When circumstances cut us down at the knees and we want to scream and call foul, we actually can choose what happens next.
What if the process of putting one mud-stained foot in front of the other is the messy pathway to the wild goodness of healing?
Grief at Christmas is hard. But Christmas is for your grief.
Grief doesn’t really know how to behave itself in public.
“Kill the good girl,” I think. “It’s her time to die.”
Here’s the thing about pain: it’s deathlike.
A safe and kind and sturdy shoulder. A shoulder that says “I’m here for you” without saying a word at all.
It’s coming home again.
The good stuff comes from hard, messy stuff.
However disappointment comes, whatever package it’s wrapped in, it’s always an unwelcome visitor.