Dear Friends and Family:

It’s December 18.  Christmas is exactly one week away.  Steven is at basketball camp at the high school. Emily is home sick watching The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, courtesy of Amazon Prime.  Lauren is snuggled on the caramel colored oversized chair in the living room with my ancient iPad.  Curled up on the blue-confetti knit blanket next to my laptop is Chloe. Even the dog is taking advantage of our first day of Winter Break. It should be the perfect time to add the finishing touches to my annual Christmas letter.  But I’m feeling meh about writing it this year.  I’m beginning to wonder if the Christmas letter ship has sailed. Perhaps it’s time to put the tradition to bed. Except I have a zillion Christmas photo cards from Costco waiting on my desk. Either way, I have some addressing and stamping to do.

Some already know of my online writing spot. Welcome newbies. This little blog was private and unpublished for much of its existence.  But something unexpected happened and nicolektwedt.com went live by mistake. Freedom came once my work was out there in the great wide somewhere of the internet. Pain loses its power when pushed to the surface. Yet there’s a lot I don’t know about creating and maintaining a blog. I still don’t have a system to deliver blog posts straight to your inbox. I don’t even have a spot for my tagline. Ah well, my online writing gig will come together in time.

As one can imagine, with three kids, a dog and a husband, it’s difficult to find time to string words together. Every now and then I choose to ignore Mt. St. Laundry on the couch and the dishes in the sink long enough to write about faith and heartbreak and how through God, and writing, I’m learning to acknowledge the pain and hard places and seek out joy in the midst of it all. With everything I write, he (and by he I mean God) reminds me that he is holding onto our family, teaching us that he is here. And because he is here, we really can practice being brave when life is hard. We all can. Probably the gutsiest subject I’ve tackled this year is the autism evaluation process with a surprise ending for one of the Twedtlings.  You can read about it here and here.  I also wrote at length about grief, anxiety and motherhood. A few book reviews were thrown in for good measure.

In the spirit of keeping it real, there’s much to report, and much I shouldn’t, about fifth-grader Emily, third-grader Steven and first-grader Lauren. Hands down, the hardest part of the year was loosing Grandpa Beck to cancer. Fortunately, the challenges and heartbreak of 2017 were balanced with breakthroughs and good times. There was plenty to get excited about, plenty worth shouting from the rooftop. We love having a tween in the house (Emily). Our gig as parents keeps getting better and better. The craziest thing happened last spring when a mama black bear lumbered through our quarter acre lot. Lauren and Chloe were in the backyard.  Our eleven pound Havanese chased the bear away from her girl. Not bad for a little dog with a behavioral modification plan for anxiety. As for Lauren, she waited until Chloe was ushered into the sanctuary of our tiny rambler before calling for help.  Uff da!

In a nutshell, this season of life has been all about learning to seek out and acknowledge everyday victories. In other words, Greg and I are fighting to acknowledge the baby steps, the miracles-in-progress, glories along the way that are easily overlooked when buried beneath the frustrations and busyness of daily life. It’s forcing us (yes, forcing us) to see life and new beginnings in barren trees and delicate seedlings, rather than fixing our eyes on our current situation or on what we hope will be the end result.  This practice, I’m starting to think, requires a heck of a lot of faith, hope and wonder.  I’m not exactly there yet, but I’m headed in that direction.

Through the challenges, the mess and the mundane, the volleyball practices and basketball games, a certain verse stirs my heart. “…Come all who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls (Matthew 11:28, 29 NLT).”

“Come all who are weary…” Yep, that’s me. You too? In the deepest parts of my soul I feel God saying, “Hold on. Rest in me. Don’t let go. Trust me. You’re almost there,” and “You are not alone.”

I wasn’t going to write a letter in the first place, but Dr. Preston, Steven’s beloved pediatric optometrist, asked if I was going to write about a certain something.  You see, Steven turns nine years-old on January 3. When Steven was an infant, we were told by Dr. Preston that he could stop wearing an eye-patch at age nine. Nine seemed like an eternity away, but here we are. An eternity came and went with plenty of blood, sweat and tears to keep things interesting. I can hardly believe we’re about to bid farewell to such a tremendous and terrible part of our son’s childhood.  I can hardly write about this part of Steven’s story without tears showing up.  Tears aside, I also kinda-sorta feel like slipping on my dancing shoes.

What I really need to do is slip into our small kitchen to prepare lunch for the girls.  Steven will be home in a little over an hour.  Friends and family, my prayer for you this season, and into 2018, is for you to experience the hope and wonder that does not disappoint. Take heart, friends, all this is temporary. He has overcome. Beauty and hope abound. Here’s to keeping our eyes wide open to catch a glimpse of his love and the wonder of it all. Merry Christmas.

Love,

Nicole

with Greg, Emily, Steven and Lauren