Darkness and Light

So, I need to confess something: I put my Christmas decorations up without fully cleaning my house first.

Truthfully, I do this most years. I know, I know. There are some of you who will judge me for that. But I imagine there are others of you who share this secret with me.

I wish I was the kind of housekeeper that my Mawmaw was. Her house was always so clean that I would feel 100% safe eating off of any surface, including her floor. The few Christmas decorations that I remember her using were always classy and immaculate - and so was everything around it. My decorations are beautiful, but if you look closely enough, you will see dust nearby.

Less than perfect housekeeping aside, the dust and the Christmas sparkles together say something to me. They reveal something of the imperfections of this season. We put on a really good show this time of year. We decorate our house and yard. We look for meaningful gifts. We cook and prepare meals and treats. We do all the things in the name of a perfectly joyous Christmas season.

But the harder truth is what we cover up. In the twinkling lights and merry-making, we fail to admit our painful places. Like the dust around my decorations, there is pain behind my picture-perfect Christmas.

The holiday season is hard for me, and I know I am not alone. It is hard for many - even more this year after the devastation and loss that 2020 has brought.

The first Christmas after being widowed, my pain was visceral and raw, and it was all I could feel. In each holiday season since our loss, there has been pain and sadness present among the celebrations. Even 4 Christmas seasons in, this time of year is still laced with pangs of regret and sadness and loss. But the pain doesn’t always hijack our story anymore.

Here is the thing - both joy and pain exist in this season. Loneliness, sadness, loss - they all hang out in the same places that lights are hung and carols are playing. Some of us cover it up better. Some years are less painful. But the pain is still there even if it only shows up in the dark hours of the night.

I think we do ourselves a disservice when we pretend that the holidays are only about joy and magic. The twinkly lights are just as beautiful in years when they are hung with tears in our eyes. Maybe they are most beautiful in those years. They are a reminder that hope creeps in even in the darkest times.

Dust and decorations exist together. Darkness and Light coexist in the same spaces. All of it is part of the human experience - the sadness and joy, the pain and the hope.

The thing is - we don’t have to pretend that life is perfect, that the jolly Christmas tree is the only part of the story. We can share our vulnerable places with one another. It is a risk. It feels scary as hell. But I am learning that the risk is worth it. We can only be truly seen when we share both the light and dark parts of ourselves.

I am learning to hope in the darkness. I am ready to risk sharing my painful places along with the happy ones. I am recognizing that tears and laughter can have equal value and beauty. I don’t have to be perfect or happy all the time or pretend that the sadness doesn’t exist.

Now, maybe you could remind me of this next time I forget.

Perspectives, part 2

This is a hard one for me. I am about to share publicly that I absolutely DO NOT HAVE IT ALL TOGETHER.

So let me tell you a story. Once upon a time (last week), I shared a beautiful narrative of an adventure I had while hiking, and how I recognized the importance of enjoying the journey we are on. That is all still true. But there is a second chapter to the story - one that is more painful and vulnerable to share.

So, a few days after I wrote Perpectives, I took the boys on a hike in Oak Mountain. It was Cole’s birthday week, and I wanted to see the autumn leaves during their peak. So off we went to the Peavine Falls trail. I had researched and knew the falls were accessible from a specific parking lot. As we drove, the views were absolutely spectacular! We took a ton of pictures and exclaimed that the drive alone was worth it.

Once we parked, we glanced at the trail map and took off. I had waterfall fever, and I knew this was going to be amazing. The early parts of the trail were easy, and the woods were an autumnal wonderland.

Soon though, the trail became more difficult, and I took a fall on some rocks.

I have a couple of autoimmune diseases that involve my joints. I had a stroke in 2016 that affected my visual field, which in turn affects my balance and depth perception. I deal with these things daily. But here is the thing: I am very stubborn and I hate admitting my weaknesses. So we kept going, despite the boys suggesting that we might should turn back. I desperately wanted to see that waterfall.

The trail got steeper and more difficult, but I was determined. Shaking from the adrenaline of the fall, and battling my joints and vision challenges, we climbed for another half hour.

Then, stepping over a rocky place, my foot got caught and I fell again. This time I was lucky I didn’t break my ankle.

We had to turn back, and the tears came as I cursed my body for its weaknesses. The hike back was long and painful; I didn’t make it to the waterfall; and I really wanted to just sit down and cry.

During that long walk back, I thought back to the post I had written.

My first inclination was to criticize myself - my physical limitations, my stubborn need to push myself to my breaking point, my refusal to back down, and the way I turn to shame when I fail. It is all a part of who I am.

But so is courage and resilience and hope.

I spent a lot of my life pretending to have to all together, only showing the world a made-up picture of myself and my life. I’ve been afraid that if people see my weaknesses and failures, I will be abandoned and unloved.

But the people I admire most are not perfect. They try and fail. They are honest about their struggles. And I admire them even more because they aren’t perfect. I can relate to not-perfect.

So here I am - bruised & battered, having to rest more than I want because I pushed myself too hard.

Here I am - risking vulnerability and being seen.

I don’t have it all together, and that’s ok. You can like me, or not.

I would rather risk rejection than offer you a fake perfection. I’d rather be seen and loved as I am.

And I know there are people who love me with all of my failures and weaknesses and quirks and aggravations. And that is enough. I am enough.

Oh, and as we were hobbling out of the Peavine Falls Trail, I saw this sign: