I love having guest bloggers grace You Can Have Hope! I’ve been reading Amy’s stuff for a while now, and think what she has to say is sweetly wonderful. I heartily recommend her to you all.

Amy Carroll is a speaker and writer for Proverbs 31 Ministries. She’s the author of Breaking Up with Perfect and Exhale as well as the director and coach of Next Step Coaching Services.  As a woman who loves a great story and a challenging idea, co-hosting the Grit ‘n’ Grace podcast has become one of her favorite things.

Amy and her husband live in lovely Holly Springs, NC where you can find her on any given day texting her adult kids, typing away at her computer, or trying to figure out one more alternative to cooking dinner.  Join Amy at amycarroll.org where she’s gathering tender hearts and strong voices, or find out more about her speaker coaching services at nextstepcoachingservices.com.

The longer I read the shorter my breath grew, and I felt the heat of stress radiating from my constricted heart. “At my house, the bustle stops when we gather with our daughters to trim the tree,” Gayle Butler, editor of Better Homes and Gardens, gushed.

Then she went on to describe her family’s lovely evening complete with traditional music, story-telling, and eggnog. She ended by saying, “By the time our quiet evening concludes, we’re energized and ready to try something new.”

Wow. That sounds just like my family. (Insert sarcastic tone here.)

My case of hives wasn’t so much from the article. I’m happy for Gayle and her peeps. Really. Instead, it came from memories of one particular tree-trimming evening at my house.

We all started well–hubs, the boys and me–matching up with the perfect pictures of Christmas preparations in my mind. It was just like BH & G. Amy Grant crooned Christmas carols in the background. Eggnog was poured into the red glass cups that I had snagged at a tag sale, and boxes of decorations from the attic lined the walls. For a fleeting moment, we experienced the perfect Christmas season.

But everything started downhill when it came time to put lights on the tree.

Squabbles erupted over tangled strings of bulbs. Somebody turned on the football game, and the sound of the TV clashed with the carols from the stereo. Instead of telling lovely stories of the ornaments’ histories as we hung each one, my boys began to make fun of the 70s-style baubles from my childhood. The perfect moment all fell apart faster than you can say, “Mama’s in a snit.”

Maybe they just got distracted, or maybe it was the maternal growls and snarls that drove them away, but suddenly I found myself sitting alone on the floor in front of the tree. The rest of my family had abandoned our decorating traditions.

I furiously gave the tree a yank to position it for another ornament, and…   TIMBER! It fell on me, driving the metal rod of one of the artificial branches into my arm.

That’s when it happened. Out of my mouth popped some of the overflow of a disgruntled perfectionist’s heart—a big, fat, four-letter word.

That brought the family back into the room.

“Mom! Did you just say #*!@?!”

To this day, there is one favorite Christmas story at my house. It’s not The Gift of the Magi or The Polar Express. Not even How the Grinch Stole Christmas makes the cut. Our family’s favorite story is The Day Mom Cussed When the Christmas Tree Fell on Her.

Sigh.

So much for the perfect family Christmas. Ours might be rated R.

This year is likely to be the hardest Christmas any of us can remember… especially if we’re holding tight to the idea of the ideal Christmas. After all, nobody’s up for singing “I’m Dreaming of a COVID Christmas.”

The tree-trimming I described above happened almost a decade ago, and I’ve now spent almost two decades breaking up with perfect. Only Jesus brings true perfection, so I’ve stopped pursuing my own so that He can start His perfecting work in me.

I’ve learned a few things we can all do as the holidays approach that will usher in what we all want this time of year—joy, peace, and a Jesus-focused heart. They’re all centered on relationships—with yourself, God, and others. Our circumstances will never be perfect, but our Christmas love can thrive.

Keep It Simple

Don’t drive yourself this season, and for heaven’s sake, don’t drive others either (a lesson I’ve learned the hard way). The pandemic has been difficult for all of us, and we’re tired. Be gentle with yourself and others.

For example, keep a family calendar and preserve some white space. For each opportunity presented, ask yourself what should not go on your calendar.

Leave some of the decorations in the attic. Pick up cookies for the holidays at the local bakery. Give a gift card to your cranky cousin that’s never pleased with his gift.

Have a discussion with friends and family about what is important to each person, and then let the rest go. I shake my head in sadness when I think of all the years that I drove myself and everyone else crazy with all the things I thought had to be done… stuff nobody enjoyed anyway.

