I noticed today that I've written so few posts this year, that my Christmas letter is still at the bottom of the page.

Pathetic.

I keep thinking that at some point I will have something good to share, something exciting to share, something different to share.

But the limbo continues.

Every week at church people come up to me to ask for an update. And they are always disappointed.

Imagine how I feel, I think.

And so, fundamentally, things are still the same. David is still looking, I am still praying, the kids are still hoping that at some point their parents will wake up and return to the present. But life also goes on in its dependable, inexorable way.

Caleb's science fair came and went. The snails were examined under his microscope and then met their ignominious end in my large soup pot. His conclusion? Plastics are very bad news, especially if you're a mudsnail. Not so great for humans either as it turns out, and so we've started a slow, steady purge.

My painful root canal came and went, thanks in part to a friend who intervened at just the right moment. I was nearly out of my mind with pain and had lost all ability to reason well. By the time the endodontist saw it, I had a very nice abscess coming along. I begged for death. Instead he prescribed two hours in his chair and a round of antibiotics. Delightful, with more dental work coming next week.

David's surgery came and went. Without complication. Thank heavens. He has been happily eating whatever he wants for two weeks now with no problems whatsoever.

David and I came and went back east for second interviews and a "get-the-wife's-approval" trip. We found a charming community, six inches of snow, a job that David was made for, as well as a terrible longing to be settled and employed.

Other job opportunities came and went, a few of them more painful to see go than others, but we move forward believing we are being led to "the right place."

I had a few speaking assignments that also came and went. One day I went to the temple with such a long list of things I needed help and inspiration on, I thought the Lord would turn me away at the doorstep.

I'll be honest. Most days I vacillate between terror and calm, fear and faith, abject discouragement and happy optimism, and all that before I've even had my shower.

But it's the limbo, the monotony, the waiting, the every-minute slow crawl of the clock towards the unknown future that is the hardest. It's given me new appreciation for the children of Israel who complained that yeah, the Lord was providing for them, but couldn't he please provide something different. And this makes me humble and repentant.

And also, acutely aware of the miracles.

A couple of days ago I was standing on the banks of the Susquehanna, a river I never imagined I would have the opportunity to see in person. A couple of nights ago I was eating dinner at a tavern in Delaware with some of our dearest friends in all the world, stunned to be sitting across a scarred wooden table from them. A couple of mornings ago sat on a 727 next to my husband and as I watched him preparing for his upcoming interviews I thought I had never loved him more, that maybe I was just beginning to understand marriage for the first time in my life. It was a revelation. And a couple of evenings ago, as I knelt next to David in a strange hotel in a strange town on the other side of the continent and begged for blessings, I remembered Nephi's words that the Lord is mightier than all the earth, then why not this, and I felt the sure witness of those words as strong as I ever had before.

None of which would ever have happened without leaving the fleshpots of Egypt in the first place.

I see that now.

There is no other way, afterall.

There's no good place to start this story, so I'll just give you the end.

This morning David had his gallbladder removed. Good riddance.

You can fill in the rest...pain, anguish, emergency rooms, ultrasounds, CT scans, and hospital television. A repeat performance of the dance we did nearly two years ago, only worse.

And so, in the middle of the night in the middle of last week, I sat, cold and tired, in an emergency room waiting for the doctor. It was nearly morning by the time he came back with word.

Gallstones. A lot of them. Fluorescing bright as day all over the screen. His gallbladder would have to go.

I started to cry. Hard.

The doctor looked alarmed. He assured me that this was very routine, an easy surgery, my husband was going to be fine.

I told him that I just have a lot going on in my life right now.

And I do. Enough things to fast and pray for to keep me on my knees permanently.

Luckily, I have other people helping me with that part. (I love you all.)

As for me, I spent yesterday morning in the dentist's chair before I went with David to see the surgeon and visit the lab. Lots of drilling. A temporary crown. More pain and anguish. The dentist said it might need a root canal because I'd left it so long. "Fifty-fifty," he said. I am ready for things to fall my way.

I am trodding as cheerfully as I can. But you might be surprised just how long and just how dark the night can actually be. When the only light at the end of the tunnel is your husband's glowing gallstones on the CT screen.

Refine. Humble. Teach. Something is happening here. One day last week, in the fourth watch of the night, when I was sure I could not go one step further on this journey, I had the distinct feeling that heaven cares less about the destination, and more about what happens to me on the way.

I can only hope it won't take me forty years.

But let's be honest. Given my brass brow and neck of iron sinew, I'd say it's probably fifty-fifty.