Twenty crazed minutes mid-Christmas Eve inside a crowded Walmart, accompanied by overloud, carnival-sounding Christmas songs.
A quiet, tearful hour or two spent with my frail and ailing–to be honest, dying–66-year-old mother-in-law.
Faces against windows, pressed closer to better see displays of lights and merchandise. Airports full of strangers. Streets and stores packed with shoppers. Some cross. Some kind. Not a one in any way as invisible or insignificant as they all seem to be to one another.
Primary children and adults in a crowded but cosy chapel. A dining and living room full of friends and family. Not just known, but also much loved.
Frantic (and exhausting) busyness.
Precious few quiet moments, desperately stolen from the demands of the day.
Smog. Sun. Grey. Green. Hurt and heartbreak. Love and Joy. Crowds. Quiet. Sickness. Health. Death. Birth.
Even knowing what I know, sometimes I don’t quite know what to make of it all.
Do you?