Make Sure to Savor

Savor each person (even if they’re on Zoom instead of in the room), each moment, and most importantly, savor time each day with God. Linger in the candlelight of early morning. Let music of praise wash over you. Savor this season with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength.

For me, it’s particularly hard to savor my relationship with Jesus from November through December. My mental lists lengthen in any quiet moment, so this is the season when I need some great devotional books to keep my thoughts focused. Here are a couple I’ve got close at hand for this season:

• The Greatest Gift by Ann Voskamp
• The Women of Christmas by Liz Curtis Higgs

I’m looking forward to a simpler but happier Christmas with my family in 2020. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that breaking up with unrealistic expectations—those pictures of the perfect Christmas that only live in my head—is the key to creating a Christmas that’s perfect for us. (Hopefully, minus four-letter words this year!)-

I asked my good pastor friend Bobby McKay to write a guest blog today. Bobby sent me this little meditation out of the blue a day or so ago, and I was so impressed and moved I wanted y’all to experience it, too.

“Some folks remember the first time; some can’t forget the last.”

From the song Come On Come On by Mary Chapin Carpenter

I buried my last grandparent a month ago. Well, “buried” is not an altogether accurate description. A graveside service was not requested by the family so there was no formal gathering of folded chairs covered with the weird felt-like substance and no funeral home tent. Also absent was the green turf covering the ground. Minus the public internment, the outcome was just the same. The man in which I was partly named after was dead after nearly 90 years on planet earth. He was buried within a short distance of where he grew up, lived, left, returned to, and left again throughout his life. This time would be the last stop for his physical body; not too far from his parents and his wife of nearly 60 years who died 10 years earlier.

I was asked and elected to share a message for one simple reason: to honor my grandfather. Being the only grandson, I knew if I did not, I would have regret. My words in their entirety were short, totaling less than 20 minutes. The service was done in a seamless and anticlimactic fashion. I was able to get through the service without tears.

For me, tears (if they come) are always much later and in solitude. I am more cerebral in my grief. Grief is to be mostly processed, not proliferated.

I did not grow up near any of my family from either my mother or father’s side. I probably saw my grandparents on average 5 times a year. Cousins were people I saw on Thanksgiving and Christmas and aunts and uncles were almost like strangers to me.

However, there was one thing that has come to my realization within the last few days. There would be no more Christmases with the family members I grew up with. With the last passing of my grandparents, there would be no more gatherings, nothing to draw the tribe together in the future.

For my grandfather and for me, unbeknownst to either of us last year, this year will be the first Christmas with the presence of an empty chair (or in his case, recliner) in his house. Of course, no one enjoys going into a Christmas season looking through the lens of sadness or loneliness. Rather, we avoid such melancholy by often burying ourselves in busyness. Some of which is enjoyable. Parties, parades, and presents all have their place, but something about getting older I find each Holiday a bit more bittersweet than the previous.

Why must we lose such simple innocence?

Adding to this is the fact this will probably be the last year my youngest daughter sees Christmas with the eyes of a child. She still has trouble sleeping at night at just the thought of Christmas morning. Why must we lose such simple innocence?

This Christmas is setting itself up to be one of the heaviest in my life. If the doctors are correct, this will also be the last Christmas my dad will attempt to enjoy. While the details are too many to detail, his health is declining at a rapid pace. For him, it could be his last Christmas.

So, I am wrestling with how to make it memorable for him, but mostly for my children (his grandchildren). How would you approach Christmas if you knew it was your last? How do you approach Christmas if it is your first without a loved one? Is the answer to those two questions the same or entirely different? I think of the word “guarded.”

If I knew I would be entering my last Christmas season, I feel as I would carefully measure both my words and my time with great precision.

My youngest daughter loves Christmas music…all year long. I believe I wouldn’t complain about hearing the familiar jingles if I knew it could be the last time doing so. I would listen to my oldest daughter sing, but this time with my eyes closed and thank God for the talents she has been given. I think I would enjoy the town’s parade a bit more. I would drink an extra cup of Amy’s homemade hot chocolate. I wouldn’t even be bothered by the mass of people shopping for gifts. I surmise Advent would take on a more holy and personal tone in my expressions of faith.

