Tuesday, December 17, 2013

for him.

I put the lights up for him.

I had already decided to hibernate throughout the holidays this year and ignore the trees and the songs and especially the lights.

To me, the lights are a symbol of something that I just don't have this season -- a glimmer of hope in the deep, deep darkness. A reminder that hope is coming.

It's a beautiful thing, really, to see so many lights twinkling in windows throughout our city; to think of the kind of hope that can give life and conquer death.  That's Jesus.  And that's Christmas.  Hope breaking through the hell to bring life where there is none.

But I'm just not there.  I can't see past the heartache of what hope did not do this year.  Hope breathed life inside of me, another precious little baby, but hope did not save it.  Miscarriage.  Hope knew how much our hearts had already been broken by the loss of our first baby, but hope didn't protect us.  Hope did not respond to our cries.  Despair.

It makes sense to want to hibernate -- to forget that this season of celebration and joy and birth is upon us.  To celebrate birth at a time like this seems so very wrong to me.

But I put the lights up for him -- my lover-of-everything-christmas runner-man.

I put them up because he is grieving the loss of his baby too.  He needs the lights and the trees and the songs to carry on, to be reminded of the hope that is to come.  This is how he will continue to heal.

He asked me for a corner -- just one corner -- that could have some Christmas things in it.

So I put the lights up for him.

Because I love him.  Because we are in this together.  Because no matter how deep my darkness, and no matter how hard I try, I know I cannot wish hope away.

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