Our family add-on, the resident plant expert, he’s got a greenhouse tucked behind our garage, a secret little incubator for growing bonsai trees, succulents and other arborist specialties. One year, on my birthday, he walked through the front door with a baby wisteria tucked tenderly into its cozy, little pot. For me. That’s when I knew he was a kindred spirit.

Come winter, I tucked my wisteria on a corner shelf in the garage because he told me to. After a while, the leaves made a puddle around the planter exposing a bare-naked twig in pebbly soil.

I took a picture and texted him with a sad faced emoji. “Did I kill it?” I queried.
“If the leaves fall, it doesn’t mean the plant is dying,” he responded confidently. “It’s just part of the life cycle.” Truly Profound.

Fast forward to 2020–a year of Shedding. Uncovering. Stripping down to a stick in a pot. And sometimes, I wonder if it belongs in the bin.
The pandemic.
The relational disconnection.
The change.
The losses.
The quiet.
It’s Jarring. Discordant. Like looking at the world without my reading glasses and everything’s fuzzy.

Last year, Christmas Eve morning, I cuddled into a heated recliner seat watching Frozen 2 at the theater with my tribe. Who would have guessed Disney could be prophetic? Depressed, Anna sings,

I’ve seen dark before but not like this.
This is cold. This is empty. This is numb.
The life I knew is over. The lights are out.
Hello darkness, I’m ready to succumb.
I follow you around, I always have, but you’ve gone to a place I cannot find.
This grief has a gravity that pulls me down.
But a tiny voice whispers in my mind.
You are lost. Hope is gone but you must go on.  And do the next right thing.

Like Anna, I wake up these days feeling uncertain too. And I’ll be honest, I generally don’t really want to rise and shine. But I kick the covers off my night-sweaty body, sometimes as early as 5:00 and ask myself the same question every morning–the one I learned from an animated princess. Go figure. God works in mysterious ways.
“God, what is the next right thing?”
He replies gently.

Take care of your body.
OK.
So I jog, not because I love it. I don’t. It feels like death climbing the hill up the street but afterwards I’m grounded and energized.
I try to drink more water and eat less sugar.
And I hike when and where I can.

Take care of your mind.
OK.
So, I read more books and I enroll in a graduate degree program because after 26 years of educating my children, maybe it’s time to interweave my own life learning with a formal plan of study.

Take care of your emotions.
OK.
So, I get a job because I need to find an identity that gives my contributions to the world a monetary value too.
I keep writing in my locked journal document, catharsis at the keyboard.
From time to time, I unload on faithful friends who listen long and give me a safe space to feel what I feel.
And I grow things in my garden that are beautiful and make me happy.

Take care of your spirit.
OK.
So, I go on long prayer walks and give everyone and everything to God.
I read His words to me and other people’s words about living their stories yoked to His greater one.
And I add meditation, posturing my body to receive what God gives– quietly, breathing deeply.

Love and serve your family.
OK.
So I plod along with all the dailies—the dishes, the laundry, the housekeeping, the transportation, the grocery shopping.
And I keep stepping into opportunities to fortify each one to walk their own unique journeys.

Love and serve other people.
OK.
So, I volunteer because I can and I want to contribute to ministries that salve the wounds of hurting people.
And I mentor, because even though I’m a piece of work, my compassion is sincere.

Then, at the end of each day, I pamper my arthritic shoulder with an ice pack, shape my pillow around my neck for just the right amount of support and go to sleep in peace because God’s got me. I’m safe in His hands.
And every day, one day at a time, I just keep breaking it down to this next breath, this next step, this next choice, to do the next right thing.

And about now, gearing up for a long, gloomy Michigan winter after a lingeringly bleak pandemic year I tell myself what my kid said– “If the leaves fall, it doesn’t mean the plant is dying.”

And Thanksgiving, it’s a big, bold, brazen megaphone pronouncing this reality;

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases.
His mercies never come to an end.
They are new every morning.
Great is His faithfulness.
Lamentations 3:22-23.

I carry a lot of hopes into this holiday. Every year.
I want the food to be amazing.
The conversation animated and engaging.
I’d like to finish the puzzle without the dog eating any of the pieces.
I wouldn’t mind winning the whipped cream game.
And Lord knows, I want a good family picture wearing our gratitude shirts.
But when I dig a little deeper, what I’m really hoping is that we’ll come together postured for gratitude, attuned to God’s mercies, counting our blessings. Naming them one by one. Thankful we get to share them with each other. All day long.
And, really, that’s more than enough.