O Holy Night proclaims at Christmas that a “weary world rejoices”; the implication is that Advent might find us worse for wear. Dear baby Jesus, I am weary. And I am feeling the invitation to sink deep here.

It was so surprising to me that I had to nurture self-awareness of my own sources of joy with unapologetic confidence. Of course I get surprised by new things, and then I get to add them to the list. As I age, the list is getting longer and simpler simultaneously.

Over and over again, I am tempted to do it all myself, to pretend like I don’t need others’ care, as though my humanity is a burden for the people around me. This is such a lie, and it is so obvious to everyone around me, even when I’ve deceived myself thoroughly.

Over the last few months, I have been thinking a lot about the way that places and spaces hold us. Walking through our old neighbourhood for the last time, I walked under aged elm trees, whose branches provided cover from a gentle rain. In other seasons, that park was a playground of snow, and a mountain of leaves. It was a space that held our family so beautifully over the last few years.

There is risk in the uprooting. Some parts of the plant may be damaged or die. But there is also risk in not dividing and transplanting. Old plants can become congested, overcrowded, and produce hard and bitter fruit. 

I have to remember the joy of my childhood rubber boots. It is such a messy miracle that the winter melts into spring. That water lays on soil and roots and rocks traceart beneath my feet, that water and bubbles get trapped between fragile crystals of ice.

Whether I am singing in church or rooting around in the dumpster trying to find the-most-important-thing-that-we-accidentally-threw out this week, there are piles of ashes and reasons to hope.

Moment by moment, the Creator gives me the gift of freedom. I have space inside myself and in the world to act freely, to make choices and direct my life as I wish.

We sit at the kitchen table, or around a fire, or on the beach and we talk about the world as we see it. And I am delighted to discover that the world does not look exactly the same to all of us. Occasionally, I leave a conversation and realize that the words have changed my world.

And so, from my resting place, I am discovering vicarious joy. I drive by bursitis yards full of flowers and I pull over and look for awhile. I can’t tend a yard like that on my best day, but it feels amazing to delight in the care and attention of the strangers who have done all that beautiful work.

Living in false stori is painful. I feel isolated and confused. I try to force my reality onto others.

I just want to say that it has been my overwhelming experience that God trusts you to live your wild and beautiful life.

Joy is a way of being in the world where I focus on what is good in the moment right now and recognize I have done nothing to earn it. Joy just is, and I can dwell in it, if I let myself.

Both in communities of faith and in twelve step groups, I have found glimpses of this God who sets us free. I love to get to a place with people where it is possible to ask the question: “Tell me about the God of your understanding.” The God of my understanding is not afraid of our freedom but delights in it.

Especially when the gift we long for is a person, receiving the gift changes everything.

Owning less has been a necessity and a goal as we downsized our home with our last move. And last fall, I took up the Wool& Challenge to wear the same dress for 100 days in a row. I was intrigued (as a knitter) by the prospect of wearing wool, exhausted by the choices in my closet every morning, and challenged by the impact fashion has on the environment.