I may or may not spend time thinking about the gifts I were to give, but I am sure I would be more concerned with the memories I would leave. I would sit down and have a good cry…and a good laugh. I would call some folks, hug some, and tell a few how much I loved them and thank them for loving me. I would eat the veal cutlets at Crystal Grill in Greenwood, Mississippi. I would go back to Standing Pine Baptist Church and remember it was there Jesus became real to me for the first time.

I would tell Amy I loved her and ask her to forgive me for the times I have ever hurt her or disappointed her. I would find a way to take Amy and the girls to the beach in Seaside, Florida. It is a place that is not my favorite, but I would cherish seeing them happy and smile one more time. I would make sure my life insurance premium was paid. I would tell my daughters they are my greatest gifts to the world. I would tell them nothing can bring you peace like Jesus and He is always faithful even when we are not. I would tell them when they chose to marry; if the man loves God, He will love you.

Maybe if I knew I was staring at my last Christmas in the face I would discover there is no real need to worry because it changes nothing. The opinions and expectations of others would diminish as my mortality began slipping away.

I think I would go hear more sermons and less time preparing and preaching them. Truthfully, I am reaching to guess anything I would do with my remaining time.

For each of us, there will come a time when we have celebrated our last Christmas and for the vast majority, we will not know when that will be. Maybe the key is to live and love as if each Holiday could be our last or at least be fully involved in the present tense by engaging each of the five senses God bestowed upon us.

At the same time, we should be mindful of many this Christmas as they navigate through these days for the first time without a loved one.

There is no guide for such things. There is no box to check to indicate you agree with the terms and conditions. You make the way by going forward, cherishing what you have and expressing thanks for the things and people that are no longer at arm’s length.

Life is to be lived, pondered and as much as possible; enjoy. It is a gift and there is no return policy. A life without serving others is one that is wasted.

In some of His last recorded words recorded in Scripture, Christ tells us He is the First and the Last. That means He is eternal. It is beyond our understanding to grasp the fact He is both indwelling the past and future at the same time. While such theological truths may escape our intellect, it does not mean it should escape our interest.

For most believers, knowing the fact that Christ is the Beginning and the End results in a great deal of comfort. To recognize He was there with us from the formation in the womb until we draw our last breath provides us with the hope needed to trust Him literally with life and death.

Let us not forget Christ Himself wants to be real to each of us. He desires to be with us much more than we desire to be with Him.

The real test is not the First and the Last aspects of Jesus’ benevolence, but rather it is the middle we wrestle with. It is the in-between times and seasons of our life where we so desperately need Jesus to be real to us. Let us not forget Christ Himself wants to be real to each of us. He desires to be with us much more than we desire to be with Him. His incarnation and atonement prove that.

It is in these “middle times” where we discover how much we really love Christ and how well we choose to worship Him in uncertain times.

The middle is where we spend most of our lives. Just as you have only one birthday, you will have onlyone death day. The middle is filled with weddings, birthday parties, vacations, school plays, soccer games, church services, traffic, entertainment, sunrises, sunsets, and a million other events, when collected, equal a life lived. Perhaps you go into your last Christmas like you should any other day: thankful and keenly aware that while our days may indeed be limited, they are of great importance.

This Christmas, thank God for the middle and celebrate Christ and the life provided byHim.

When you and I die, our life will be reduced by some to a couple of dates in an obituary. The first breath and the last one. This Christmas, thank God for the middle and celebrate Christ and the life provided by Him. While you are celebrating, take in every moment. Enjoy each moment as if it were your first…or your last. You won’t regret it.

This is a sequel of sorts to my last blog, “Grieve Appropriately.” I have a bit more to say, and for some reason that particular blog seemed to resonate with many of you. So there’s this.

Papa Wilson died when I was eight years old. This was in 1964. I don’t remember many details about his actual death, but I do remember that he was 84 when he died. I thought that was positively ancient.

Mama was part of a family of twelve kids. At some point you cross the threshold of having a family and it becomes a litter. She was close to her daddy, and she indeed grieved.

There was some debate with Daddy and her about whether or not I should go to the funeral. Maybe they thought I’d be traumatized. I was up for it. I had sort of a morbid fascination with the whole process. I had a nebulous idea about how all this worked from TV shows and movies. I knew it was all about preparing the body for burial, picking out a casket, having the funeral itself (which these days more often referred to as a “memorial service,” as if the term “funeral” is too archaic or disturbing. Maybe they’re two different things.)

