Tis the Season for Reminiscing

The chicken thighs were boiling in my large stock pot on the stove, the air filled with the warm fragrance of chicken stock, and I was peeling and cubing potatoes. The next step would be getting the biscuits cut up for dumplings. This is one of my favorite meals to cook because it has 3 ingredients and is almost mindless in its preparation. Added to the fact that I always make it in obscenely large quantities, it’s one of my go to recipes to share with families in need of a meal, which is why I was making it again this week. Listening to the thwack of my knife against the cutting board as it chopped through potatoes, my mind wandered. I remembered a time not too long ago where the last thing anyone would have wanted from me was food. A time a little over ten years ago when I ruined more meals than I successfully cooked, when my husband and I lived off of Papa John’s pizza. I smiled at those memories, thankful that I’ve (mostly) figured out this cooking thing, my 30 year old metabolism can’t handle all that pizza.

It’s funny how certain actions, smells, and times trigger memories. The act of peeling potatoes, the smell of tar, birthdays, the ubiquitous hallway of an emergency room– these are some of the things that bring my memories rolling in, remembering not only an event, but who I was at the time. Oftentimes the memories bring with them a cringe, but others a chuckle, and sometimes a bit of longing.

I remember each boys’ unique birth experience and what it was like to hold them for the first time. From the beginning stages of early labor with its anticipation and discomfort, to the middle stages of active labor with its pain and sometimes panic, to that moment where the pain magically evaporates like it never even existed and I held a tiny baby in my arms, all joy and elation. Meeting the baby I carried inside my body for 9 months is an experience that is cherished, even when it happens unexpectedly on a bathroom floor. And while all 3 boys’ births are special, the birth of my first born in particular is held with fondness, and a chuckle at myself for who I thought I was going to be as a first time mom; i.e., my child will eat what we feed him, and other such nonsense. Bless her heart.

And then there’s the holidays and what those memories bring. Thanksgiving 2 years ago we received the first phone call about Wonder Woman, 5 days after that we received the call that she was ours, and 3 days after that she was in our arms and it was it’s own brand of joy and elation. I remember the mixture of excitement and fear like it was yesterday. 2 weeks after that, our first ER visit, first ambulance transfer, and I remember laying on the floor of her hospital room crying after I had passed out around 4am from exhaustion and the stress of listening to my 1 month old scream about the needle in her arm.  Something changed in me that night, it had to for me to be what my family needed. I think back to the mom that I was before we adopted. Honestly, those days were wonderful. Sure, they were a little crazy, two young boys always are, but after the adoption we picked up a weight that we hadn’t known before. There is a mental load to bear, a grief that comes in waves. We have stepped into the ring with our little fighter.

These holidays I reminisce about all of the different people I’ve been over the last ten years. There are versions of me that were more foolish, more idealistic, more selfish, and I fondly say to them, good riddance. But there were other versions of me that didn’t deal with depression and were pretty close to carefree, and it would be a lie to say I don’t miss them sometimes.

But isn’t that what we all realize during the holidays? When we sit back and take stock over the year(s), there’s always good and bad. You can be grateful for the things you have while mourning the things you’ve lost. You can be grateful for the child you have while still grieving the child she will never be. You can be grateful for Christmas with your family while still grieving the parent that should be handing out presents or the baby who should be celebrating their first. Grateful and grieving aren’t separate, they’re intertwined. The gratitude makes the grief sting even more, but the grief makes the gratitude more precious.

And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. Colossians 3:17