Faith Journey Archives - Page 3 of 3

The Waiting Place

May 16, 2010 By heidi 4 Comments

You can get so confused that you’ll start in to race

down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace

and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,

headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place…for people just waiting.

It’s a strange place, this waiting place. I thought having a d&c would eliminate the waiting place from our experience. I naively thought I was waiting for the baby’s body to pass from my body. The 32 hours between the time we found out the baby had died and the time I was taken in for surgery were the longest of my life. I was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to sneeze, afraid to do anything for fear I’d do something to start the process of miscarrying on my own.

I don’t regret the d&c. I don’t wait well. I just didn’t understand how much waiting would be left when it was over. I’m waiting for the bleeding to stop. Waiting for the results of testing. I’m desperately waiting to find out if the baby was a boy or girl so I can put a name to the pictures in my mind. I’m waiting for the funeral home to call and tell me we can collect the ashes. I’m waiting for my follow-up appointment to find out more about the fibroids and clotting issues. I’m waiting to leave for Florida. I’m waiting for the Prozac to start working.

What I’m not waiting for? To feel better. It makes me angry when I notice feeling lighter and welcome the return of sadness when it follows. Sometimes I flirt with the idea of pretending these last 12 weeks (well, the 9 I knew about) were all figments of my imagination. Then I’m incredulous that I could ever consider the idea and I let guilt inflict a little wounding on my soul.

I wonder when, exactly the baby’s heart stopped beating. I heard it around 11:00 last Saturday morning. Over the few preceding days I had noticed it was hard to keep track of the baby with the doppler – I’d find the heartbeat for a few moments and the baby would seem to move away. Because of this, I tried to listen briefly because I figured if the baby was consistently moving away the doppler waves might be irritating. How long after that did it end? Soon after? Right before I tried to find it again around 8:00?

I suspect I know. Around 5:30, I stopped at the store to pick up some soda for the evening. We’re not typically soda drinkers, but we were having a small get-together so Tahd could cash in on a Christmas present – a pay-per-view UFC fight. I grabbed two cases, a Sprite and a Mountain Dew, paid, then tossed them in the car. As I got in, I felt a funny burning sensation in my lower abdomen. I arrived at church a bit later and noticed the sensation a few more times and tried not to worry because pregnancy is fraught with strange sensations and unusual annoyances, the analysis of which could drive a person insane.

Most pregnant women seem to have a few moments earlier in pregnancy where they wonder if they’ve felt the baby move. Of course, they wait a few more weeks and have an unmistakable experience of movement and are able to focus on their feelings of increasing intensity for the rest of the pregnancy, forgetting the earlier sensations that may or may not have been baby. I had several of those experiences and was growing quite excited about feeling what was unmistakably the baby. Herein lies the only benefit I can see of my experience – because I went from pregnant to not pregnant in the course of 36 hours, I’m quite sure I felt the baby move. Before Saturday evening, my belly was alive with activity – not all the time and nothing strong – but there were whispers and taps that left me wondering but questioning. Knowing how instantly they subsided, it makes me think those things really were movement, a small gift to me I would never have otherwise understood.

I haven’t decided if I’m waiting to get really angry or not. I have moments of it, as I mentioned earlier, but that’s it, really. Just moments. We went to church this evening, our typical Saturday evening routine. I didn’t want to go; I felt like everyone would stare at me and I’d cry. But Gabe really wanted to attend his children’s program and Tahd said he felt like going, so I obliged. I’ve said no to basically every other thing Tahd has wanted to do this week and I’ve been feeling guilty.

Nobody stared. I did cry. There were songs at first, but I couldn’t sing. My mouth was glued shut and I tried to swallow over the lump in my throat. But eventually I sang – not because I wanted to but because I was still worried everyone might be staring. The lyrics seemed strange, very foreign.

Oh Lord my God in You I put my trust/Oh Lord my God in You I put my hope

I’m casting my cares aside/I’m leaving my past behind/I’m setting my heart and mind on you Jesus

Forever, author of salvation/He rose and conquered the grave/Jesus conquered the grave

The last one really bothered me. It is a strange feeling to have walked with death inside you, to be a grave. The only thing I imagine it compares to is holding a loved one in your arms as s/he passes. But even that’s not the same. I suspect that’s worse in many regards, especially if it’s a child who is dying. But to hold death in your body is extremely personal, and odd, really. I know some people who have lost a later-term pregnancy feel a rush to get the baby out of their body for this reason. Other people would rather wait because they’re not ready to give up the physical connection. I felt neither of those things, really. I felt an urgency to have surgery because I was scared of delivering, and although I felt desperately sad at what had happened, I didn’t feel the same connection to the baby I felt when I knew it was alive. I guess when we sang these words I felt bitter. And disbelieving. And angry. I was a grave just one week ago, and I’m certainly feeling no victory.

