I have a confession to make. I have a tendency to read sad books, watch sad movies, and listen to sad songs when I am already sad. There, I said it. I'm that girl. Everyone knows her. You might even be her.
There is a series of young adult books by Lurlene McDaniel that were popular with many (meaning most) of my female students when I was teaching. I called them the "death books" because someone died in every book. I heard so many booktalks that tearily began, "This is the best book I have ever read." I watched student after student cry through page after page and yet, they could not tear themselves away from the series. I laughed about it, often with crying girls, about the fact that we enjoy being sad.
Maybe it isn't so much that we always enjoy it, but when we let ourselves be sad when we need to be sad, we understand a little better what it means to be happy. I've had a lot of conversations about sadness lately. If a person is going to be sad, the holidays with their sense of necessary joy and fuzzy-edged nostalgia can bring it to the surface. There is a lot of mourning that happens at Christmas. And I'm starting to think that is okay as long as we keep walking, purposely moving through it, firmly grasping hope on our way through.
I read a story a couple of days ago that made me cry the ugly cry while I read it. It is a story of pure grief. A heartbreaking story of deep sorrow, but deeper hope. We need these stories at Christmas. We need these stories. Period. To remind us that when we are lost in our own thoughts, independently living with our own hurts and griefs, there are others out there doing the same. And thankfully, some of these people let us walk with them, in a small way, through their pain, showing us that hurt is universal. But so is hope. And it is easier to grasp when we hand it to each other.
Here is Annie's story. I hope you read it and share it. May we all hand someone the hope of our Savior this Christmas.
There is a series of young adult books by Lurlene McDaniel that were popular with many (meaning most) of my female students when I was teaching. I called them the "death books" because someone died in every book. I heard so many booktalks that tearily began, "This is the best book I have ever read." I watched student after student cry through page after page and yet, they could not tear themselves away from the series. I laughed about it, often with crying girls, about the fact that we enjoy being sad.
Maybe it isn't so much that we always enjoy it, but when we let ourselves be sad when we need to be sad, we understand a little better what it means to be happy. I've had a lot of conversations about sadness lately. If a person is going to be sad, the holidays with their sense of necessary joy and fuzzy-edged nostalgia can bring it to the surface. There is a lot of mourning that happens at Christmas. And I'm starting to think that is okay as long as we keep walking, purposely moving through it, firmly grasping hope on our way through.
I read a story a couple of days ago that made me cry the ugly cry while I read it. It is a story of pure grief. A heartbreaking story of deep sorrow, but deeper hope. We need these stories at Christmas. We need these stories. Period. To remind us that when we are lost in our own thoughts, independently living with our own hurts and griefs, there are others out there doing the same. And thankfully, some of these people let us walk with them, in a small way, through their pain, showing us that hurt is universal. But so is hope. And it is easier to grasp when we hand it to each other.
Here is Annie's story. I hope you read it and share it. May we all hand someone the hope of our Savior this Christmas.
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