It's Sunday morning and Christmas Eve. I am here in my attic bedroom instead of heading out the door to church. My head is stuffy and my body aches. I am hoping an abundance of fluids and a bit of quiet will help with a miraculous recovery. In the meantime, I will be thankful for the gift of discomfort that provides a bit of understanding for terribly cranky, runny-nosed babies and small children at work who are unable to explain why all they want is to cry and be cuddled.
Tomorrow, sick or not, I will travel through the snow to spend Christmas Day in my "other home," the one my kids now call "Dad's house." My heart will swell and ache as I sift through memories and emotions. I may come home sad and confused, or perhaps God will grant me the gift of clearer understanding as to where I am headed.