As I sit here on Christmas morning inhaling coffee, I find myself in deep reflection. Is this not the most peculiar Holiday season we’ve ever experienced?
Or maybe that’s just me. If that’s you too though, welcome to the VIP club! 2020 has already been the weirdest year in the history of my 24 years of living ever, but something about the anticipation of the Holidays leading up to the grey month of December brought mild relief. Perhaps it was the expectations of normalcy and something of routine. With all the chaos in this world we live in, the annual traditions were sure to bring a sense of ease and structure to this otherwise structureless year. Every year, I gear myself up to feel totally pumped and the warm freaking fuzzies and Holiday cheer like I am told by the romanticized Christmas depictions.
And every year, without fail, I find myself emptier, lonelier, and more isolated in thought than my expectations were sure to surpass. It’s not that everything crashes and burns and always takes a turn for the worst, but rather, my check list of expectations and how I should feel are not met, and it sparks the idea that perhaps I have somehow failed or not worked hard enough and that I am somehow, someway lacking in some something.
As soon as my hopes grew for the Holiday season feat. Covid19, those hopes just as quickly faded into preparing my heart for the inner storm I knew was to come.
In fact, that storm blew in with a vengeance.
My parents’ home (where I have been since fleeing Los Angeles and then Covid19 hitting) had a terrible water leak underneath the flooring, asbestos was found, and no sooner did the Holidays arrive than was the kitchen gutted and ripped up and now remains completely bare and empty, waiting for its remodel. And no sooner was the kitchen gutted, than I found myself living out of what was once my worse nightmare: Bags. I packed up my bags again. Is this what my life is destined to become? Unpacking my bags just to repack? A permanent sojourner? Thank God (truly) for spiritual family. My friend Renee and her daughters – 3 of my closest sisterhood tribe – were sweet relief. Their home and acres of quiet farmland are like a slice of serenity and restoration, and if I must repack my bags again, their home and its warmth was sure to bring ease and that familiar sense of togetherness. And that, it did. That is, until I got struck down for the third time this year by another virus. The virus then triggered the nightmare I thought I had under control – another flareup. I’ll open up more on my 2020 health journey in the coming days, but for now, know this: A flareup is a whole other lingering issue in and of itself. It is like autoimmune, bodily genocide underneath one’s skin. This one unfortunately came with a vengeance, and to this day, I still feel I am recovering. I began to catch a second wind. I finalized flights and Airbnbs and public transport for my upcoming UK excursion (more on that later too), and felt I could breathe. And no sooner did the trip go from confirmed, to tossed up in the air again via a mutation of Covid19, and then the news that UK borders could close again after Christmas.
God, what are you doing?
Sometimes that is all I can muster. A piece of my life will mend, only for a sickeningly darker plot twist to follow. Things look on the up and up, and then they fall through. A dream begins to unfold, only to crumble. My faith begins to dwindle. My spirits sink to a crippling low. Life feels meaningless. The heart that was filled with such joy feels like it is vacuumed of any morsel of life. I want to cry, but have no tears left to cry. Maybe this resonates with you too.
This chaos of life is ever changing. It can feel like a slap in the face when our lofty expectations are soon crushed by the utter despair of reality. A pandemic ruins the few glimmers of hope you had in an already rough season. You put your heart out on the line only for it to be crushed…again. Financial stability is a concern. Medical bills become a pile of impending doom. The car needs new brake rotors. Sleep is scarce. There is no relief to be found.
It can feel a bit as I do when I unpack my bags only to repack them: Sojourning…always trying to find the happy middle of life and settle in, only to repack and feel as a stranger to the ever-changing circumstances in our own lives.
A few months ago, I sat out on a friend’s porch one morning, listening to the harmony of the birds and crickets as the sun rose. They are still the same. They haven’t changed. Something as simple as the sounds of nature brought an odd sense of normalcy to my heart.
And this is true of Heavenly Father. Though the world around us shakes, may we take refuge in Him and stand unshakeable.
This Christmas, may we surrender and trust in Him. May we, in our sojourning moments, remember that He is home and we can come home to Him anytime.
“This Christmas, whatever promises of God you are struggling to believe, remember Jesus – that Yahweh saves. And remember John – that Yahweh is gracious. And even if you, like Zechariah, are struggling to believe God’s promise because it just seems impossible to be true, God is still gracious with you, even if that means he first disciplines you to help you see and receive his steadfast love and mercy.
Christmas indeed reminds us that ‘nothing will be impossible with God.’ (Luke 1:37).” -Jon Bloom
Merry Christmas, my sojourning friends.