December is a month of trials for me; it cannot be otherwise. For my late husband was born and died in December and our anniversary is on December 28. This year would have been our 50th and there will be no “Grow old along with me; the best is yet to be.” And yet I am a survivor and do the best I can. But as the month goes along, I grow quieter and paler. By December 31, I am unable to do anything but cocoon in preparation for a newer and brighter me.
Jesus was born in a manger and we celebrate that. But we forget that he had many trials. We were told his kingdom was not of this world and that is too obvious a truth to overlook. Somehow eternal love survives the terrors of this world, but most of us know that the bedrock of life is not ease.
My writing appeals to people who have known sorrow but are willing to do the best they can with it. I strike a chord in them. Because when I write of watching a small coffin go into the earth, who does not shed a tear? That was so long ago. My grandmother buried two little boys, each at the age of two and not twins. In those days, children often died. She said to me, “One day it will all seem like a dream.” And it does now.
I have everything I want and need in this world. I have time and to spare. I have food, shelter and clothing. But most of all, I have the Word. If I am lucky, my own words open people up to their own vulnerability. I always feel that the stone has not been rolled away for me yet. But what if that stone were keeping me at what I do best? What if it is the will of God that I have time to write and reflect on what is important?
Writing is my destiny, as is solitude. I haven’t had breakfast yet because I knew the essay was about to roll off my fingers. The rhythm of the keyboard is easy and I have the day stretching ahead of me. I hope to make it a good one.