Lauren Denton
Have you ever seen “Planet Earth?” I’m talking about the one on BBC — meticulously produced, narrated by David Attenborough, full of gorgeous nature videography. We watched it back during the COVID-19 lockdown and all these months later, one part of it sticks out in my mind as particularly representative of the last year for me. It was in an episode featuring rivers and streams, and it showed this tiny little underwater critter clinging to a rock in a fast-moving river up north somewhere. The water was freezing cold and rushing by this little guy, who was trying desperately to keep one of his several appendages attached to a slippery, mossy rock. The image that remains in my mind is this critter with a single arm attached, the rest of his body waving wildly in the water, and the moment when the current wins and he spins off downstream.
I don’t know about you, but that desperate creature really speaks to me.
Nearly two years after COVID-19 turned our lives inside out, it seems almost cliché to say the past year has been stressful, but it has. And honestly, COVID-19 has only been a small part of it. At times the stresses and pressures have seemed insurmountable — everything from family health crises and nearly crippling writing woes to a new school, struggles with grades and a new appreciation for end-of-the-day 280 traffic. Many times, I’ve felt like that underwater critter — only attached to the rock by a finger (probably a pinkie), the rest of me flailing wildly while the current threatens to pull me downstream. It’s a far cry from the peace, joy, hope and cheer calling to me from the brightly colored Christmas cards in my mailbox.
I love getting Christmas cards in the mail. Each year I look forward to the day when the post-Thanksgiving barrage starts. I love seeing how friends’ families have grown, what new adventures loved ones have been on, who’s had a baby or gotten married or moved to a new place. Regardless of the type of card — simple and modern or covered in glitter and tiny jingle bells, the messages are all the same: “Peace and joy. Love and hope. Blessings and good cheer.” Words to instill serenity. Silent night, calm and bright, and all that. I’d like to bask in all those uplifting messages, but the problem is my feelings keep getting in the way.
I keep having to remind myself that the way I feel doesn’t mean as much as what I know to be true in my mind. I don’t feel joyous when my parent is sick, when I worry about my kids, when everyone around me clashes over disagreements and controversies. I don’t always feel hope and delight as I sit down to write every day — instead it’s often trepidation and anxiety. When I remind my kids to pick up their things, again, and hurry them out the door for school 12 minutes later than planned, again, I feel scattered and short-tempered instead of calm and mild. I’m transformed right back into that underwater critter — struggling, flailing and trying to keep a pinkie attached to the rock.
The thing is, I want all my appendages attached to that rock. I want my face pressed into it, safe in the strong shelter rather than letting the current pull my arms away and drag me off into deep, scary waters. My feelings are fickle and impatient and unpredictable. But that rock? I know it’s sturdy. It’s been grounded in the swift current since before time began, and it’s not going anywhere. I’m not so naïve as to think that if I just grab a tighter hold of the safe shelter, the current won’t bother me. I know it’ll still be there, raging as always. But I want to keep my gaze focused squarely on that rock and live by faith in its strength, not by the sight of all the hazards and obstacles that tumble past me in the rushing waters.
As we close out another wacky year, I’m more convinced than ever that any “normal” we may see will be a new normal rather than anything close to resembling what we had prior to March of 2020. And that’s okay. Regardless of the current, regardless of the obstacles, regardless of the unpredictability of life or emotions or outcomes, my prayer is that we can walk into the next year with our gaze firmly fixed on something stronger than our own capabilities. And as the cards come, bearing messages of peace and hope and joy, maybe they’ll mean more this year. Maybe they’ll be a reminder that fleeting feelings are just that — temporary, passing and shifting like sand. But the rock will hold firm, even in the swiftest of currents.
When I’m not writing about my family and our various shenanigans, I write novels and go to the grocery store. My novels are in stores (locally at Little Professor and Alabama Booksmith) and online. You can reach me by email at Lauren@LaurenKDenton.com, visit my website LaurenKDenton.com, or find me on Instagram @LaurenKDentonBooks or Facebook ~LaurenKDentonAuthor.