Holiday Flu

Seven days until Christmas.

One week.

I don’t know about you, but my body starts acting like it’s coming down with something this time of year.

The aches show up, the heaviness settles in, and no vaccine has ever touched it.

Probably because it isn’t a virus.

It’s memory, multiplied.

And it always starts the same way, one memory sneaks to the surface.

I wonder when the last time was that my baby crawled into my lap.

I can still feel his little hand twisting my hair, winding it around those chubby fingers while he dozed off like the whole world was safe and soft.

The moment is long gone, but it is still bright in me.

Do I have the flu?

I think of the people I’ve lost, especially my mother.

It has been nearly twenty-five years since I heard her voice.

Will that goodbye ever stop turning me inside out?

I doubt it will.

Grief doesn’t disappear; it just learns the layout of my life, and sometimes takes the potholed backroads instead of the scenic route.

Do I have the flu?

And of course, I sometimes try to predict the future.

I think about the coming New Year and how, more and more, I can feel the math of it.

More years behind me than ahead.

I’m not macabre, but I do think about my limited time, especially at this time of year.

Maybe because my birthday sits parked in January, and I can already hear it calling me in for another spin around the sun, if I’m lucky.

Maybe because Jesus is center stage, and that forces me to examine my conscience.

News flash, I don’t give myself a break.

Do I have the stinking flu?!

As in previous years, I’ve spent time reflecting on what I've accomplished and what I haven't. Let me tell you, my Type A personality is no joke.

She towers over me like a drill sergeant.

“Geeze Louise!” I tell that psychopath. “Not today.”

The list is endless, and if I let it, I could become debilitated by this kind of “flu” and take to the bed.

But I don’t.

Because people are counting on me to show up.

Because love still needs hands and feet.

Because even when my heart is aching, God is still God.

At first glance, 2025 looked like a placeholder year, light on gold stars for me.

But I was wrong.

This year, I drew closer to God, and it started with silence.

A four-day silent retreat at the beginning of Lent, where I stopped performing and just sat with Him.

The quieter the days became, the more I noticed how steady He is.

Come to think of it, this may have been one of the most significant years of my life.

The calmest year.

The year I stood with Him and accepted some goodbyes I didn't choose.

The year I let go.

The sweetest year, too.

The year I made a conscious effort to notice people, to encourage them, and cheer loudly for their accomplishments.

There was absolute joy in that.

A year of acceptance.

The year I told my drill sergeant to stand down, and I chose mercy over measurements.

There was so much freedom in that.

And there was peace, the kind that only comes when you lean hard, and He does not budge.

 So how are you approaching the end of the year?

Where will you let your heart rest?

On the loss, or on the life?

This week, I’m choosing life.

Not because loss is small, but because God is bigger.

And when I feel the "flu" coming on, I’ll remember I’m not crazy.

I’m just human.

And I am very much loved, and so are you.