Blursdays: What Fills the Gaps Between Christmas and New Years

I took an early morning walk, quite pleased with myself that by the time I turned the corner at the end of my street I had figured out that today was Thursday. Then, after a few more mental calculations, I corrected it to Friday. Close enough. 

Days between Christmas and New Years are amorphous. Is it a Monday? A Tuesday? A Saturday? Nobody knows. Days have no identity. There are no solidified mealtimes, just indiscriminate eating of leftover Christmas lasagna and cookies and the triple-layer coconut cake that our neighbor dropped off.  There are no distinct times, either, just earlier and later. I haven't worn anything other than sweats in 72 hours. Have I put in contacts? No way. Mascara? That's laughable. I'm in my most natural state, and it's a little slovenly and a little wonderful all at once.

Back to that morning walk: when there's nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, it's easy to carve out an hour and a half to wander. From my house, I took my most common walking loop: down the street, hang a right, then take an eventual left which leads me past the house with the wood stove.

Against the pale drab sky, bare tree branches loomed in stark contrast. I had to look for beauty. I noticed leaves that haven't been raked and unlit strands of Christmas lights draped along fences in the wan December daylight. Deflated inflatables languished in their drooped states over dormant grass.

But when you look, when you really look, you find the beauty. I stopped in my tracks to watch a flock of geese fly overhead in their V-formation. I veered down side streets to the quaint historic neighborhood, technically still classified as a village, that's nearby. There's something simple and beautiful about an unadorned natural grapevine wreath hung intentionally against barnwood.

I walked along a stretch of railroad tracks, which better positioned me to peek into the back yard of the house with stockpiled stacks of red bricks. What long-ago project were these bricks intended for, or what project might they eventually be used to complete? In the nearly twenty years I've lived here, they've just been there. It's a mystery.

The grain elevator and coal sheds still stand as a tribute to the past. When I drive by, I don't look at these sights closely, but as I walked I peered into the windows and somehow felt like I've stepped back in time. 

In the alleyway tucked behind the cafe, there's the blue fence with its arched gate that surrounds the house with all the pollinator plants. Like much of the town, the blue fence leans and sags. Odds are it'll either last forever, or it'll fall over tomorrow. Sheds and barns and fences seem to be eternally crooked here. Somehow, they manage to be equal measures sturdy yet run-down, upright yet ramshackle. 

I avoided roads on the way home and solely walked along the railroad tracks. You have to concentrate when walking this route. My steps never perfectly match the distance between wooden railroad ties, so I adjusted the length of my stride often. It made each step more deliberate, which felt okay, given that I was walking simply to enjoy walking, not to be anywhere for anything.

When I was a child, I think I would have loved walking these streets, wondering about the lives of people living in these houses. When I was a teenager, like my own kids are now, I'm not sure if I would have paid much attention. Perhaps yes, or perhaps I would have been immersed in my own life to the point that I wouldn't notice clusters of green moss growing along the rails.

I walked and I thought. I worried a bit, then prayed, then cycled back to a bit more worry when my prayers got tangled in my head. I know I can control very little in this life — my attitude, my reactions, my heart (and I'm still working on these things daily) — yet I kept thinking over the attitudes, reactions, and hearts of my own children, wondering if I've done anything, ever, right as a parent. Mentally, I know that my children are their own people, with their own inner thought lives, who ultimately control their own choices, attitudes, reactions, and hearts.

But, my oh my, some days. Some days it's hard.

It's a hard balance. I want to love them fully without solving their problems, which they need to solve on their own in order to grow. I want them to have experiences, yet have them understand — really understand — that experiences are privileges, not rights they're entitled to. I want them to have resilience and grit and fortitude. I want them to face challenges, not collapse under them. I want to be tender to their hurts, yet not enable. I want them to be grateful. I want them to take walks, even when the sky is gray. I want them to find happy distractions in an overhead flock of geese and beauty in a perfect tuft of moss nestled next to railways with their rusted patina.

Given that I didn't know what day of the week it was when I started this morning walk, you'd be right if you assumed that I didn't finish my walk with these thoughts figured out tidily. How to strike this balance as a parent, just like how to discern the form of these blursdays between Christmas and New Year, isn't instinctively clear to me.

So, I did the one thing I always do, the one thing I know is clear even when everything else is unclear. I turned back to prayer, aligning with God in this: I don't know. I lack wisdom, and I need it. Lord, would you please give me wisdom. I try so hard yet I'm a flawed person myself. Lord, you're perfect, so would you help me to faithfully point my kids to you through my actions, words, and attitudes. I'm tired yet I want to be strong. Lord, help me lean into you. Be my strong tower and refuge.

It's been hours since I returned home from my walk. (At least I think it's been hours. The day still has no discernable shape or structure to it.) There will be blurry days, blurry seasons, blurry times when nothing feels quite right, yet you make it through all the same. I'm banking on this, not just in regard to these loose days until our regularly scheduled lives begin again after the holidays, but in regard to all of life's phases. Like parenting teenagers. 

In the meanwhile, I'll take walks, during which I'll make middle-aged observations about the sights I see, and I'll pray. Oh, I'll pray, and I'll keep praying, and I'll pour out this heart of mine to the One who hears and understands, the One who knows me the best and loves me the most, the One who entrusted our children to us and us to them, the One who loves our children more than we can fathom, the One who actually knows it's Friday, the One who will remain faithful all the days of my life, even when those days feel blurry to me.