The thing is, she would tell us to put the Christmas tree up, even now. I know this because the day after Thanksgiving last year, the day after we brought her home from a two week stay at the hospital to in-home hospice care where a nurse named Faye marched in and informed us she’s dying, duh. Get with the program, and we didn’t eat turkey or have much to be thankful for, we still managed to put up the Christmas tree and she watched with a smile on her face.

If she could have gotten off the couch, she would have, to straighten the ornaments and rearrange the matryoshka Santa and red star candle on the fireplace mantle so that everything was evenly spaced.

She would have made the cookies, too, and I know this because she made my grandma drive her to the grocery store right before Christmas to buy the ingredients. I found them stashed in the cupboard a few days after the funeral.

This is the thing about traditions that I both love and hate right now : if we do them long enough, they are so deeply woven into who we are that even as a part of us mourns them, yet we still feel utterly compelled to do them. To not do them would sharpen the pain and absence and longing further, pull us deeper into the darkness. And she would hate that. There are times when going through the motions of tradition helps a family survive, and maybe even discover the good tidings and great joy for which this season exists :

Emmanuel, God with us. 

God with us in the darkness, bringing light, bringing hope.

So the tree will go up. The mantle will be adorned with the matryoshka Santa and the bright red star candle and the lace nativity. The cookies will be made, if I can find the recipe. Mannheim Steamroller will play in the background. And when we turn round the living room to survey the splendor of our own nostalgia and tradition, we will see her. Her straightening the star on the tree. Her rolling cookie dough, covered in flour. Her practicing Christmas carols at the piano. Her on the couch, trying to enjoy these last twinkle-lit moments with us.

We stayed up late on the eve of Thanksgiving watching “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” and then we slept in on Thanksgiving morning, made a big breakfast, and watched “Miracle on 34th Street” while my mom’s beloved cornbread casserole baked in the oven. We enjoyed dinner with my in-laws, avoided the annual retail insanity, and Friday night we put up the Christmas tree and toasted each other with glasses of eggnog.

We talked about traditions, the ones we grew up with and the ones we hope to create in the coming years. We dream of someday having kids and a house big enough to host our family for the holidays and annual movie marathons and a real Christmas tree.

The whole weekend made me thankful for this life that we have now between. Everyone chooses differently – some wait a lot longer to get married than we did, some don’t, some never will. Same with choosing to have kids. We still want to wait a few years before we ‘start a family,’ and even though I often long for the days when we’ll have the kids and the house and the holiday traditions, I was thankful this Thanksgiving for this little, lovely life we’ve already started. I am thankful for our little one-bedroom apartment, the intimacy of just him and me and the sound of us munching on toast at breakfast, this memory we’ve made of Matt and Bethany : The Early Years.

What traditions do you enjoy at Thanksgiving and Christmas, whether you’re single, married, etc? What was the favorite part of your holiday weekend?

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Today I’m over at Prodigal Mag sharing a story about an awkward conversation with a professor my freshman year. I found her words hurtful and frustrating at the time, but seven years later, I’ve realized that they actually helped me find a better purpose and plan for my career. Have you ever had a moment like that, where you realize that maybe your “dream” isn’t really what you were meant to do? Please read and share your own stories of the long, hard road of growing up.

I remember the conversation clearly. I remember the daylight that streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my college cafeteria to the table where we sat, our blue trays touching at the corners, while I shuffled bland remnants of salad around the plate with my fork. She stared at me, unblinking.

“It’s a long, hard road,” she said, no sympathy in her tone.

These words I will never forget.

(Read on.)

Today I’m over at Emily Miller’s blog sharing a guest post for the final installment in her hospitality series. Hospitality is a favorite subject of mine, because I love to offer my hearth and home to anyone and everyone. This story I share today reveals why.

Everyone is laughing at my cousin’s 18-month-old son, Mason, as he sings la-la-la-la-la-la along with his grandma, my aunt. She has taught him the chorus of this old country tune during afternoons when she sits him in her lap on the big old porch swing. His ears perk at the sound of her singing it as she explains their ritual to us, and his baby voice echoes it back in delight. We laugh, and he sings it again, louder this time, and then we’re all taking turns singing it to him and he cackles at all the attention, clapping his hands, watermelon juice dribbling down his chin.

Can you feel it?

Joy.

(Read on.)

Today I’m over at Preston’s blog, returning the favor for his post a few weeks ago. Subject? Conversations with Ourselves, in which I imagine : if I could go back, what would I tell myself…

“My heart feels heavy and a wave of exhaustion washes over me. I stare at the page, but the words won’t sink in. I yawn and lean back and close my eyes for a moment.

And then my closet door opens, and she is standing there.

I am surprised, jaw open. Harry mid-spell tumbles to the floor with a thud. It takes me a moment, cogs turning wildly at the unfamiliar familiar, but then I see it, like a stereogram, a cosmic optical illusion, a wrinkle in time, Hermione’s time-turner is real : she is me, but I am not yet her.

‘Can I join you?’ she asks.” (Keep Reading)