But then we sang this:

With all creation I sing/Praise to the King of Kings

and I was back in the in-between.

I have fairly specific beliefs about the beginning of life. Without going into tremendous detail, I will say that I generally believe miscarried babies will be in Heaven. I believe I will see this baby again.

The line in this song says “with all creation I sing.” Quite simply, I imagined singing with my baby. Perhaps we’re separated by time and dimension, but the idea of doing the same thing at the same time, united in heart brings comfort. Granted, I don’t know if I’m right in my belief that miscarried babies are in Heaven and I certainly have no clue if babies in Heaven can sing. But I imagined it and it felt good and I liked the idea.

Early in this pregnancy, I told God that if He gave this baby to me only to take it away via miscarriage that I didn’t think my faith was strong enough to sustain the trauma. I told Him is He was going to do it, to please do it quickly – to not let it drag on because every day it went on was a day I fell deeper in love. To have miscarried this baby at the turn of the trimesters ON Mother’s Day is almost like a slap in the face. He did exactly what I told Him I didn’t think I could handle. What I don’t think I can handle.

And yet.

We sang those words and I realized I’m in a bind. To hold onto the hope that I will see my baby again, I can’t let go of the schema on which it’s all based – put loosely, the God/Jesus/cross stuff. On the other hand, if I give up the schema, I also give up the hope. It’s a tricky spot, hating to believe and hating to not believe. It’s sort of like another line from the Seuss book:

I’m afraid that some times you’ll play lonely games too. Games you can’t win ‘cause you’ll play against you.

So I wait. To get answers. To work it out. To feel peace. To find comfort. Something – even one of those things. I wait.

4 CommentsFiled Under: Faith Journey, Figuring Myself Out, Miscarriage, Pregnancy

The Dark of the Night

May 10, 2010 By heidi 12 Comments

I woke up on the floor of the living room.

It wasn’t that I simply couldn’t move any farther and just fell asleep where I sat. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how I had gotten there. It was just where I chose to sleep. In the wee hours of the morning when my body wore out and the Xanax had quieted my mind, I pulled up a pillow and made a makeshift bed next to my husband, who slept quite soundly on the couch beside me. From there, I don’t remember what happened. Did I cry? Was I asleep before my head touched the pillow? I don’t know.

My husband is baffled by my insistence at sleeping on the couch. I’m sure when he finally awakens this morning he’ll be even more baffled that I was committed enough to my living room to choose to sleep on the floor. There’s a (sort of) perfectly good bed upstairs that surely would have been warmer and softer than the living room floor. I wasn’t quite sure what my hang-up was until last night. I’m really afraid I’m going to start miscarrying before I get to the hospital and the thought of that happening in my own room, my safe place, upsets me. So I stick to the public places of my house. Second, the living room has a tv. The tv has outside voices. Especially CNN. When I get stressed and panicky, I often turn on CNN. The shows are usually live and they’re talking about events in the real world. Things are really happening out there. The reality in my head only represents a sliver of reality. The tv – and CNN – keep me connected to the idea that there’s more than this.

I woke up in the morning, not shockingly, feeling cold and uncomfortable. Tahd sweetly held me while I wept and then switched me places, me on the couch and him on the floor. But I guess there’s no more sleep to be had. My eyes tell me it’s day, but it feels like night. A very, very dark, lonely night. And it feels like I’m in the middle of it, in the dark of the night. The darkest of the dark. I can’t stop crying – not that I should. It’s okay to cry in the dark. But I’m a crier who solves things, who makes a plan, and there’s nothing that can be solved.

I talk to myself all the time, but especially in the dark. The things I say are not always logical. They’re just the things I say. It gets a little exhausting, all the listening to myself, correcting the mistruths, and arguing myself out of thoughts that do me no good. Truth time? I’m in a boat that’s taking on water faster than I can bail it out. I just want to stop bailing, stop fighting, and let the negative thoughts come, even if they’re false. They might overtake me, but they’re too overwhelming to fight. To be clear, by give up I’m not giving a veiled euphamism about ending it all. I just mean that my heart is tired and bruised and I can’t keep up with the dialog.

