Silent December

It's December.  I used to look forward to December with great anticipation.  All good things happened in December when I was a kid.  Snow.  No school.  Christmas.  Family.  Presents.  And, honestly, the world just seemed a little bit cozier in December.  (I really feel the same way about football season in my small town.)

But now I dread it.  I dread the first day because it leads into a second, and the pattern continues.  I dread it because of what didn't happen and what can't be fixed.  There's still snow and family and no school and presents, and I still love those things.  But there's something else that lurks behind all of those things that makes it just a little less sparkly than it was in the past.

There's more hope this month than in any other month in the calendar.  And I will simultaneously thank God for that hope and curse it under my breath, because unfulfilled hope has a way of stinging like a slap to the face.

This month, in the back of my mind, I silently celebrate the birthday that won't come and will go unremembered.  I light imaginary candles for nonexistent people and pray for this month to go as fast as possible and be as silent as possible because I can't really muster enough joy to share it with the world.

But I could do with a few silent nights.