Christmas Singer

I enjoy singing with a good chorale, and the Sunday choir at Joe's new church brings in young singers to complement the church's congregation. They produce some beautiful music.

Going to church regularly would just frustrate me - my soul is in an uncertain and impatient place. But I miss music, so accepted Emily the choir director's invitation to join them for their Christmas song and readings service.

For the past six weeks or so, I've been getting my keister out of the house on Sunday mornings to join them for their after-church rehearsal. I loved it. Emily runs a tight rehearsal, and would rehearse the Christmas music first and then let the 'Christmas Singers' go.

I liked being a Christmas Singer. Something joyful, cheerful, welcoming in the name.

The service where we were to perform the music was this past Sunday. We gathered early, to go over the music one more time, and I was not real happy with myself - I was still making mistakes on a few key phrases.

We broke for a bit, regathered, stood for the opening song. I gathered myself. I took a deep breath and sent a prayer to the Spirit to help me to not screw up.

And, I didn't. Those key moments? I was spot-on for all of them. After the last of them had passed, something inside me eased, and I allowed myself to lose myself in the music.

And then, and then. Out of nowhere, came tears. For Maria. In the middle of 'Angels We Have Heard on High', for goodness sake! It took me by surprise; I enjoy the hymn, but it has no special attachment to family for me. For once I was grateful for my allergies, and grabbed my always-handy kleenex to wipe surreptitiously at the unexpected tears.

I am aware there is a lot of grief roiling beneath my surface. There's been a lot to grieve in my life these past few years; I guess I shouldn't be surprised it leaks out when I let my guard down. And as my sister-in-law, Christie, once said, "The Spirit must own stock in Kimberly-Clark, so often does its touch bring forth tears." Tears of grief, tears of healing. I didn't want to squash them, but I certainly wasn't going to be standing in front of the congregation bawling, and managed to convince most of them to be released on the inside only.

Unexpected Grace.  Merry Christmas!

Sycamore

Since I moved into my house, I've been grateful for the beauty of the tall and graceful sycamore tree in the neighbor's yard just to the south. Sure, he wasn't the tidiest neighbor, dropping branches and seed balls with regularity, but the shade he willingly provided on hot summer days was well worth the tradeoff.

Or, so thought I.

My new neighbors didn't agree. They bought the house in late summer, and last week, hired a crew to come and take out the tree. It was their tree; I couldn't argue with them. Yes, it was close to the house, yes, if it came down both of us were going to lose a good chunk of roof.

But the tree was healthy, and sycamore trees aren't prone to falling unless they're old - and a good arborist can tell what kind of shape it's in. I even offered to pay for the testing and a good trimming, but my words fell on deaf ears.

She was afraid of it, towering over the house. Fear won and the tree is gone.

I've been disturbed by its absence all week. I walk out of the house and the gaping hole in the sky cries its anguish. I mourn the irreplaceable loss.

And, I'm uncharacteristically petty about it all, sending ill wishes across the fence. I hope their cooling bills shoot through the roof (I'm sure they'll go up by a good 20%). I hope their basement floods with every rain (also a good chance of happening - the house has water problems anyways, and I know the tree drank a lot of the water that drained into the yard from all the houses up the hill).

I'm trying hard to forgive them, but thus far, no go.

I'm tired of fear winning over innocence.

Eventually, I'll grit my teeth, and bring them over some Christmas cookies anyways.

But, this year at least, my heart won't be in it.

December

I think I'm going to have to resign myself to a running undercurrent of fear and panic this time of year.

I found my cancer in December.
Kate found her cancer in December.
Libby found her cancer in late November.
Maria's final illness took hold last December.

So part of me waits, with some dread, for more scary news to come this month. I look at the calendar, and fear either my share of blank calendar squares are coming to their end, or some calamity is about to fall on someone else I love.

The fear is further grounded in the thought I'm not using what days I have as well as I could. I look at the places I am spending my time, and a part of me screams, "I'm not doing it right!"

The more rational part of me knows that I'm doing what I can and need to do. Chances are I'm going to live for a good long while, and I can't throw all the cards in the air and still plan for a stable retirement. So, I'm going to work, taking care of my house, exercising some, planning for the holidays, getting enough sleep.  Heck, for the past month and a bit - excepting Thanksgiving, of course - I've even been eating right.

My inner two year-old is NOT consoled. She wants out, she wants free. She doesn't want to work any more, she's tired and cranky and just wants to do whatever it is she wants to do.

I get it. I'm with her. Soon, I tell her, soon.

Until then, I will keep reminding myself that past results are not an indicator of future returns. Into every life, bad things fall - but so do good. This past Thanksgiving celebration is proof of good. Lots of love and food and hugs and more food and happiness. There were zero arguments and no new bad news surfaced. No one got angry, no one got sick, no one hurt themselves. Everyone made it home safely.

Breathing is good.
Life, is good.
and, reserving the right to throw all my cards in the air should bad news strike again is good, too.