Nine and a half years later, I find myself revisiting past writings. Many times in the past nine and a half years, we’ve been in a state of transition. Whether with my husband’s employment and education journey, moving into a house, or parenting tweens and teens, each change has created new challenges. I also wouldn’t change anything.

I still enjoy “just five more minutes” to Be Still before the day gets started. This is easier with older kids who now enjoy sleeping past eight o’clock. Even though they are “big kids,” the days continue to be filled with interruptions. No longer dirty diapers or meeting every physical need, but still resolving conflicts, helping with schoolwork, and listening to what’s on their mind. My youngest still wants extra snuggles and reading time together. My oldest asks for just “one more hug” at least twice after going to bed. They know they can count on me for more than five-minute intervals.

Each day, I take time to remember the blessing of each moment and forget the obstacles of the day. I choose to relish the victories. The children who once needed me for nearly everything now need me differently, and the time when they leave is visibly approaching. My prayers continue to be for more patience, strength, and grace for tomorrow, but also that I’m equipping them for what they need when they leave.

In my Christmas decorations, the fragile ornaments live separately from the non-fragile ones. Everything is carefully wrapped each year. One of these ornaments is a large hand-painted ball from our first Christmas in Germany. Well, was. When I went to pick up that ornament, I heard and felt a crunch through the wrapping. This is one of those “cannot be replaced” kinds of ornaments. I was devastated, while at the same time recognizing that the ornament was less important than the memories of our time in Germany.

Over the weekend, when loading my show bags, my son managed to knock everything onto the floor with a splendid crash. When I arrived and started setting up my booth, I learned that two of my mirrors had not survived. I cleaned everything out of the bag and shook out the shards over the trash can.When I arrived home that evening, my daughter’s first words were, “Something bad just happened to your pepper shaker.” The first thing I noticed: everyone was barefoot. Though disappointed that my antique shaker crashed and broke, my first task involved safety and cleaning another mess of broken glass.

Each of these instances provided an opportunity. I could be mad about the loss of objects and the mess, or I could be thankful that no one was hurt and teach humility through service. I could focus more on the stuff and less on the people around me. Even in my disappointment, I focused on gratitude.

It is the same when we face brokenness through significant losses in life: loss of income, loss of a job, loss of a loved one, loss of a dream. How we respond determines how we will heal and rebuild.

The song also contrasts what we demand with what we truly need and our earthly plans with the hope God provides. That thought has stayed with me as I reflect on one year before beginning another. Focus determines direction, even (or especially) in times of brokenness.

No one knows when their lasts will happen, either their last day or the last day with a loved one. In the episode of Doctor Who called “Last Christmas,” dream Danny reminds Clara that every Christmas is the last one. We ought to make every moment count. The most extraordinary memories are often in the most ordinary moments. Preparing the food, sitting at the table, cleaning up, and exchanging gifts may seem like the least important parts of the festivities, but those are often the moments when we hear the most laughter, share the best stories, and give the most hugs.

I would say my grandmother loved Christmas, except the joy she had during the holidays was bigger than that. Grandmama loved her family and getting as many people together as possible. She enjoyed hunting for the perfect gifts and the best bargains. She diligently wrapped each gift with love and an immaculate bow. She had a weakness for Christmas candy (all candy really, but Christmas was her favorite).

This will be the third Christmas without her and the second without my grandfather. Those who have a great presence in life leave a great void when they are gone. We don’t know which Christmas, gathering, or ordinary day together will become a treasured memory. Cherish those you love. Make new memories. Take AND be in all the photos, no matter how self-conscious you might be. One day, only pictures and memories will be left. Make them count.

During the spring of 2020, canceled events gave me time to reconnect with contacts from years of craft shows and vendor events. As I worked through the names, the events themselves brought back memories.

In November 2015, I met a beautiful, smiling 13-year-old Aranza. She greeted me like we’d known each other always. She laughed with me and enjoyed my sense of humor. We joked and shared sarcasm and puns. She trained me in doing shows, and at 13, she amazed me. I think I watched her more than I did anything that day. At 13 years old, her mama could trust her to run a booth—from greeting customers, to demonstrating, to counting correct change! From that day on, when she saw me, she asked about my business—not in a casual way, but in the way someone asks when they know what it takes and they really want to know how you’re doing.

In February of 2017, I did a big show with Aranza and her mother, who had become one of my closest friends. By this time, I viewed Aranza as something like a niece. We continued our banter and enjoyed each other’s company during this event. I again watched as she amazed the customers, even making an impression on a young girl, probably about nine, who said, “I want to do this!” I made some great contacts through this event.

As I entered my contacts from 2017 into my customer service manager, I noticed something that stopped me.

Aranza’s handwriting.

The unexpected wave crushed me. A life lived to the fullest, just shy of 17 years, cut short by the actions of another. A life that touched so many others—she made waves instead of ripples.

In that moment, my grief was less about what happened, more about missing her presence, but most about Homesickness.

Since August 8, I’ve said Aranza’s fingerprints are in the way I run my business. Here, I could actually see the mark she left behind.

Grief has a way of appearing in places we don’t expect—in an old contact list, familiar handwriting, or a memory tucked into an ordinary task.

As a Believer, I have a confident expectation of being reunited with my loved ones.

In the meantime, fingerprints are everywhere.