“Merry Christmas?” Not so much. But let us walk down a nostalgic lane for about 2 minutes…
I’ve been thinking lately about metaphors—how they show up in real life, often dressed in humor, sometimes draped in grief.
Imagine this: I’m the kid in line at the mall to see Santa. In this metaphor, the Elf is “Life” itself. It barks at me, “This is whatcha get, move along,” while nudging me forward with a little too much urgency. I freeze. I know what I want to say, but I choke when it’s my turn.
“What do you want, little girl?” the Santa-God-Universe figure asks.
And just like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, I blurt out something big. Huge. Something I deeply want but am not sure I believe I deserve.
Then: the boot. Right in the forehead. “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.” And down the slide I go.
Metaphorically, that’s how a lot of my life has felt. I’ve experienced both cool and not-so-cool churches. I absorbed teachings of self-sacrifice. I confused “love your neighbor” with “forget yourself entirely.” I was that highly sensitive, spiritually unsettled dreamer-kid who wanted to get it all right. I wanted to save the world—or at least make a dent in its pain. But sometimes the world kicks back.
Reality doesn’t always wait for your readiness. It comes in hard, swinging, wearing steel-toed boots, while you’re still whispering prayers and making vision boards.
In real life, life has nearly taken me out. And I mean that literally—cancer, trauma, divorce, mental health breakdowns, single motherhood, starting over again and again. But here’s the plot twist: I didn’t stay down.
Instead, I laughed. Not because it wasn’t painful, but because if you don’t laugh, the weight might bury you. So you laugh, you cry, you dig in. You hope. You pray. You ask—again—for something good. You write letters to the sky, hoping God’s reading. Sometimes the answer feels like another push down the slide. And still… you climb back up.
This year, I’ve been mostly out of touch. I’m not feeling the Christmas spirit like I used to. I’ve been grieving. Many things. Too many to list. But tonight, on Christmas Eve-Eve, I needed to say this out loud, or at least write it:
I’ve survived more than I thought I could.
I’m not broken. I’m just becoming.
The changes I’m making are slow—or rapid, depending on where you’re standing. But they’re real. I’m waking up. I’m learning to sit with the pain and still look for beauty. I’m choosing gratitude even when it hurts. Because I’ve come to understand something simple, but profound:
Sometimes you have to be kicked down the tunnel. This helps you realize just how strong your legs are. You understand this when you decide to climb back up.
And sometimes, being unbreakable doesn’t mean you never crack. It just means you always come back together. Stronger. Truer. Braver.
If you’re feeling a little numb this season, a little far from yourself—me too. But I believe we can still find our way home, one truth at a time.
Merry Christmas. Even if it’s not perfect. Especially if it’s not.
Leave a Reply