Coffee every morning, reading before bed, BBQ on the 4th of July.
When I was young, every time it rained my mom would set out painting easels and plastic aprons. After our masterpieces had dried, we’d make popcorn and watch a movie. I still get excited when I see rain decades later.
But sometimes our rhythms get interrupted. Sometimes the unexpected happens, and sometimes circumstances force us to change and adapt.
Holiday traditions are a warm balm in the cold for me. I crave the routines of decorating cookies, carving pumpkins and getting heart-shaped chocolates. But Thanksgiving is one of my absolute favorites. There is a lot less pressure than Christmas for everything to be perfect, but more anticipation than an ordinary Valentine’s Day. I think it’s the perfect holiday.
But my rhythm got interrupted.
When I met the man who would become my husband in college, I trusted him so deeply and loved being around him so much that I just had to marry him. I knew my life would be good with him. Not perfect, but wholesome and deep. I didn’t anticipate how many challenges we would have to overcome. I never considered the depth of sorrow we would face or the way marriage brings flaws and insecurities to the surface. Our marriage has been hard, but I was not wrong in my expectation. It is still good and wholesome and deep.
But before we got deep into wounds and baggage, we had a small hill to climb: deciding who to spend Thanksgiving with that first Fall. Our families live in different cities, so we couldn’t do the dance of visiting everyone in one day. We had to choose.
As we talked and prayed, I could see in his eyes and hear in his words how much his Mom’s sweet potatoes and family game night on Black Friday meant to him. I decided to make a permanent decision that would be hard at first, but hopefully one that everyone would get used to. We always spend Thanksgiving in Kansas City.
There was no explosion of love or fireworks when I made the choice. Just a small strong peace nestled in my chest. Sacrifice has this paradoxical way of feeling hard and good at the same time. Like exercise. And I learned in the years to come that exercising was exactly what I was doing. That muscle of sacrifice that had atrophied in college was suddenly something very sore that I needed to work through daily.
So, this year, as we once again coordinate travel, meals and toddlers on our way to KC, I hold with me in my heart a deep sense of what love is: to will the good of the other. And I pray that this year I could renew my sense of awareness that every moment of frustration or stress is actually an opportunity to love in disguise.
