My grandmother was known for making things beautiful.
Every Christmas, she showed up with the most elegant wrapping in the room. Always the best ribbon, always the keepsake box, always the personalized tags.
I can see her sophisticated handwriting and regal color schemes in my mind now as clearly as the greenery I just pulled out of the box to decorate my current home.
Coming up in January is two years without my grandmother. The last few weeks I had with her were during Christmas time, which looked a lot like this year’s season does — lights on trees and gifts in boxes. This year, there's something deeper added, and something bigger missing. It’s all a little more tender. But I’m not surprised — the joy often stirs up grief again.

As I Christmas shop, I notice things that I would’ve picked up for her.
As seasons change, friends of mine that she loved are off doing cool new things. She would’ve been checking in on them often, asking for photos and stories. 
As I talk daily to the new friends that I made this year, I think about the fact that she never saw them with me, and that they never saw me with her.
Amidst all of the lost things, like she always did, I’m keeping an eye out for beautiful things, too. I'm realizing that her stunning finished products likely came from a messy process that no one saw, all for the sake of beauty.

So this month, I've been saving some extra hours for crafting. Things I usually say no to “for the sake of time.”
Making things by hand. Buying the new ribbon, personalizing the tags. This time for the sake of beauty.
I let the room get crazy and my hands get dirty, for the sake of beauty. 
I redo spaces and paint over old things, for the sake of beauty.
It feels like the best way to honor her — giving goodness some time and space. It always brings back joy to the mix of what I’m feeling, as the mess and beauty stay tangled up in each other.
It's reminding me of how she used to tie her ribbons so tightly that only she could get them off. You’d try and try to get the knot out or pull the ribbon apart, but ultimately you'd have to hand it over for her to do. It was a nod to the effort (and the skill) that she put toward the wrapping. The gift was never just the gift; she was always a part of it.

If you see your own grief wrapped up with everything else this Christmas, I pray you remember that beauty is a friend of the mess. Look for it right here.
The time it takes to watch the movie that your family pulled their inside jokes from. The chaos you made hand-crafting gifts for your friends. The effort to do something you really love, even if it feels silly. The laugh, the text, the hug, the ribbon, the song, and the meal.
It doesn’t need to fix it.
It doesn’t need to make sense of anything.
It simply keeps joy tied in. 
My grandmother made time for beautiful things, and now? That’s what keeps her strong in my memory.
As things keep changing year to year, beauty may just be the only thing that’s evergreen, the common thread that keeps my joy tied up tightly with my grief.

The promise of Christmas is that God is here among us, light kindling in darkness. And one day down the line, He's coming again. When I see Him face to face, I pray He says the same thing about me that I say of her:
“I love that you made things so beautiful.”

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