My dad often repeats the phrase, “We have much to be thankful for.” While I was growing up, he’d say it at the start of a meal, when the family celebrated a holiday or a birthday, or simply at the end of a long day. For years, I thought those words were just another dad-ism, a phrase heard so often I’d be tempted to dismiss the sentiment and opt for an eye-roll instead.

But that regular expression of gratitude wasn’t a cliche or truism. For him, it has been a lifeline. I heard him say “we have much to be thankful for” while his hair fell out and his body weakened from cancer treatments. He said, “we have much to be thankful for” through tears, praying before dinner while my mom slowly deteriorated from her own cancer, lying in her bed just down the hall.

His gratitude was never an attempt to put on a fake smile. Instead, those words were spoken as a liturgy tethering our broken hearts to our sure hope. Gratitude didn’t replace lament; it often grew out of it.

One of my goals this past year was to have more fun.

I am pragmatic to a fault, so I confess, I had to put “fun” on my to-do list. As I write, I can see the notecard taped above my desk with my goals—fun written near the top in pink permanent marker.

Maybe you can guess how well that goal is going. I think I can safely assume 2020 went nothing like anyone planned and 2021 hasn’t been much easier. Maybe fun has been hard to come by. Even if this season has brought sweet moments at home or unexpected gifts, maybe you’re still feeling pressed down by a thousand tiny weights. Or maybe it’s one big boulder you’re carrying. Whatever the case, whether you’re anxious about this fall’s school situation, grieving injustice, fearful about the future, discouraged, or just plain tired, I want to remind us of something.

You are still allowed to have fun.

My mom’s body laid flat on the hospital-style bed in her bedroom. My dad, sister, and I removed her soiled clothes and put clean ones onto her lifeless body. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Her frail frame felt unexpectedly heavy—heavy in my arms, heavy in my soul. Then we waited for her body to be picked up.

Eventually, two men arrived. But they came earlier than we had anticipated, so we asked for more time. Don’t take her. Not yet. We’re not ready.

They kindly came back a few hours later, wrapped her in a black bag and carried my mom’s body out the front door. Just like that, gone. We stood in the entryway for who knows how long hugging, sobbing, clinging onto each other.

I admit it. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, as the saying goes.

I’m sitting here writing at the eleventh hour when I have multiple deadlines looming over me. I owe another friend some notes for a piece she’s helping me with, and I told her I’d get those to her days ago. Okay, a week ago. It’s still not done, and the list of emails I have yet to respond to grows as quickly as the laundry pile in the corner of my bedroom.

I don’t tell you this because I have some notion that busyness is a badge of honor. I’ve worn myself out far too many times to want to wear that badge anyway. Besides, if you look at my actual calendar, we’re not really that busy. We’re still living a contained life thanks to COVID precautions, and our days mostly consist of LEGOs and riding bikes in the front yard.

But I want the work I do and the way I spend my days to feel productive–and motherhood doesn’t always make that easy. I (kind of) like the feeling of having a deadline looming over me because I know it means something will eventually get done. A box will get checked off. I’ll finally sense accomplishment.

At my childhood home, we had a massive oak tree that towered over almost the entire yard. It housed squirrels and birds, provided shade as we played in the grass, and supported a tire swing we enjoyed for hours on end.

But I never noticed the tiny movements that made its branches stretch over the lawn or its roots dig deep into the earth. I never saw it grow, yet somehow that tree changed from a seed to a towering oak.

Apparently tiny movements add up.

Throughout his whole letter, James has been instructing his readers to live out their faith—and he’s been especially concerned with how they do that in suffering. Look back to the very first verse of this book. James writes to Jewish believers scattered around the world (“the twelve tribes in the Dispersion”). They’re dealing with persecution and long to one day experience the restoration God promised. But in the meantime, first century life has been hard, especially as followers of Christ.

They’re also navigating divisions within the Church, divisions between Jew and Gentile, rich and poor, honored and lowly. In the middle of all of this, James calls them to a life that reflects the kingdom and the character of God. We’ve seen the practical exhortations he’s given like avoiding partiality, watching their speech, submitting desires to God, and not putting their trust in plans or possessions. Then, we reach the end of his letter, which offers a fitting conclusion to all he’s instructed God’s people to do thus far: 1) pray and 2) help one another live out the truth.

A few days ago on my Instagram Stories, I shared someone’s post that I had come across about the Day of the Dead. I was attempting to learn and appreciate more about this Mexican holiday, but it turns out, I didn’t take the time to get all the information. The post I shared (which I’ve since taken down) made this holiday seem light-hearted, harmless, and joyful–and to be honest, I failed to do my research. My friend, Cynthia, kindly responded to me with additional information, showing me that there was more to the story.

We moved our conversation to email, and Cynthia sent me facts as well as her stories and opinions about the Day of the Dead. I realized how little I knew–and how easy it can be to believe things are harmless, when in reality, we are fighting a very real spiritual battle.

Cynthia’s words were so helpful and eye-opening, and I asked her if I could share them with you here. In the following post, she offers personal experiences, facts about the Day of the Dead, her own opinions, and then a closing story to help us to recognize the spiritual forces of evil trying to take us down. But, as she writes below, “Of course, Jesus wins. His light breaks through the darkness.”

I’m not a farmer. This year, I managed to keep a few plants alive inside my house, but other than that and a couple summertime herbs, my agricultural experience is next to nothing. I don’t know what it’s like to rely on the weather for food. But James’ readers know this well, and here he offers a metaphor that helps them understand what it looks like to be patient as they wait. Just like a farmer has to wait for his or her crop to bear fruit and in the process waits for the rains to come, so we wait for the return of the Lord.

I think we can all understand this passage better after the events of 2020. We’re more aware now than we were a few months ago that our plans are not secure. Our control is an illusion, our life a mist. We truly do not know what tomorrow will bring, as James reminds us.

That may be the understatement of the year.

Right before this passage, James warned against worldliness. He reminded us that we are prone to arrogance and pride. We’re selfish and eager to spend what we’ve been given on our own passions (James 4:2-3). Instead, we’re meant to draw near to God in humble repentance (verses 6-10). Arrogance and pride are antithetical to kingdom living.

When I started this series, it didn’t occur to me that I’d be writing about fights, quarrels, taming the tongue, and similar subjects during such a tense, chaotic year. I spent time studying the book of James earlier in the year, and I wanted to dive deeper into it. It’s practical, convicting, and essential for the Church. But I did not realize from the outset how relevant and how personally convicting this short book would be. Honestly, if I knew how much I’d have to wrestle with James’ words in my own life and the responsibility of sharing them on my blog, I’m not sure I would have undertaken this project.

Thankfully, God knew I needed this, and it’s sure been a humbling process. I found that to be especially true as I studied this section.

Meekness isn’t exactly a highly valued trait in our society. Independence. Strength. Courage. Fortitude. We tend, at least in the United States, to admire those qualities. But meekness? And the meekness of wisdom? Not so much.

But James tells us that true wisdom isn’t about just knowing things. It’s not about shouting more loudly than the person next to us. True wisdom comes from a faith rooted in God and shows itself through our conduct and our humility.

When I was a kid, nearly every time my brother and I got in an argument or said something mean to each other (which was often), my mom would quote Ephesians 4:29 to us. It was infuriating, because I couldn’t justify my harsh words while she was reciting Scripture (I’m sure I tried, though). Paul wrote, “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen” (NIV).

I rolled my eyes at my mom plenty when she said those words. But that verse has stuck with me more than almost any other. Paul told the church in Ephesus that our speech matters. It can build up or tear down the ones we’re speaking to—and others around us who are listening.