Susan LaffertyChristmas approaches. Like a freight train. It’s that time of year.
Loud in commercials and sales. Glitz and glitter. Richly-colored wrapping and ribbons and bows.
Bright trees. Exquisite nativities. Christmas baking on point.
And the music. Playlists mixing winter themes and manger scenes. O Holy Night and a blue Christmas without you.
In the midst of it all? Hunger for something more.
Picking up a pen. And opening my notebook to a fresh page. I keep writing.
Remembering times I’ve jotted down thoughts in Southeast Asia’s tropical humidity. Hands sticking to the paper. Ink smudging along the way.
Or cities on the subcontinent where I’ve huddled in a blanket. At my desk. On mornings when tile floors and no heat mean cold seeps into the bones.
Regardless, I keep writing.
Leaves crunch beneath my feet. Cold front moved in. So the air is chilled. Still.
Inside I’m scattered.
Numb.
Not sure how to process what’s happening. The unexpected hard.
“In everything give thanks”? How?
