An Honest Holiday Letter, 2024
It’s that time of year again! The time when skies turn grey, temperatures drop, morning fog rolls in, and my husband piles on more layers than an onion. He plugs in his electric blanket, turns on the fireplace, slips hand warmers into his pockets, switches on his seat warmer (plus heated steering wheel cover), and dons his heated jacket: this is his winter survival routine. I have run out of accessories that warm up to gift this man. While on vacation in Alaska this summer, I learned that Alaskans have over 120 different words for “ice,” and I feel this is the same for Zach’s varying states of gloominess in the winter. This year, it may require nothing short of a sauna to improve his disposition.
Aside from habitually hibernating, Zach spends his days faithfully pastoring the people. He leads our family, life group, church staff, and congregation without so much a negative word. As if that wasn’t enough, he also has a steady side gig as a spiritual direction coach. I cannot fathom how he does all this. I also have a lot of plates spinning, but unlike Zach, I do a great deal of whining about it. His superhero-like listening skills and honest face often land him knee-deep in conversations with strangers compelled to bare their souls and share their life stories (not the short versions). He rolls his eyes and laughs when a quick “hello” to a neighbor turns into a two-hour therapy session, but I’m not convinced he doesn’t wear his “The pastor is in” sandwich board whenever he leaves the house. Not surprisingly, that kind of thing never happens to me. It must be my resting face.
Justice Grant is now nine years old, stands five feet tall, weighs well over 100 lbs, and wears men’s shoes—and we haven’t even hit puberty yet, folks. Not only is he as big as a tween, but he also smells like one. Just yesterday, he came to me wrapped in a bath towel and asked, “What do I use the bottle called ‘shampoo’ for again?” Lord, come quickly. He may only be in the fourth grade, but his bedroom smells like a junior high gymnasium. You best believe Santa is filling his stocking with air fresheners and prescription-strength deodorant this year. He’s finally moved on from his Pokemon obsession because there is a God in heaven. Somehow he still manages to take up all the air in a room with his ramblings, but now it’s about wolves and huskies. As Providence observed, “At least we know it could be worse.”
Justice is not built for speed; quite frankly, he hates running, but did that stop him from joining his school’s cross-country team? Nope, it did not. It was a slow season… literally. Bless it. He continues to excel, however, in martial arts and now holds a blue belt in taekwondo. Despite all the discipline his Chief Master drills into him, it doesn’t seem to translate to Justice’s daily chores. The boy hasn’t enjoyed a payday since last summer. (That’s what happens when you only pick the chores that “match your vibe.”) All attempts to discuss this with him were forfeited when, upon knocking on his bedroom door, he slipped me a piece of paper that said, “Out of office,” scribbled in Crayola marker. Unfortunately for him, it’s all or nothing in this house, so you don't get any cash if you don’t do all the chores. It hasn’t yet dawned on Justice that he’s doing all his “favorite” chores for free and therefore entered self-imposed slavery.
Justice has recently attempted a side hustle in which he creates “custom” artwork in two minutes or less, then tries to sell it to the neighbors from his makeshift art stand crafted from empty Amazon boxes. His sign says, “Justice’s Art Stand. Line starts here.” (Apparently, he’s anticipating big crowds.) I’m unconvinced there will be much interest in hastily drawn Pokemon balls, but who can really say? Art is so subjective, after all.
Providence turned thirteen this year, and to Justice’s relief, she has not become “a mean, stuck-up teenager that says things like Stay out of my life!” as he predicted. (She does, however, say things like “I’m not your BRUH” to him more times than I can count.) Prov is not at all a morning person; I know this because she spends the first fifteen minutes of her day muttering in indecipherable groans and whimpers. Her fine motor skills must not kick in until after she arrives at school because she can’t even seem to open a yogurt before 8am without my assistance. Her brother, on the other hand, wakes up singing at the top of his lungs with rays of sunshine radiating from every orifice. Oh, if looks could kill. “Can you just… not?” is standard breakfast table banter. After completing two years of horseback riding lessons, Prov decided to move on to greener pastures and try out volleyball. Turns out she has a natural talent for serving, but as she’s the least competitive kid on earth, it seems a bit wasted. That being said, her team only lost one game all season and took first place in the league, and let’s just say she didn’t hate it.
