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I don’t know why.  But today I’m feeling blue.  I feel the need to have a good cry.   I was already feeling depleted when my husband got cross with me about nothing important.

It is rare to be in the aim of my husband’s crossfire.  Which may be why it hurts so bad when it comes.   It’s unexpected, so left field.

The Christmas tree, the source of my husband’s angst, sits ready to decorate.  But I’m in no mood to tackle the chore.  It can wait.

Nor am I in the proper frame of mind to write, though Lord knows I need to write; the Advent lesson is finished but I’ve barely begun drafting Thursday’s contemplative prayer meditation.  Then there is still the Christmas letter.  Both writing projects were on today’s agenda.  These too can wait.

This being at cross-purposes will pass, the fog will lift and I’ll soon feel more up to the task of dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s.

My husband apologized for being cross.  Too bad I can’t just flip a switch and be fine again.  Or at least pretend  to be or say that I’m fine — keeping my fingers crossed, of course.

No better to play it honest.  And humble.  And real.  As in, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”

And suddenly I remember this is the two-year anniversary of my mother’s death, the day Mom crossed from one world to the next.  And maybe when she breathed her last, maybe she offered up, in her mind, these same last words of Jesus, this higher form of crosstalk.

And In a way that I can’t fathom or explain, I’m suddenly feeling much better.  I’m ready to go decorate the tree at least.  And as for writing, well… time and the crossed path will tell.

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