A couple years ago, I sat in an Airbnb in Denver with three dear friends and fellow writers. We’d flown in from around the country to laugh, cry, and eat good food with each other. But most of all, we came together to write and make each other better writers.

Over the course of the weekend, each of us had a session where we could workshop our own project with the rest of the group. At that point in my own book writing process, I had about three chapters written, but I needed help putting flesh on the skeleton outlines I had for the others. Together, the four of us jotted down story ideas and relevant Scripture passages. They helped me eliminate redundancies and think through my theology.

Today is the Feast of the Holy Innocents. To be honest, before a few months ago, I’d never even heard of this particular feast day, but it’s one I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this Christmas season. 

The Feast of the Holy Innocents is a day to remember those–the young children, the babies–murdered by Herod the Great when he was trying to search out and kill baby Jesus.

I’ve always had a hard time with this story. Why did it have to shake out like this? Why did the coming of Jesus, our comfort and joy, our hope and light, have to involve such horrific darkness? Why couldn’t God have protected those children?

We’re a few weeks from the end of another year. As I look back over the last 12 months and take stock of what’s happened in the world, it’s easy to grow discouraged. Personally, my year has been exhausting and full, but relative to other years, it’s not one that’s been particularly marked by grief. Yet when I lift my eyes and consider so many others in my community around me and in the world at large, this year has overflowed with suffering. Just glance back at the headlines, and it’s obvious that suffering runs rampant.

As a strong believer that Christmas music, decor, and general merriment shouldn't happen until after Thanksgiving, I can officially say, "Merry Christmas!" This week, I’m going to attempt to catch up to those of you who have been celebrating since August by listening to all the carols, hanging stockings, buying gifts, and perusing holiday recipes (okay, that last one I do year-round).

I love this season—but that's not always been the case. Many years, it's been filled with grief. I vividly remember the year that Advent for me didn't mean waiting for the birth of a Savior. It meant waiting for my mom to die. Doctors told her months before that she probably wouldn't make it until Christmas, and that year, I dreaded the holiday more than ever. It felt like her death sentence.

My dad often repeats the phrase, “We have much to be thankful for.” While I was growing up, he’d say it at the start of a meal, when the family celebrated a holiday or a birthday, or simply at the end of a long day. For years, I thought those words were just another dad-ism, a phrase heard so often I’d be tempted to dismiss the sentiment and opt for an eye-roll instead.

But that regular expression of gratitude wasn’t a cliche or truism. For him, it has been a lifeline. I heard him say “we have much to be thankful for” while his hair fell out and his body weakened from cancer treatments. He said, “we have much to be thankful for” through tears, praying before dinner while my mom slowly deteriorated from her own cancer, lying in her bed just down the hall.

His gratitude was never an attempt to put on a fake smile. Instead, those words were spoken as a liturgy tethering our broken hearts to our sure hope. Gratitude didn’t replace lament; it often grew out of it.

One of my goals this past year was to have more fun.

I am pragmatic to a fault, so I confess, I had to put “fun” on my to-do list. As I write, I can see the notecard taped above my desk with my goals—fun written near the top in pink permanent marker.

Maybe you can guess how well that goal is going. I think I can safely assume 2020 went nothing like anyone planned and 2021 hasn’t been much easier. Maybe fun has been hard to come by. Even if this season has brought sweet moments at home or unexpected gifts, maybe you’re still feeling pressed down by a thousand tiny weights. Or maybe it’s one big boulder you’re carrying. Whatever the case, whether you’re anxious about this fall’s school situation, grieving injustice, fearful about the future, discouraged, or just plain tired, I want to remind us of something.

You are still allowed to have fun.

My mom’s body laid flat on the hospital-style bed in her bedroom. My dad, sister, and I removed her soiled clothes and put clean ones onto her lifeless body. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Her frail frame felt unexpectedly heavy—heavy in my arms, heavy in my soul. Then we waited for her body to be picked up.