Providence is now in the throes of junior high school. Boys are still seen as “immature” and “barely friend material,” so it begs the question: who is the lip gloss, mascara, body spray, and hair curling for? Ever the successful academic, she set a personal goal of maintaining 95% or higher in all seven classes “just for fun.” Providence’s creative talents in writing and art continue to put any artistic ability I thought I had to utter shame. She can write a poem or draw a portrait in the backseat of the car in ten minutes flat, producing a quality product worthy of publishing. She is a reliable perfectionist with significant overachieving tendencies, and in case it wasn’t obvious enough, she’s adopted.
Our English Bulldog, Sugar, is three years old and bears a striking resemblance to a baked potato. Thanks to monthly injections and daily medications that cost more than our groceries, her early-onset arthritis no longer inhibits her mobility. She can finally act her age, physically, at least. Emotionally, Sugar is a crotchety old lady, fiercely stubborn with excessive opinions and a strong aversion to change. The list of things she hates gets longer by the day. What she lacks in joy, she makes up for in confidence. Sugar never deigns to glance at other dogs who pass her way, nor any other animal for that matter, so strong is her superiority complex. At every vet visit, she settles herself comfortably on the scale, prominently placed in the lobby for all to see. Refusing to move, she stares willfully into the eyes of every other dog and human, daring them to judge her. Sugar is best described as insatiably needy but simultaneously unapproachable: it’s a unique paradox.
And finally, there’s me, Anne, the Mom. I’m just over here falling short of all the expectations I set for myself. All the wonderful activities I’m part of year-round (Bible study, book club, recipe club, lunch group, public library volunteer, 4th-grade guest reader) seem amplified in December. As much as I try to slow down, soak it in, savor the season, and all that stuff we moms mutter as a holiday mantra, it just doesn’t seem possible sometimes. Not with the parties, luncheons, volunteer sign-ups, charity donations, white elephants/secret Santa/favorite things gift exchanges (of which there are five just between Prov and myself), classroom contributions, and last-minute notifications (three of which I received this morning: By the way, your son has a class party in 48 hours. P.S. We need you to chip in 4 boxes of candy canes and 32 packets of hot cocoa. P.P.S. We need parent volunteers. P.P.P.S. It’s also a mug exchange.)
As the kids have gotten older, I find myself doing less magic-making and more managing calendar mayhem. I may not have to move the Elf on the Shelf anymore, but I do have to bake four dozen muffins for a church event, frost three plates of cookies for a potluck, host a New Year’s Eve shindig, drive the kids to three holiday parties, wrap four dozen presents plus 10,000 other things and also stay caught up on laundry, make dinner, and manage my meager writing career. Around the dinner table this week I said something about the “hustle and bustle” of the Christmas season. My precious children looked at me with blank stares. “I don’t think I really have anything to hustle,” said the teenager. “Or bustle,” chimed the boy. Right. I guess it’s just me then.
When it all gets to be too much, I self-medicate with coffee and throw myself into a good book. I’ve read 55 books this year; you may be wondering how that’s possible given how busy our family life is, but let me assure you that you too can be well-read if you completely ignore all your responsibilities for hours, even weekends at a time for the sake of a page-turner. I have no regrets.
We are heading into 2025 a little wearier but no less joyful. We pray you are too.
Embracing imperfection,
Anne, Zach, Providence, Justice & Sugar
Almost 18 years married and we still have so much fun together. Nothing beats laughing with this guy, (even if it’s laughing to keep from crying).
“Show me how you really feel about taking holiday photos.”
Sugar, stubbornly owning her 62lbs, vet and worldly standards be damned.