I’m housebound today, caught in a swirl of Kleenex and Vicks VapoRub. The invader is making its way from my sinuses to my lungs; I’m certain that this has turned into another bout with bronchitis.
It is beyond difficult to feel hopeful in the midst of illness and depression. If I had my druthers, I’d pull the covers over my head and never leave. That seems like the safest option. Instead of ramming against the brick wall, straining and striving to break through, I could just give up. Give in. Call it quits.
My eyes fall upon the Christmas tree. Twinkling lights and precious ornaments, each with a story to tell. (Except, perhaps, for the Batman figure my husband insists upon hanging each year). Gifts chosen with care and love.
It’s not about the tree or the wrapping paper, I know. Christmas is so much more than that.
The tree transfixes me. It’s light reaches through the dark fog surrounding my heart and I remember.
I rub my ears and wince at the ache. Despite the clog, I hear. Hope. The tiny Baby who grew into the Man.
I don’t know how anyone gets through this life without Emmanuel, God with us.
For all the posts in the What Depression Means to Me series, go here.