They say you are what you eat. I think of thoughts in the same way. Some thoughts come along the buffet conveyor belt and are simply acknowledged as they pass by. From some thought platters I taste a sampling. Others, I heap my plate. I think this is why grieving people often aren’t hungry. We’re too busy eating our thoughts.

The platters going by this morning in my dark of the night?

I’m regret that I didn’t request to postpone Wednesday’s nuchal screen so we could have had the test when Tahd was home. I feel like I cheated him out of a magical experience.
Likewise, when I was quite early in the pregnancy and had started spotting, Tahd came home one day and put his hand on my belly. I crossly swatted it away, all out of anxiety, telling him that when he did that I panicked about the what-ifs. He stopped doing it. I was just getting comfy again, and now he won’t have that chance. I had hoped he had forgotten that detail, but when I brought it up yesterday he wept – the really big, hot tears that come from deep inside. He hasn’t forgotten. He knows he missed out.He tried to tell me it was okay, that the pressure we were under was extraordinary and I was doing the best I could. All true points. But he still cried, and I know I took that experience from him, too.
Gabe had taken to spontaneously rubbing or kissing my belly. He did so again last night. Then we packed him up and sent him off to my sister’s house. When he comes back, there will probably be no baby there. I feel like I let my first baby down.
I should just get over it. I’m making an enormous production out of what is a very common event. I’m just attention-seeking and my response is more like en episode of histrionics, not true grief. Others have true grief. I know people who have lost babies – real, living babies they’ve held outside their wombs. That’s worthy of this kind of reaction. Not this.
I don’t know what happened. Was it my clotting tendencies? My hormonal imbalances? Chromosomal defects? No matter. All roads lead back to me, point back to something my body did. Even the chromosomal one. We’ve known since the ivf that my eggs don’t seem to grow very well. I’m only 32 but my body seems to act like it’s 42, which isn’t old in the grand scheme of life, but is nearly ancient in reproductive years.I eat from this platter a lot.
I forgot to take some progesterone this week. I tend to think the progesterone supplementation played large role in getting me pregnant in the first place. It doesn’t matter that if this pregnancy had come through fertility intervention I would have stopped the progesterone 4.5 weeks ago. Or that with my first ob I would have stopped it on Wednesday. The new doctor said to keep it up until 14 weeks, and I missed a dose.I don’t eat from this platter a lot, but when the previous platter is empty and I’m looking for more of the same, this is where I go.
I will always be sad. These wounds will never heal. This is the chaser, the most common dessert. Sometimes it takes on the form of “the world is conspiring against us and we’ll never catch a break.” Other times, the sadness feels big and I can’t imagine how it will ever feel any smaller. I end a lot of my thought meals with this. This is also the easiest one for me to argue myself out of, so I’m not sure how much I really eat. It’s just that it comes by so regularly that even eating from it a tiny morsel means I eat more of it than I intend.
The platter about which I worry most? The God one. Is He conspiring against me? It’s almost too much to bear – some people, the sonographer being one of them, said something about us making it to the second trimester. Even though most people consider the second trimester to begin at 13 weeks, some count it at 12 weeks, and the second trimester is the safety zone! How can I reach the safety zone and still have this happen? After what seemed like the most miraculous of conceptions – the conception we’ve prayed for, worked for, and cried over for years? And on Mother’s Day? If that doesn’t seem like some sort of mean, cosmic sign, I don’t know what does.I haven’t really eaten from this platter yet – at least to any major degree – but if I do, I’m going to eat the whole thing at once and it’s going to make my life very difficult. That’s how I’ve held off thus far. I’m not ready to add that difficulty. But I’m scared, because it seems almost unavoidable that I’m going to have to deal with this platter soon, and I don’t see how I can do anything with it other than eat it.

Really, I think I need to find a new restaurant.

But for now my next Xanax is kicking in and I have to call the doctor’s office, so I’m going to work on staying coherent enough to make that phone call and then hopefully get a little more sleep.

