Welcome to The Paradox Paper, where we work together to live in paradox without panic. If a friend forwarded you this email, click here to subscribe.
Hello friend.
Can you believe we’ve made it to the last month of this 42 month year? Look as us go. I’m tired and relieved and I wish I could give you a hug and ask “Are you alright, are you okay?” Speaking of that, I haven’t shared this video here and I can hardly believe my negligence. It’s so tender and hopeful.
Another tender, hopeful thing that’s still available is The Holiday Grief Guide. It’s available through the first week of January, and right now it’s on major sale. If carrying grief is making you or someone you love a little wobbly this holiday season, I wrote this for you. For us.
I like to take December to reflect on the previous year, (yikes) make plans for the coming one (lol), and marinate in the hope of God With Us. Because of that I take the month off from The Paradox Paper. Don’t worry when I don’t show up in your inbox come January 1st. I’ll wish you a Happy New Year (please Lord) come February.
Until then, as the wise women of Pantsuit Politics say, have the best holiday season available to you.
Jingle Jangle—Netflix
We haven’t finished this one yet (I started it with the kids and they ran out of non-cartoon attention) but the first half was just the level of festive magic I needed. The costumes are perfect, the music is vibrant, and it was so refreshing to see a predominantly Black cast in a movie that’s not focused on race. Don’t get me wrong, we need those movies too, but I love that this one is just a Christmasy fairy tale. As if it’s, I don’t know, completely normal that Black people also celebrate Christmas. Wild idea.
Survivor—Netflix
You’ve probably never heard of this little competition show. It’s only been on TV for twenty years and forty seasons. Yet somehow we here in the Cochrane household have just watched it for the first time. It’s mindless, fun entertainment with enough competition to be interesting, but not so much that it’s stressful. Season twenty-something is on Netflix in case you’ve also been living under a rock.
This is the spot for hard things so I’m just gonna tell ya, November was rough.
Not one but two devastating hurricanes hit Honduras where our Compassion child and his mother live.
My aunt got Covid. Then my grandmother. Then my Mom.
Life inside our own four walls felt more tedious than usual. We all feel sick of the sight of each other, but somehow at the same time it’s been too long since we really connected.
I felt like I was slowly dying by a thousand repetitive, every-day tasks. Is it dinner time already? We JUST ate dinner three days ago! There are obviously honey bees living underneath my kitchen floor boards because the idea that we might need to mop is untenable.
My children do not like any of the foods they used to like. They want me to touch them constantly, but not there, or here, and not like that. They find it quite vexing indeed that I’m not able to wipe their noses without touching their faces.
Anxiety has made a weird, mid-month debut. The especially stupid kind of anxiety that doesn’t say anything of minute importance but yells so loudly that you can’t sleep.
What if you fall asleep and something wakes you up? Oooo, that would be devastating, better not risk it.
You know, it was really unfair that you wouldn’t let the three year old take squeezable yogurt to bed. What kind of mother denies her child food? I bet he talks about that in therapy one day.
What if he needs therapy one day?
What if he needs it but he won’t go?
What is that smell? Can you get lung cancer from someone smoking all the way across the parking lot?
Sure, it’s great that your kid can say all his letters. But it probably doesn’t count since he learned them from a cartoon and not from flashcards or whatever the good moms are doing these days.
Are you nauseous? What did you have for dinner? Nope, hungry. Definitely hungry. And it’s already 4:15! You should just get up and get started on the long existential list of Things That Must Be Done because there’s no way you’ll be able to get to sleep if you’re hungry…
And you know what else? Some things were really, really good in November.
Trevor started reading before bed, which is right up there with hand-mopping the floor on the attractiveness meter.
We found a show that makes us laugh.
Several unexpected personal and business expenses were offset by the equally unexpected generosity of others.
Our youngest kid more or less potty trained himself.
I got to buy some Christmas presents.
I somehow got and held onto actual cash long enough that it was still sitting in my wallet ready to donate when some unhoused folks needed it.
We made new friends.
Despite being new to town, far from family, and in the middle of a pandemic, we were able to see friends on Thanksgiving Day.
One of my dearest friends found out she’s having a baby girl.
During a month when I feel creatively constipated, several folks reached out to express their appreciation for my work.
For different reasons and to various degrees, everything is hard for everybody right now. None of us are skipping through this year unaffected. Sometimes it helps to say that out loud. It reminds me to have a little more compassion—for others, and for myself. Still, in true paradoxical form, goodness lives on. Joy is not intimidated. Kindness still blooms.
It feels good to acknowledge this tension here, at the beginning of Advent, when we look forward to the day that Peace Himself came to be with us.
We’ve pondered some deep things and some not-so-deep things in this section, and I’m here to tell you today’s falls squarely in the shallow end.
I was one of those disgusting humans in college that remembered to wash my sheets about twice a semester. I’ll understand if you don’t want to be my friend anymore. (Actually, I will think you are very silly. Let’s all make a pact not to reject each other based on the stupid things we did in college, mk?) It wasn’t my best move, and I acknowledge that. Yet lo, the good Lord was using those stale, extra greasy nights to prepare me for the rest of my life.
I married an oily man. What can I tell you. He’s no slob. His personal hygiene is excellent and he saves us money on deodorant because his armpits have the good manners to never get rank even if he forgets to use it. He puts on real pants every day even if we’re not leaving the house (witchcraft) and has uttered the sentence, “I think I’ll mop today,” twice in the last month.
But his sebaceous glands do not play around, and our sheets have taken the brunt of their zeal over the years. I’ve moved from being a wash-sheets-when-it-feels-right person to an every-week person. I’ve auditioned various detergents and tried a few methods of laundry stripping. I’ve given up, thrown out, and started over. No luck. Sheets still come out of the dryer smelling like laundry detergent with a side of stale corn chips.
Until last week, when I stumbled on the Bed Scrunchie method. I did not let the sheets soak overnight like they recommend (we only have one pair I like and I wanted to sleep on them) and it STILL worked. May all you oily folks out there (and the people you sleep with) be blessed.
A reflection on Matthew 1:23; 28:20:
It's a true joy to write for you each month, and I always love to hear about any products you tried, shows you watched, or any ways that your heart was stirred. Simply reply to this email to let me know.
Until next time—embrace the paradox, don't panic.
-Steph
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