I must confess, I still believe
a new year communion, of sorts
It is January 10th and I’m not sure how to account for the past three weeks. They feel blurry at best, although “blurry” implies velocity, of which I recall very little. As the cliche goes, the moment you pause for a break, your body waves the white flag in surrender. I’ve spent most of the past three weeks sick. I was long overdue.
My grievance with this bug, aside from its overall “no thanks” vibe, is its bland ambiguity. If I’m going to be knee-capped by a virus, I’d prefer the drama of a fever. I want to sleep for 72 hours straight. NO VOMITING. But I do want my kids to fuss over me and I want Cory to coax me into some scrambled eggs and cold apple juice. I want to emerge in 2-3 days, triumphant, with hard pants and blow-dried hair, ready to get back after it. I want a story arc, not 3 weeks of malaise and sinus crud with random “I’m fine!” days sprinkled in just to muddy the waters.
Christmas itself was peaceful and weird. This was our second year of being churchless through Advent, a practice I do not recommend. The thought of finding a whole new church feels impossibly fraught. Where do you turn when you’ve seen too much? What matters most? As someone prone to being critical, especially within institutions, I cringe at the thought of critiquing the spaces held dear by oeople I care for. I worry I’m still too jaded.
Maybe it was the no-church thing (again,) or maybe it was waking up on December 24th with the scratchy throat and tired bones that would end up costing me three weeks of vitality, I don’t know. Every rhythm was off. Traditions and best intentions were laid to waste. I didn’t take a single picture of the kids on Christmas eve. I only made one batch of party bark, which might be the greatest warning sign of them all. I never got out the puzzle.
No one piled into the kitchen for our typical low-key Christmas day celebration. I was too tired, too blah. We ate the free lunch served on First Presbyterian china, along with a dozen of our co-workers, friends from work release, and Cory’s parents. 2/3 of our kids entered into this agreement in full revolt. “I’d rather be the one serving the meal than the one eating the meal,” one of them groused. Trust me, no one wants to look needy on Christmas. But the prophet Jeremiah reminds us that there’s just no way to step out of formation. We’re all connected. I was needy, which meant my kids were, too. This was our year for receiving.
Two days later, I rallied for the 50th birthday part of one of my dearest friends, Holly, for whom we should have offered fifty toasts to the best fortune of her friendship. To Holly! To her giant heart and her laugh that is far more intoxicating than all the champagne bubbles in the world! (clink)
To my knowledge, there were no toasts. Why?
We were too busy singing karaoke.
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