12 CommentsFiled Under: Faith Journey, Miscarriage

(Happy) Mother’s Day

May 9, 2010 By heidi 17 Comments

It was Mother’s Day. 2005. Five beautiful years ago. It was our first May in our inaugural home, a home we had planned for and saved for and created out of love and sweat and dreams. A home to grow in. A home to bring our babies home to. A home to grow together in. It was beautiful.

When we moved to Wisconsin and looked for our first home, there were several features we wanted. Hardwood floors. A fireplace. And of course, the basics – a stable foundation. Strong walls. But in my heart, I also hoped for small indulgences. One was to have a home with a tree – a breathtaking magnolia tree, the kind that opens with blossoms so pink and vibrant they take your breath away.

It didn’t take us long to settle on a house, and as luck had it, a tree stood in the front yard. Being anything but arborists, we had no idea what type it was. Imagine my sheer delight when, for my very first Mother’s Day, the mysterious tree in my front yard burst with blossoms – white, pink, purple. Magnolia blossoms! In full bloom! We took pictures under that tree, me with Gabe, me with my mother, my mother with Gabe, the three of us together. It was the stuff out of fairy tales – gorgeous and perfect and lovely in every way.

Each year since then, I’ve wondered when our tree would bloom. Three of the last four years, the tree bloomed late – much later than Mother’s Day. Cool springs will do that to you! One of those years, while experiencing an unseasonably warm snap during late winter, the buds started to try to pop, only to be frozen in time when the weather cooled down again. The tree bloomed all summer, at no point reaching full bloom. It was sad to miss the tree in all it’s glory, but it always made me smile to see the late bloomers popping out in mid-August or September. Could anything be lovelier than a reminder of rebirth when life is already in full swing?

This year? The tree bloomed too early. The blossoms have all fallen from the tree and have been picked up, raked up, and swept up into the trash. How poignant that seems at this very moment.

I watched the sun come up this Mother’s Day morning. As the sky started to twinkle with the new day, the birds began to sing and it felt so fresh, crisp. I didn’t expect to have that privilege, especially the privilege of soaking in the newness of the day. If one thing is clear, it is that I am decidedly not a morning person. But today, I watched the sun come up.

Also, I watched my husband dissolve in tears.

I snuggled with my son and talked of Heaven.

I watched my father place his head against my entryway hall and weep.

I watched my mother put on her strong face while Gabe scampered around, confused and silly, trying to make sense of this strange day.

All while I watched the sun come up.

The tree that bloomed too early? Reminds me of my baby. My baby who, as of about 4:00 this morning, is officially no longer with us. Well, the baby is still with us in body. But not in soul. It’s soul bloomed too early – at least far earlier than what we would have liked. Sometime between about 11:00 yesterday morning and 8:00 last night. I watched the ultrasound screen, a screen so different from the one I saw just three days ago. Three days ago the screen was alive with movement, with hope, with beauty. There was a baby who, when “commanded” by Gabe (at the ultrasound technician’s request) rolled over so we could get not only a perfect measurement but a perfect profile shot. I felt like we were suspended in time as we watched that baby stretch and twist and bring its hand up to its face for a prolonged snuggle. We were transifxed.

In the wee hours of the morning, the screen looked different. Equally beautiful, but still. Motionless. There was no movement, no twitch, no wave of the hand, no kick to my side, no flicker of a heartbeat. I had a hard time connecting with the fact that the picture on that screen was actually within me. It seemed too disconnected from the reality I’ve been living. The technician wouldn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. I looked over at Tahd and shook my head while he alternately used his eyes to implore the screen to start moving and used his voice to implore Gabe to sit still. Oh, the irony! How much we wanted one child to move while we needed the other to sit quietly.

It will be okay. And it will not be okay. I will be okay. And I will not be okay. But in the end it will be okay and I will be okay. The sun comes up. I see it now. I heard the birds sing. This is reality, but there is a dichotomy in reality that is strangely comforting. New days come. Ours begins today. When the sun is bright enough, I will call the doctor’s office and my plan is to basically beg for a D&C. I don’t think I’m emotionally strong enough to miscarry on my own. I often surprise myself, but I’m learning that it’s okay to have limits. It’s okay to be not strong enough. It’s okay to push for answers even when they don’t readily appear. It’s okay.

I am weak.

I am fragile.

Four and a half years of infertility do that to a person.

