This time of year is like an emotional minefield for me, never knowing quite how the days will pass, never knowing what might unleash a torrent of unavoidable tears, not knowing if the days might pass in a simple silent remembrance or an almost forgotten whisper.
These days are anniversaries. Friday was the anniversary of my dad's death. This year marks 20 years. He was 55. I was 9. He was too young; so was I. Saturday was the anniversary of the visitation. And today, today is the anniversary of my dad's funeral. And also, what would have been my parents' 40th wedding anniversary. (Yes, his funeral was on their 20th wedding anniversary. He knew it would be--he had said that he'd either die or we'd have the funeral that day when he was sent home two weeks earlier with oxygen, pain medication, and the reality that this was the end of the treatment and the end of this life. I almost wrote sent home without hope, but that's not true. We had lots of hope--hope for a miracle, and also hope for fulfillment of God's promises.)
Some years these anniversaries aren't so bad--sometimes they aren't so good. This year, not so good. I did a wedding on Friday and another was here on Saturday. A lovely couple celebrated their anniversary today and provided flowers. And all these pointed to my dad, pointed to my family. And I wanted to cry.
And Saturday I received a letter I didn't want to get. And I didn't realize how much I wanted things to turn out differently. I interviewed at a congregation not too far away from here. It would require a move--but a move that would be closer to my (step)kids and a move that would allow my husband to keep his current job and commute. I wasn't really sure this was the place for me, but I wanted it to be. I didn't want to hear that a congregation didn't want me--or at least didn't want to talk to me one more time or hear me preach or... I didn't realize how much this would hurt.
And in response, I ended up fighting with my husband, crying and asking only to be left alone. I ended up feeling alone and lonely and sad and hurtful and like happiness was not mine to have. And I know that's not fair. We worked it out and went to bed okay with each other. But still I woke up in the night and lay there for an hour--very unlike me--unsure of where to go from here.
Today, this evening, I feel like happiness is less elusive, but I'm still sad. I'm still tired. I still don't know where to go next. But I'll take today. I'll face tomorrow and go from there. Not much else that I can do.