A Virtual Christmas

Somewhere hidden in phone lines and cyberspace is my family. With Christmas nearing, it’s hard not to think of those faraway. Lying in bed, before I open my eyes in the morning I imagine I’m home again and that my Mother is washing dishes and cooking breakfast. Before I open my eyes, I pretend that out my windows are towering evergreens and snow-capped mountains. For a moment, I am on that little swivel stool next to the fireplace, listening to some in depth conversation about nothing. Sometimes, I’m even sledding or playing Kick the Can in a ridiculous snow suit. Before I open my eyes in my own bed in my own house, I am home…where comfortable is an understatement. Then I get up and let the images dissolve back into my wishful thinking and call Mom.

 “We’re sorry, no one is available to take your call. Please leave a message….”

Click.

Which reminds me: These 21^st century gadgets have become so secondary to us, we’ve lost sight of what was once real. A few weeks ago, I was lying in bed in the morning playing on my phone, scrolling through the news feed on Facebook. One of my friends had posted a picture of Carbondale dusted in snow and its caption read “first snow of the year.” And that’s how I found we had our first snow. I reached seven inches away and pulled back the curtain to see that, sure enough, it had snowed.

Two nights ago I saw my sister in Hawaii over Skype , yesterday I drew a picture like we used to do as children and posted it on my little sister’s profile so she could be reminded too, and  last night my 9- year- old nephew asked “did you see my status?” It’s everywhere—all around us.

I remember conversations with my brother that lasted regardless of cell service. I remember my Mother’s voice and what it used to sound like before being separated by half the United States, and I miss that. I can even remember the way her fingernails fold downward and her distinct sneezes.  That half smile right before my Dad tells a pun is hard to decipher over the phone, but I remember it. Just the way I remember my sister’s foot tapping the piano pedal and trying to follow along. And just the way I remember my little brother’s face as he hesitantly joined the room when us girls were doing our hair.

But it has become harder to remember.  This will be the first Christmas I will spend away from my family…away from home.  I imagine that in less than a week I will get to scroll through dozens of pictures and will be a part of several phone calls to that small town in Washington. But I will miss the feel of my stocking  and the sound of my sister’s guitar. I won’t be there to bear the heat of the woodstove or to taste that coffee. This year, I won’t wake to kindling and bacon crackling on Christmas morning, and I won’t sit down to a meal with my parents.


 I guess I’ll just Skype them with my iPhone while they open their gifts that I bought online. Then maybe, I’ll even blog about it share that in my updated status. I’ll call them to say Merry Christmas and then send them a text to say how nice it was to talk to them. I’ll load up my Facebook albums with new photos and tag myself in theirs.

And if it’s a really good Christmas, I might just like it.

Rock Bottom or Something Like It

I’ve thought a lot about these “ruts” we get into as humans. How sometimes our lives seem to steadily swirl toward rock bottom, until finally we realize there’s space even below rock bottom.  For me, these ruts have lasted a while. I wouldn’t have called it depression, though, because I wasn’t sad. I didn’t have a problem getting out of bed in the morning, and I went through my days just as any other, but I certainly never looked forward to them. It’s a waiting game really—when will the next unfortunate thing happen? When will my car break down again or my dishwasher stop working? When will I find another unexpected bill set on the edge of the piano for me? When will I forget a research paper and fail a class?

And pretty soon, when I’d trip on my shoelace I wouldn’t chuckle. I didn’t even shake it off and keep walking. I would grunt and mumble (even when alone) something along the lines of “ugh, just my luck.”

I’d come to expect those things and merely roll my eyes…waiting. Waiting for rock bottom.

And it was at these moments that I could honestly say, I didn’t want to be happy. I tried praying—a lot. But I knew that somewhere deep down, as a “p.s” to my prayer, I was asking God not to answer me. Because my life was out of order, priorities scattered and passion a mess, and until it was right, I wasn’t willing to be content with it. I had to get it back.

I decided to start doing everything right. I stopped going out when I shouldn’t. I studied hard and worked long hours when I wasn’t doing that. I kept my house clean and ate well. I held the doors for strangers and got to bed early, I sat in church every Sunday and gave thanks for things I hadn’t before.

But I felt nothing.

I laid there in bed a few weeks ago, scrolling through Facebook on my phone when I learned of my friend’s death. And in that bed is where I stayed for two full days. I cried that entire night, I cried so much I wasn’t sure if it was possible to cry anymore. But then I would, and it was just as full and wet and sad as the cry before that. I sat up alone wondering why these things could happen to such a young, beautiful, kind, girl... and I still don’t know that answer. I thought and cried and though some more until six that morning when I finally had no energy left and I fell asleep. The next morning was foggy through my swollen, glazed eyes. I woke up too early and felt sick to my stomach when I realized is wasn’t all a dream. This was my rock bottom.

Then, before I had fully woken up, I got a call from my sister. My uncle had passed away. That is when I learned there was no such thing as rock bottom, and THAT was a terrifying thought.

In the least expected moment, God was merciful, and for some amazing, unknown reason, I was able to go back to work soon thereafter. He let me stop mourning and instead remember fondly. On what was one of the worst days of my life, I was pulled out of the rut.

They were taken to a place so amazing that I will always have something to look forward to. So, while it’s not up to us when we hit these ruts, or how long we’ll stay there, it is certain that we will be saved. Even in the hardest of ways.

It’s good to be back.

~In memory of sweet Ericka Wade and my fun, loving, Uncle Don~