I was hopeful for Christmas Season this year. The trauma of 2020, not without its lasting impact, felt less imposing like a flood and more like a guest that just wouldn’t leave, not really eating too much but still present.

We are almost at the end of December and last December doesn’t feel all that long ago, and yet it also feels like 20 lifetimes ago. I started the advent candle lighting this year. I even printed out some scripture for the readings for two of the weeks. And yet, somehow, I couldn’t finish the last three candles. When an unnamed teenager lit the candles I was saving for the last week, I didn’t argue, I sat and watched.

I got that great Christmas photo, one that everyone looked authentically themselves in and even printed it out. I had just enough stamps for parents, siblings and a few close friends. I went to buy more stamps, and they were out. I ordered stamps online and they took until December 23rd to arrive.

The stamps, the 35 photo cards and the candles all represent how I could not complete anything, it seems, at the end of a very long and trying year.

I can’t even finish this blog. I want to be encouraging and tell the stories of redemption and hope, of all the little, beautiful moments that have come along.

But it’s been too long of a year, many grumpy children moments, too many stresses and life pulling on me in too many directions, I have to leave it here, undone, unfinished, hoping to finish something, anything, maybe 2020. That I could finish for sure.