The Last First

I'm walking into the grey. More accurately, I'm standing still as the clouds come. The last stage of the transition is here and it simply can't be avoided by running to the ocean or calling home or trying to make something of myself.

How thoughtful of the weather to oblige. The first big winter storm will blow out by Wednesday, but I sense my new melancholy will not be leaving so soon.

The year of firsts is nearly over, each one coming with a small thrill that overshadowed the tinge of loss. It seemed I had outsmarted the natural process of major transitions. I had willed myself to enjoy. I had immersed myself in new rhythms and navigated each new thing without breaking down. One more 'first' and I'm home free!

But its this last 'first' that did me in. The first Christmas in California. It seems all the pain is wrapped up in this season, waiting to finally be opened. Like a present forgotten under the tree and dutifully packed away with all the ornaments and bows and stockings until the next year. And now, here it sits–last year's loss refusing to be ignored.

So I'll open it and sit in the grey during this season of waiting and wonder. I'll feel the weight of loss because I know it's the only path to the thrill of hope and new life. And I'll keep singing and loving, even as I grieve.

Not exactly what I was expecting, but I don't want what I can envision…I need the redemption that only God can offer.