Eventually, two men arrived. But they came earlier than we had anticipated, so we asked for more time. Don’t take her. Not yet. We’re not ready.

They kindly came back a few hours later, wrapped her in a black bag and carried my mom’s body out the front door. Just like that, gone. We stood in the entryway for who knows how long hugging, sobbing, clinging onto each other.

I admit it. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, as the saying goes.

I’m sitting here writing at the eleventh hour when I have multiple deadlines looming over me. I owe another friend some notes for a piece she’s helping me with, and I told her I’d get those to her days ago. Okay, a week ago. It’s still not done, and the list of emails I have yet to respond to grows as quickly as the laundry pile in the corner of my bedroom.

I don’t tell you this because I have some notion that busyness is a badge of honor. I’ve worn myself out far too many times to want to wear that badge anyway. Besides, if you look at my actual calendar, we’re not really that busy. We’re still living a contained life thanks to COVID precautions, and our days mostly consist of LEGOs and riding bikes in the front yard.

But I want the work I do and the way I spend my days to feel productive–and motherhood doesn’t always make that easy. I (kind of) like the feeling of having a deadline looming over me because I know it means something will eventually get done. A box will get checked off. I’ll finally sense accomplishment.

At my childhood home, we had a massive oak tree that towered over almost the entire yard. It housed squirrels and birds, provided shade as we played in the grass, and supported a tire swing we enjoyed for hours on end.

But I never noticed the tiny movements that made its branches stretch over the lawn or its roots dig deep into the earth. I never saw it grow, yet somehow that tree changed from a seed to a towering oak.

Apparently tiny movements add up.

Throughout his whole letter, James has been instructing his readers to live out their faith—and he’s been especially concerned with how they do that in suffering. Look back to the very first verse of this book. James writes to Jewish believers scattered around the world (“the twelve tribes in the Dispersion”). They’re dealing with persecution and long to one day experience the restoration God promised. But in the meantime, first century life has been hard, especially as followers of Christ.

They’re also navigating divisions within the Church, divisions between Jew and Gentile, rich and poor, honored and lowly. In the middle of all of this, James calls them to a life that reflects the kingdom and the character of God. We’ve seen the practical exhortations he’s given like avoiding partiality, watching their speech, submitting desires to God, and not putting their trust in plans or possessions. Then, we reach the end of his letter, which offers a fitting conclusion to all he’s instructed God’s people to do thus far: 1) pray and 2) help one another live out the truth.

A few days ago on my Instagram Stories, I shared someone’s post that I had come across about the Day of the Dead. I was attempting to learn and appreciate more about this Mexican holiday, but it turns out, I didn’t take the time to get all the information. The post I shared (which I’ve since taken down) made this holiday seem light-hearted, harmless, and joyful–and to be honest, I failed to do my research. My friend, Cynthia, kindly responded to me with additional information, showing me that there was more to the story.

We moved our conversation to email, and Cynthia sent me facts as well as her stories and opinions about the Day of the Dead. I realized how little I knew–and how easy it can be to believe things are harmless, when in reality, we are fighting a very real spiritual battle.

Cynthia’s words were so helpful and eye-opening, and I asked her if I could share them with you here. In the following post, she offers personal experiences, facts about the Day of the Dead, her own opinions, and then a closing story to help us to recognize the spiritual forces of evil trying to take us down. But, as she writes below, “Of course, Jesus wins. His light breaks through the darkness.”

I’m not a farmer. This year, I managed to keep a few plants alive inside my house, but other than that and a couple summertime herbs, my agricultural experience is next to nothing. I don’t know what it’s like to rely on the weather for food. But James’ readers know this well, and here he offers a metaphor that helps them understand what it looks like to be patient as they wait. Just like a farmer has to wait for his or her crop to bear fruit and in the process waits for the rains to come, so we wait for the return of the Lord.