I also knew that there’d be a procession – that Papa Wilson’s casket would be carried by the pallbearers across the road from the church to the cemetery itself, and there he’d be “interred” (another infrequently used word) by being dropped into a vault in the ground and subsequently sealed and covered up in dirt. I remember thinking “what IS a pall anyway?” The whole thing, from the time the body was prepared for burial until the time it was lowered in the ground, was choreographed with the panache of a Broadway musical.

The most intriguing part of the process was what was called the “viewing.” “Wake” is another term. The excitement I felt at the time was knowing that I was going to be able to see a dead person. I loved Papa Wilson too, but I had no fear about seeing his body. I found the term “viewing” to be very accurate. We all had to take a look at him. It was part of the process, and was supposed to bring some closure. I’d add, too, that in southeast Alabama, another term was prior to the funeral you had a “sitting up,” aka wake, where someone spent the night at the funeral home or the house and sat with the body, as if it were going anywhere. The custom came from the need to keep mice and other vermin from making themselves at home in the casket – they needed to be shooed off. Or to keep the cat from sitting on the body. It didn’t matter if there were mice or cats around. You were simply expected to keep the departed company.

Papa Wilson lay in state in his house, in the parlor. I remember relatives and friends milling around on the front porch, talking in subdued whispers, as though if you were too loud it might disturb Papa Wilson. When you walked in the front door of the house, you came in the living room, and through French doors from the living room you’d enter the parlor/dining room.

So here’s young Tony, standing on the front porch, flanked by Mama and Daddy. Mama said, “Would you like to say goodbye to Papa?” I didn’t know about that … I knew he wouldn’t be able to hear me, but I also figured the goodbye was more for me than him. I said yes, but it was more of me wanting to see what he looked like than say any farewells.

So I was ushered into the parlor. People parted to let us come in. I saw the casket, gleaming in the subdued light, with the top opened, or at least half of it. I saw a white ruffle of pleated fabric spilling over the side. But because I was not grown, I couldn’t really see into it. I could see Papa Wilson’s nose and not much else.

At we approached the side of the casket I was able to peek in. Papa Wilson was dressed in a fine suit. I heard Mama sniffling, and I glanced up at Daddy. His jaws were working, his teeth clenched.

“Doesn’t he look sweet,” Mama said.

“He looks like he’s asleep,” Daddy said.

My thought? “He looks like he’s dead.” I wasn’t fooled.

Like his grandson, Papa Wilson was bald. Typically his head shone like a polished hubcap. This time, however, it was so powdered that it looked like parchment. His face was stretched tight, almost like a mask. His mouth was what disturbed me – it was though it was made of wax. (I’ve since learned that mouths can be a real problem for undertakers – because the mouth is always in motion, to see it perfectly still is an anomaly.)

I stood still and examined him with frank curiosity. I think my folks expected me to cry, or run, or something. I did none of these. Candidly, I didn’t feel anything. My primary thought was, “That’s not Papa Wilson. That’s just the horse he rode in on.”

Since that day I’ve been to many more funerals and performed a fair share, too. It’s given me plenty of opportunities to observe grief. Here’s your takeaway – everyone grieves differently, and you are in no place to judge if someone doesn’t grieve the way you would.

Which brings me back to “grieve appropriately.” I’ve already discussed that. To an observer of the eight-year-old Tony, they might feel that I didn’t grieve appropriately, if at all. That may be so.

When you think about it, grief is a part of closure, or should be. The overarching need is to move on. Grief, whatever its source, is a milestone, a transitional point from what was to what is. To get stuck in the what was can be a recipe for despair. Losses will happen, and there’s nothing that can be done about that. But staying bogged down in that loss, refusing to move on, is to doubt the bigness and sovereignty of God, who has no desire for us to be mired in the past, and is aware and present in our loss and perhaps even engineered it.

How do you move on?

This may be shallow, but … you just do. While your emotions may be raging and drowning you, understand that they are transient (unless there is some clinical problem, which we won’t go into here. I understand the reality of chronic depression, anxiety, anger, etc.).

Say this familiar biblical phrase: “And it came to pass…”

What is isn’t what will always be. And while we may always have a sense of loss after a tragedy, the reality is that it doesn’t have to cripple us. It is legitimate to miss what once was. But, armed with the knowledge that you can’t go back, and by listening to your head as well as your heart, it is possible – and necessary – to move forward toward a new horizon. What lies beyond may be a mystery, but it is no mystery in knowing that no matter where you’re headed, God is already there.