If you’re the praying sort, I’m worried about several things. First, I’m worried about miscarrying on my own. And by worried, I would say I’m petrified, enough to ask the ER doctor to send me home with medication for anxiety. I just want things to hold off until I can get into my doctor. Second, I’m broken-hearted for Gabe. My mother took him shopping this week and let him pick out something for the baby. He selected two shirts – one in case it was a boy and one in case it was a girl. When Grandma picked him up this morning, he told her – quite excitedly – that she could take the shirts back to Kohls since we wouldn’t be needing them.

At that moment the adults in the room heaved a collective sob. I’m not sure I’ve completely exhaled since then.

Third, I’m worried I’m going to (or Tahd might) sink into a pit of despair. I can’t help but notice the irony of the fact that something we’ve wanted for so long is being taken from us on such a special day. When I’m particularly down, I wonder if God pleasures in torturing us in the meanest ways possible. This – at more than 12 weeks pregnant and on Mother’s Day? Seems colossally mean. When I’m down I am also extremely hard on myself. And in the dark of the pit it’s hard to see that the little things are just that and this isn’t my fault. I can’t take the pit again. I can’t.

Anger will come later, I’m sure. Tears are free-flowing now. I’m hoping sleep comes soon. And with any luck happiness will find us on this Mother’s Day, too. At least for a bit.

17 CommentsFiled Under: Faith Journey, Family Stuff, Gabe, Mara, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Tahd

A New Leaf

March 27, 2010 By heidi 5 Comments

First off, the ultrasound was absolutely wonderful! We saw a perfect gestational sac and yolk sac containing a tiny baby measuring 6w3d. And Houston? We have a heartbeat!!! It was tiny, a faint little flickering, beating away at 126 beats per minute! The room let out a collective sigh of relief. And by room, I guess I mean me. I don’t think anyone else was quite as worried as I!

In spite of the fact that less than one year ago I had no less than seven uterine ultrasounds and one uterine surgery, I seem to have developed a fibroid. <sigh> Luckily (I guess??) the fibroid is well out of the way of the baby. The ultrasound tech told me if I had to have a fibroid then this was the type of fibroid I wanted positioned in the perfect place. I’m going to take her word for it and enjoy the fact that it has written me a pass for a few extra ultrasounds. I go back for a follow-up in a little over two weeks and am looking forward to getting another peek!

I’m trying to be brave. I am. I even changed my playlist to reflect my attempt at turning over a new leaf. In all honesty, I went to Kelle Hampton’s blog and basically stole half her playlist. lol I still haven’t recovered from reading Nella’s birth story. I mean that in a good way, though. I read a lot – and I especially read a lot of blogs. There have been a few entries that have stayed with me and have helped me redefine the way I think. This was one of those.

I want to embrace my life – as it is. Without abandon. Unfettered by fear. Staying present in the moments. Of course, I have limits. I’m anxious and introspective and find it easy to get stuck in my head. Those things are a part of me. I want to embrace those, too. But I’m also creative, spontaneous, and lively. Lately there has been none of those around these parts.

In the first blog I linked to in this post (which you should totally read, by the way), Emily said something about putting her faith in the miracle rather than the Miracle Worker. This is a rub for me. I know the Miracle Worker. He doesn’t always make sense to me. So I get nervous and scared and start focusing on the miracle inside me, pretending that if I cling tightly it will be glued to me. But that only provides a false sense of security, and I know it. Yet the alternative – putting my faith in the Miracle Worker – feels risky due to his unpredictability.

The more I think, however, the more I realize I’m getting it wrong. I’m looking toward and end result and am trying to devise my faith and trust based on that. Someone told me once that God gives us strength for today. He doesn’t give me enough strength for the whole journey all at once. Just strength for today. Maybe that’s how I need to look at faith. I don’t have faith for the whole journey right now. Perhaps I should, but I don’t. I am, however, strong enough for today. I don’t need to waste today’s energy in thought over what might happen seven and a half months from now. I could use today’s energy for fun, for joy, for the moment.

But oh! How stuck I am in this rut! So I’m just going to plod my way out, little by little.

Little

little.

With any luck I will get there. Just in time.

5 CommentsFiled Under: Faith Journey, Figuring Myself Out, Mara, Pregnancy

On Why I Think Santa and Jesus are Probably Friends

December 14, 2009 By heidi 2 Comments

When I was little, my mother had a collection of pins and brooches. It was always exciting when she brought out her Christmas collection, because that meant Christmas was just around the corner! She had a variety of different pins, but the one I remember most clearly was a little off-white stone with the words “Jesus is the reason for the season” painted on it. As a child, I found this saying delightfully clever. Don’t ask why… I don’t know. Rhyming apparently intrigued me. Yes, I was a totally geeky kid!

