a letter to December

Let's just make this short and sweet, okay?

I know we're awkward. These past few years have been less than perfect when it comes to maintaining our relationship. 

You haven't been the kindest of months. 

But I'm hopeful this year. The cynicism still rests dormant underneath, mostly from years of disappointments and should-have-beens. But that's past, you know? And I'm ready for new.

So this year, I'll attempt to avoid talking about how this is the fourth time you've come around since we began the adoption process and how despite multiple attempts, my husband and I are still heavy with empty arms. I can't dwell on that any longer. It's too much for the small sliver of hope to carry.

Instead, can we dream about how sweet it will finally be to celebrate Christmas holding a little one close? And hold tight to the belief that maybe-somehow-magically this year will be different? That instead of staring down four years we'll shut the door on three?

The other things you know. The wonder, the enchantment, the mysticism, the quiet and solitude of this season—all of it always seems to brush up against me. We never embrace completely. This year? Well, I just want you to know I'm chasing it. I'm done with the wait, okay? I'll chase after all the wonder and enchantment and belly laughs I can muster. 

You can't stop me. 

There will be friends and warm drinks and late nights and feel-good movies and surprises and laughter—so much laughter—and beauty and hope and Truth. You won't be able to trick me this year. Even when the feelings rise up uninvited—you know the ones—I'll push them away because just because it feels the same doesn't mean it won't be different.

And this year? This year will be different. I'm throwing that flag in the ground and standing with my arms bent across my chest staring you down.

And when winter beckons with her icy fingers, I'm going to rest easy and know that even though the air outside threatens to steal the air out of my lungs there is still strength within for my next breath. I know this know after all of the times you left me out in the dark by myself.

Do you remember?

I used to welcome you with open arms. 
You probably remember me leaving the door wide open for you. 

Are you surprised I'm still opening the door? Me too. Hope does funny things to a heart once she makes herself comfortable. And here's another secret >> 

I'm not afraid of the dark anymore. 

So go ahead and treat me like you've always treated me. I think you may be surprised by the finger I decide to raise. 

The hope inside? She's feisty. And she's lacing up her boots and declaring all sorts of holy ground and no one—not even a month wrought with terrible memories and disappointments—will stand in her way.

This post is inspired by the weekly prompts I give the Story Sessions community. You can join us—there's always more than enough room. 

Posted on November 27, 2013 .