Christmas was magical growing up. There were family gatherings, special traditions, piles of gifts and food, and a focus on the gift of Jesus Christ. I couldn’t have asked for more.

But in the last decade, I have found the ‘more’ something to fight.

While it is sad many Christmas traditions will look different this year, during a pandemic, a quieter Christmas sounds like a gift to me!

In recent years I’ve felt more dread than anticipation when opening my online Christmas folder.

Last month as I engaged in our church’s commissioning prayer at the end of the online service and cried “here I am Lord” on the hotel room floor, I began to grieve for those unconscious on the battlefield—asleep to their purpose, drunk with addiction, dead to life, without vision.

Some of the very children who shone the brightest are under a dark cloud of deception.

The world shut down just days before a romantic night out, where I envisioned holding my husband’s hand as we swayed and sang to For King & Country in concert. I was also excited for a spring weekend in Vancouver with my sisters.

If we made a list of canceled, closed, lost, or missed things because of COVID it would be endless.

Curveballs fly on the news, triggering fear but when one hits home we learn a new level of surrender.

Control is illusive—stringing us along until something snaps.

One year ago this Sunday, my husband Benj hit the pavement in the golden hour of the Costco parking lot and our son Gavin broke his femur. This is how Gavin (4) retells what happened:

"Daddy was running too fast with the shopping cart and it fell over.  I got hurt but Hudsy didn't.  I had a big cast on, that's all."

That's all and then that’s not all.

A decade ago, I left a short-lived teaching career and welcomed my first baby. Making a home-based life didn’t feel natural in those early months.

I struggled to grasp at elusive forms of control—a jail of my own making.

I anticipated birth would be a challenge I could conquer; yet, twenty hours of intense back labor and over three hours of pushing left me reeling (the hardest of six deliveries and the catalyst to midwifery care and home birthing).

In this season of harvest, we are reaping what we have sown: spaghetti squash, mashed potatoes, warm apple crisp, zucchini chocolate cake. . . but are we reaping good fruit from investing the word of God into our hearts?

Could we be spiritually malnourished?

"We work to feed our appetites; meanwhile, our souls go hungry."

I know—sharpened pencils and crisp books tease. Maybe this year we can do all the things and with happy hearts!  Experiments and reports.  Poetry tea time with homemade muffins.

Then history haunts us with our dark moments.

Whether at home, at school, or some new hybrid:

Impatience blending letter sounds, frustration long dividing, confusion logging in, and despair sopping up toddler disasters or a teen’s tears...

After our trip, we started the process of unloading our travel trailer and I ran wild throwing kids in the bath, starting the laundry, ordering the dishwasher cleared, plants watered, grass cut, van vacuumed and everything put away NOW—anything to help me feel a sense of control after a season of change!

My inner baggage busted out with each new item thrown into the house. I was a mess and rather than accepting where my mind, body, and soul was at, and taking a pause, I kept pushing.

I used to be self-conscious of the scar by my eye from a childhood accident. I suppose it looks like a deep smile line as I creep closer to 40.

From surgeries, injuries, self-harm and accidents to c-sections, stretch marks and age spots; we adapt, cover-up, rehabilitate, and carry on as wounded warriors.

Some may appear to make it through life unscathed on the outside but none of us do on the inside.