When the Holiday Doesn’t Come the Way You Prayed

Sometimes the greatest gift isn’t relief, but presence.

Content Note: This is Part 1 of a 3-part series on family, faith, and healing.

As I sit in the new year of 2026 reflecting back on the past couple of weeks, it’s not lost on me just how intense and challenging 2025 truly was. It went out as hard as it came in, and the New Year found its footing on unstable ground - literally. More on that later.

But first, I need to go back to Christmas.

I want to pause and reflect on something that turned out to be absolutely nothing like I expected - and yet somehow became far more than I ever imagined.

I think this is part of the beauty of beginning to understand the God we serve. A God who provides exactly what we need, even when it feels unfamiliar, inconvenient, and deeply uncomfortable.

The reality was this: Andrew had Covid. Jax likely had it too and we questioned whether he was also battling the flu. Coming to Boston wasn’t an option - it was too great a risk for Logan and me. And so, for the first time ever, Christmas meant being apart.

Not just apart as a family- but apart from Andrew.

The first time since I was 18.

The emotions were big. The ache was palpable. The holidays felt anything but festive.

And yet, when I look back, what stands out most was not the absence - it was the presence. The presence of our church family and neighbors who stepped in without being asked. Home-cooked meals. Text messages. Hugs. Generosity in every form. People who showed up the way I imagine Jesus would.

Still, being alone in an unfamiliar city was hard. Just Logan and me in a small apartment, longing for it to feel like home.

I found myself at Wegmans, trying my best to keep tradition alive - searching for any sense of Christmas normalcy I could bring into our little space in the middle of the city.

Last year we had created a new tradition. One not rooted in generations before us, but grounded in the heart of our little family and the season itself. The birth of Jesus. The shepherds. The wise men. The grace of a sovereign God whose love far exceeds what we deserve.

So, we eat like the shepherds on Christmas Eve. By candlelight. Simple. Peaceful. Reflective.

In a season that often feels loud and rushed, I’ve come to cherish this tradition deeply and hope to carry it forward for generations.

This year, the plan was simple. Logan and I would still have a shepherd’s dinner - just the two of us.

But the reality of parenting a medically complex child doesn’t pause for holidays.

Logan lives with Celiac, ARFID, functional nausea, functional abdominal pain, and functional vomiting which complicates eating for him. Christmas Eve was no exception.

I prepared a beautiful, simple meal. Candles lit. Table set.

Logan lasted about five minutes. He tried. He pushed himself to sample a few bites. Then the nausea hit. Dysregulation followed. Before long, he was on the floor dry heaving.

And I was alone at the table.

I cried - not from ingratitude, but from the ache of trying to find healing in moments that feel profoundly unfair. It’s hard to feel the magic of Christmas when “Santa” doesn’t hold the same meaning anymore, when your 16-year-old quietly asks if he can deliver his own gifts.

That night, I cried alone in the dark. Angry. Frustrated. Wrestling with God.

The uncertainty loomed heavy - unsure when I’d see my family again or when we’d make it back to Delaware. We had prayed for provision for months, so I knew there had to be meaning in what was being stripped away. I just couldn’t see it yet.

Christmas morning brought the gift I didn’t know I needed.

While technology gave us a way to be “together” and watch the kids open gifts at the same time, it was the moments after - when the wrapping paper is everywhere and the boxes are ripped open and everyone settles into play - that I felt the absence the most. Those were the moments I would miss with Jax and Addie. The spontaneous laughter. The chaos. The togetherness that happens once the screens turn off.

I fully expected my less-than-impressed sixteen-year-old to retreat into the quiet, content to scroll or disappear into his own space. Instead, he surprised me.

His gifts weren’t loud or flashy. They were gifts of regulation. Thoughtfully chosen to support his nervous system, to heal his mind, body, and soul. Gifts meant to foster his creativity and complement the work he was already doing alongside his medical team.

As his curiosity peaked, I found myself unboxing the Loops Lab with him. I laid on the floor beside him like I used to when he was five - mixing beats, laughing, annoying him just enough. And in that space, I received a gift I hadn’t anticipated.

Time.

Quiet, sacred time.

Just him and me.

I knew it in the depths of my heart - that this was a “last” of sorts. A moment suspended in grace. The world felt still. There were no medical problems to solve. No doctors. No alarms. No buzzing phone demanding attention.

It was as if we were sealed inside a small snow globe, laughing on the floor, while he found space to simply be.

It didn’t last long.

But it held me.

It was holy and sacred.

And I didn’t yet realize how much I would need it for what came next.

Later that evening, he wandered into my room to share some ridiculous video and ask for dog paw medicine. What started as something ordinary quietly unfolded into so much more.

I didn’t recognize it in the moment, but it was another quiet gift.

The gift of healing, one that likely would have been missed had we been together as a family.

And while that doesn’t negate what my heart would have preferred, it offered something far more powerful.

It opened the door to a conversation Logan had never really considered before - one I sensed he might actually thrive in.

Rock climbing.
Bouldering.

A natural crossover from his love of calisthenics and the way his body seems uniquely wired - brief, intense bursts of strength followed by rest. Movement that doesn’t require endurance, but presence.

Power paired with release.

At the time, it felt like nothing more than conversation.

Looking back, I see it for what it was.

A door quietly opening - one I now see God had already gone ahead and unlocked.

This is part of a larger story I’m still living.