from my own self, I suppose. Don’t even get me started on Christmas music. Blech. Despite my grinchy attitude, we’ve had a pretty fun time doing our own little family traditions: drying lemons, putting up the tree, and decorating cookies (while listening to Christmas music!). Kids tend to make routine things a little magical all on their own.

I’m sure that adding to my festivity-resistance, there’s some subconscious memories that my body holds of our 2017 Christmas — the one that we spent in the waiting. We received Sunley’s first misdiagnosis just days before that Christmas, and spent the next two months on a roller coaster until we finally received her correct diagnosis — the one that changed everything. Praise God, it changed everything.

I know that when it all changed, I didn’t really grieve the things we gave up, and I learned much later that just because you bury something doesn’t mean you’ve given way to the process of grief. But what God did in my spirit by setting my motherhood on a medical path is too wonderful to deny, and so how can I grieve what it has cost me?

Where there should be a pit, He has made a well of living water. In every crevice of the cracked foundation I tried to lay on my own, He has planted vines of Eden. I live in a thin place and heaven is alongside me. Around my arm is a tether tied firmly to the One who saves me. Its fabric is made of music, of living words that beat in my chest, of prayers and works of the church. I pull, and He lifts me. It is frayed and tattered from all of its days spent underwater, and its colors are faded from days spent in scorching heat. My tether is wrapped around my arm tightly at all times, and my hand is bruised from holding on while being jerked in the opposite direction. No matter what darkness I have walked into, I have never let go because I know it connects me to the pure goodness that is my Savior. Just try to separate me, and you will fail. There may be a veil, but it is thinner each day. May my right arm always hold the tether, and my left always find the work of the Lord. And if sickness and surrender is what keeps me in this state, so be it sickness.

I have had two dear friends this week let me know that they are awaiting medical results — the kind that change things. And just before Christmas. I know this well. I know of the waiting, and I know of the desire to ignore or to run away, or to find distractions. I know well of the absolute agony of waiting for appointments, waiting for phone calls, all while trying to enjoy the holidays as if nothing is different. I know that the waiting feels different for different people. For me, it was agony.

I know how sinister sickness can be. I had no idea, in my before, of how ugly and chilling death can be, even when it is expected. And so you can understand my astonishment when I found those same places to be holding secret treasure troves of joy. It almost feels like cheating to find such happiness within a world that is broken. It is true that darkness really only makes the light more obvious.

I also know what an incredible opportunity the waiting is for surrender. And the more I daily give up, the more I am filled with things that cannot be taken. It is easier to hold a tether with empty hands.