It was a good holiday, right? You survived #Snomaha; I survived #WaikikiNashville. It’s spookylike, this warm weather, certainly the first time I ever grilled the Christmas roast beast outside.
Amid the weathery weirdness, I have a holiday story to tell.
About three and a half years ago, I wrote a post, “Undelivered Handknit.” It’s not long, but it is depressing. What struck me then, and now as I read it again, was the amazing response from everybody here on the blog, hearing how common it is for a family member to go off the rails. It was a comfort to read all these stories, as harrowing and heartbreaking as they were.
A lot has happened since then. The scarf I had intended to give this person during the intervention in Florida languished in my closet, surviving a comprehensive closet cleanout not because this scarf sparked joy, but because it was an unanswered question, a gift not given, a visible reminder of limbo.
I couldn’t get rid of it, because I had every intention of giving it to this person. My hope with this scarf was to give it to her when she was in a better place, though I had no idea when or if that might ever happen.
Well, she was in town this week, and we had lunch. She is in a better place—a place utterly unrecognizable from her life in 2012. We walked outside the restaurant in that strangely balmy air of the day after Christmas, and my head spun from all our talk. I thought about courage, and patience, and redemption, and how all these things are at work in this young woman.
It was a terrible gift, really—a mohair scarf for someone living in Florida. But it didn’t matter. She said she liked it. The joy I felt in giving her this scarf can hardly be described.