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.