There's Something About The Holidays.

There's something about the holidays that make me want to run and hide.

It didn't used to be that way. But then I lost something and I've never really ever been the same.

I used to be excited about the shopping. But now I'm old and my feet hurt.

I used to have so many funny things that happened; things I couldn't wait to write about, journal about. Now I find myself saying, "What blog? I don't have a blog."

I used to look forward to that big JC Penney catalogue that came in the mail. Now it's lost in a sea of bills, invites and past due notices.

Somewhere along the way I lost all the feeling that Christmas is supposed to provide. The warm fuzzies. The twinkle toes. The shimmering lights and all that.

Somewhere along the way I grew older, more concerned. More jaded and pessimistic. Somewhere, and at some time, I grew scared of what was supposed to make me joyful. And cold towards what should have made me warm.

And now here I am. Oh, don't get my wrong, I'm not the Grinch or anything. I love seeing my kids look at Santa. And there's nary a carol in the world that doesn't make me cry. But there's still this piece of me, in me, that's missing. A piece that, try as I might, I shall never get back. Not ever.

Loss.

Loss sucks.

Pardon my language (I figure my mom quit reading this post at that exact moment), but truth be told it sucks. It stinks - and big time. It hurts like heck and it never leaves. Oh, it might let up now and then, and from time to time it eases to the point of only a little twinge. But it never leaves, not really. It hangs around, like a splinter that got under the skin and decided to live there. Forever.

My husband has this blue place under the skin, on his knee. I will never forget the first time I noticed it. "What is this? And why is it blue?" I remembered asking. He told me that in the fourth grade the mean little boy that sat beside him jammed his pencil into the AG's leg. (Under further investigation it was finally revealed that the AG was not entirely innocent; as if there were ever any question.) He is nearing 40 now and that pencil lead is still in his leg. Just under the skin. You can tell its there because of two things: 1. it's blue and 2. no hair grows on his leg just over the place where the lead is. A forever reminder that at some point you should quit telling the bully beside you he needs a hearing aid because he might just jam his pencil......

Well, you get the point.

And that's kind of how I feel right about now. Blue and hairless. No, I'm kidding. Well, I don't know, "blue" is a good word to use. But I feel like I have something just below the skin, obvious to all if you look for it. And yet not outwardly apparent if you don't. But there. Under the skin. Blue.

Sometimes when I want to feel better I draw myself a big tub of water. I go buy a People magazine (even though I'm not supposed to spend money on trivial things this time of year) and I read it from cover to cover. I dry off and I hurt less, for almost two, three hours.

Other times I close my blinds, turn off my lights, turn off my phone and watch a good movie.

Other times I pull my children in close. Smell their hair. And pray to God my thanks, over and over and over again.

But around the holidays - when it hurts the most - I find myself wishing I could do something else. I wish that I could walk - alone, with no around me, watching, listening - into the stable. I wish the picture of that nativity scene, for one moment, was frozen in time. I wish that I could bend down under a starry sky. Kneel on a blanket of itchy, smelly hay. And just stare into the eyes of a child.

I suppose it would be a nice reminder that "since the children are made of flesh and blood, it's logical that the Savior took on flesh and blood in order to rescue them by his death." (Hebrews 2:14)

I wish that I could smell the myrrh, touch the gold. Hear the baaahing.

I wish that in that moment everything and everyone were frozen, but He and I. And I could look at Him and touch Him. That I could "turn my eyes upon Jesus. Look full in His wonderful face. And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His glory and grace."

I don't know, maybe it's just me.

No picture on earth can compare to the one I see in my minds eye of that night, that nativity. And to think about it makes me hurt a little less. And smile a little more. It makes me remember that He came for me. And had there just been me, no one else, He still would have come. That way. That night.

Yes, today's post is kind of personal. But it's Christmastime and well, around the holidays you can expect for me to get all personal and sentimental and sappy. In 2005 the holidays changed forever for me. And whereas you might have found me laughing and giddy and all "deck the halls" back in 2004, a short time later things changed for me. And now my pain lies just below the surface. Blue.

And so may I be so bold as to say:

Thank you Lord.

Thank you, that when I close my eyes and cry at this time of year,

I cannot help but see you in a manger filled with hay.

I cannot help but be reminded that the flesh you wore was mine -

and it was filled with pain and sin and utter disappointment.

And still, you took it on. And wore it.

Making my hurt, your hurt.

Making my pain, your pain.

Making my sin, your reason.

Thank you that every loss I've ever had was no surprise to you.

And every tear I've shed has been saved.

And thank you that instead of coming to this earth in a splash of royalty -

in a palace full of kings and thrones -

you came in a barn.

Full of splinters and straw.

For you knew that one day, when I closed my eyes,

I would need to envision something realistic.

And I know splinters better than I know fine china.

So thank you, for thinking ahead.

All my love, Melissa.