out of whack

Hello, as we begin a new year together!

I have wanted to send out words for quite some time, and because it has been a little while, I will reflect on last year before I jump into the newest of years. 

I read this quote from Emily P. Freeman on the last day of December:

January is the new week between Christmas and the new year.

Her words resonated because I have always adored the week between Christmas and the new year. I read, relax, appease my deep love for college football by watching as many bowl games as I desire, and slide my hands over the silky pages of my new planner with whispered anticipation. But I was dealing with a cold that would not vacate my body, and I didn’t have the energy for my normal aims—more on this cold to come.
I gently let myself off the hook and allowed January to move slowly.

Allow me to rewind the calendar for a moment.

On New Year’s Eve, I took a clipboard containing Laura Tremaine’s 10 Questions for the End of the Year to my living room chair to scribble my responses. I read the first question and asked my three other household members who were present in the room for their answers.

What are the standout moments of 2023?

Carl was the first to answer, saying, “Well, you dealing with and recovering from Guillain-Barré syndrome.” 

I was unprepared for this response because my thoughts of the word “standout” were akin to “outstanding.” I was expecting a small list of fun outings, meals, etc.
I shared my assumption and named a few items I had anticipated hearing.

Caleb ended my list by saying, “You must admit, this year was whack.”
Carlen simply nodded.

This short exchange allowed me to see what effect my medical crisis had on my family. Of course, I wasn’t oblivious, but their words and faces deepened my awareness of some of the battles of 2023. 

I haven’t felt like myself for nearly a year; my body sometimes feels foreign, and I walk differently. The speed and way I normally conducted life has significantly waned. If I don’t feel like myself or live in my accustomed manner, it is only normal for those closest to me to feel the shift in tandem.

I will press the rewind button one last time.

When I posted in mid-November, I mentioned the tenderness of the month for our family. This year, what would have been my father’s 80th birthday landed on Thanksgiving. My mom had traveled north to spend the holiday with my brother and his family. Our six added two of Carl’s sisters (Tanya and Jodi) to our Thanksgiving table. We had a delicious meal, and at the last minute, I decided to place conversation starter questions behind each person’s name card. We had a delightful time taking turns and answering each question around the table. There was so much laughter and playful debates.

On December 1st, Carl received a call that Tanya had unexpectedly passed away.
December 2nd was Carl’s birthday.
On December 3rd, we attended a glorious wedding. 

Over the last several years, I have remarked, as well as many of you, I am sure, how often we hold joy and sorrow together. We don’t want to think about it too often, but joy and sorrow are what comprise our lives. Perhaps it feels more frequent and evident as we age or scan the landscape of the world at large.

I sent a card to a dear friend who had found herself in the midst of a medical crisis in October. I don’t always remember the words sent in cards, but I do recall writing these words to this effect: 

“Healing is about holding the goodness of God and His with-ness in one hand. The other hand holds all the pain, sadness, concerns, and unknowns. I guess this is an example of praying hands, to press each hand together as you heal.”

Tanya’s passing still feels unbelievable. I am so grateful we had spent time with her recently, but as we all know, in loss, it never feels like an adequate amount of time.

We all limped around a bit during December, and I started to deal with a cold during the first part of December. A little more than a week before Christmas, one of our household members tested positive for the virus. During a time when we needed to be close and gathering, we were masked and separated. The rest of us remained negative, but I still had this head and chest cold I couldn’t kick. We made the painful decision not to gather with our other family members for Christmas Eve or Day.
Carl and Caleb were troopers and played Door Dash by delivering Christmas Eve and morning food and gifts. We opened gifts on Christmas morning via Zoom. Then, later in the day, they delivered Christmas dinner.

I will admit to feeling shards of despair during December; some remained lodged down deeply as we turned the calendar year. It had been a challenging year full of painful events, and when laid next to expectations of normally tried and true traditions that refused to materialize, it felt defeating. 

Life has been out of whack.

Last week, Carl strongly encouraged me to contact my doctor regarding my lingering cold.
I listened and made an appointment, not with my doctor but in the same office suite. I sat in the waiting room and was flooded with a flashback from last March. 

Carl was wheeling me into the waiting room. When my name was called, I felt certain I could stand and walk the short distance to the exam room. 

I was wrong. 

Epic fail.

It’s all about perspective. 

Last Thursday, I was fed up with a pesky cold, but now I can walk.

One hand held an irritating cold, and the other held a body with regained movement.

The nurse practitioner I met with is my doctor's officemate. He said they talked about me as he reviewed my chart. My doctor was anxious to know how I was doing despite the cold. 

I have had the best care. I am so grateful. 

I had a slight fever that afternoon, so I had a chest x-ray as a precaution, but I am all clear and just need to continue strengthening my patience. 

Always.

I have wrestled with typing up this account of some of the contents of 2023. A part of me feels whiny because everyone has hard parts in their lives; for that reason alone, it might be important enough to write these words as a reminder that none of us are alone in our sorrowful places.

My understanding of how often joy and sorrow intersect like interlacing fingers has grown and deepened this past year. 

I have also realized that during the past year, many of my deeply held rhythms have been interrupted. 

I love the church calendar, and last year, I missed the Ash Wednesday service (due to a surprise snowfall in Portland).

I was released from the hospital on Good Friday and was not in any shape to attend the Easter Sunday service. I begged Carl to go, but that dear heart would not leave my side. Caleb drove by himself to the Easter service. 

As detailed above, we could not attend the Christmas Eve candlelight service. 

These observances are markers and anchors in my life, and I missed each one immensely. 

Life was and has been out of whack.

When something is stripped from your life, it is important to find other anchors. My biggest anchor of 2023, and will hopefully always remain,  was nightly reciting Psalm 23. This psalm is only six verses in length, but nightly, a different word or verse would seep into my soul.

This psalm is steeped in contrasts and speaks of joy and sorrow.

The Shepherd prepares a table before me in the presence of my enemies.

Even though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I can fear no evil.

The Lord is my Shepherd, and I have everything I need. 

I have everything I need, even in sorrow or pain or suffering.
I lack no good thing.

He leads me by still waters. 

He makes me lie down.
He restores and refreshes my soul whenever it has been plagued by anything foreign to peace. 

Whatever my circumstances or condition, God is with me. 

You might be entering this new year with a few visible or invisible bruises from the past year or season.

May you find rest for your soul.

Please allow yourself reflection before speeding into the next 365 days of 2024.

Be gentle and kind with yourself.

Before I press publish, I would be remiss not to emphasize how held our family has been this past year. However, it has been important to pay attention continually.

I glanced out our dining room window on Carl's birthday and saw two mourning doves. I called him upstairs to witness the sighting; we simply watched, sighed, and felt tiny bits of comfort.

Comfort is to be found; sometimes, we only have to allow our eyes to roam.