As an adut, I find myself in an interesting quandary. I’m a Christian. Fairly devout, in fact. Although I fail at my execution more often than I succeed, it is my intention to make God’s ways my ways. I find Christmas to be an incredibly encouraging time of year – a time when I can come back to basics, root myself in what really matters, focus on love and giving, and experience a renewed appreciation for the reason for my faith. So in a sense, I agree with the whole “Jesus is the reason for the season” thing.

But do you know what? I also love Santa. I love reindeer. I love presents. I love lights. I love inane seasonal parties that consume my creative energies. I love hustle. I love bustle. I love shopping. I love cookies. Oh, how I love cookies! I love the cultural side of Christmas. Just like I love Thanksgiving and Valentine’s Day and Independence Day. These cultural celebrations mean something to me, something separate from my religious experiences and my faith journey. Christmas is religious, yes, but it’s also cultural, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

I don’t know if it’s because times have changed or if it’s because I’m getting older and am just noticing it more. But lately I’ve noticed a backlash from Christians against cultural Christmas. People seem quite occupied with the need to put “cultural Christmas” in its place. I’ve talked to people who choose to limit their gift giving to three gifts per person because that’s what the Wise Men gave to Jesus. Others resist Santa, trees, lights, and other cultural Christmas items as “worthless” and “distractions.” People refuse to attend holiday parties that don’t focus exclusively on Jesus’ birth. Some Christians take deep offense when someone says Happy Holidays or writes the word x-mas. “We have to keep the ‘Christ’ in Christmas!” they say with fervor.

Please don’t misunderstand. I don’t have a problem with these things in isolation. There is nothing wrong with exchanging a prescribed number of gifts. There is nothing wrong with saying, “Merry Christmas!” There is nothing wrong with avoiding Santa. Nothing. The part that bothers me is the villification of cultural Christmas. Cultural Christmas isn’t bad. It’s not stealing anything from spiritual Christmas. It doesn’t compromise the value of the season.

My emerging opinion is that one enhances the other. There are many people in America – in the world, really – who don’t celebrate a spiritual Christmas. What do they celebrate at Christmas? Love. Relationships. Hope. Peace. True, they’re not concerned about a baby in a manger. Aren’t Christians, however, celebrating those same things – the love Jesus brought to us that we’re to share with others? Our restored relationship with God that allows us to have deeper, more genuine relationships with those around us? The hope we have because of the amazing miracle of our faith? The peace we can know and the peace we want everyone to share? How wonderful is it that at the same time each year much of America – religious or otherwise – is celebrating a set of shared values?

That’s why I don’t understand the war Christians wage on Christmas. Why do we spend our time alienating, offending, and “standing right” while we fail to see the connections and common ground we share with everyone around us? Why do we isolate ourselves and turn inward rather than extend ourselves in joy toward others?

Rather than diminishing its value, I think cultural Christmas enhances spiritual Christmas. Christians have a chance to use cultural Christmas to help us more fully enjoy our relationships with others while our surroundings and experiences supply us plentiful reminders of what really drives our faith. I see Santa and I am warmed by the theme of generosity. As an extension, in my faith I am reminded of the generous blessings I’ve received and desire to share those same blessings with others. I see Christmas lights and feel wonderment. That wonderment reminds me of the wonderment I feel toward God’s ability and desire to create beauty, to forgive evil, and to sacrifice so much on my behalf. I hear someone say, “Happy holidays,” and I smile and appreciate the fact that someone took a moment to share a pleasantry. As a Christian, I remember that words have power and think of the copious instructions God gives me in regard to the words I choose and the things I discuss.

If it’s wrong to celebrate cultural Christmas, I can’t see why it’s okay to celebrate New Year’s or Valentine’s Day or Independence Day or any of the other assorted holidays we celebrate in America. But I guess the bigger point is that I can’t see why celebrating a cultural version of Christmas is wrong at all. As far as the cultural components, I think we can either use them as points of connection or points of division. That’s our choice. And I don’t think the collective overriding choice I’ve been seeing lately is the best choice we could be making.