A holiday you'd rather skip

Maybe the house is empty and you're the only one in it. Maybe it's full, and you feel like a guest at your own table. Everyone else seems to be doing today right. Underneath it all runs a hum, because this day used to have its own routine, and a cigarette was part of it. You're performing a holiday you don't feel.

Cancel the requirement to feel festive. You don't owe this day an emotion. Half of what hurts is the second layer, the idea that sadness today makes you ungrateful or faithless. It doesn't. A square on a calendar doesn't get to set your mood. On past holidays, a cigarette kept tugging you away from the table like a dog that needed walking. All today asks is that you come out the other side still free.

Then give the day one thing that belongs to you. Make yourself a real plate. Sit down and eat it slowly, like a guest you're glad showed up. A day you've put something into stops being a day that just happens to you.

Somewhere in the day, tell Him plainly that this one's hard. This day is heavy. Stay in it with me. A day with God in it is a different day, even if nobody knocks. He isn't taking attendance at the celebration. Tomorrow the date turns ordinary again, and you'll wake up on the far side of it, free.