Some plans are bigger than us. Some plans, no matter how carefully laid, have a way of going sideways. This year, my “big plan” was a Boxing Day pilgrimage back home to eastern Kentucky, my own little Good King Wenceslas moment, complete with loaded gifts, bags packed, and a hybrid gassed up and ready for the road.
We spent weeks preparing: laundry done, clothes laid out, Christmas gifts stacked high. By Christmas Eve, I felt ready. My brother, however, had other plans. A fever, vomiting, and a night spent precariously close to the indoor outhouse made for a holiday I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Yet, in that fleeting moment of improvement, he sent the text: “I’m doing better, load up the car and come on down!”
The plan was back on. We were going to Appalachia. I could almost hear the brass of a royal procession.
Then, hours before departure, came the dreaded update: he was worse. “Come on down at your own risk.” Suddenly, our well-planned journey felt like a foolhardy quest into the icy unknown, a modern-day Wenceslas ambushed by the harsh reality of illness, timing, and family obligations.
We’ve spent decades chasing the perfect Christmas: visits lined up, cousins hugged, meals planned. We’d even survived the Mid-Missouri Sturgills in a houseful of laughter and chaos, armed with a commercial-grade HEPA filter and an ionizer. We were ready. Or so we thought.
Lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and re-running every decision in my mind, I heard the unmistakable voice of Mick Jagger: “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try real hard, you get what you need.”
And I realized: I wasn’t sure I knew what I needed. What I wanted was clear: family, travel, tradition, but what I needed was something else entirely: presence, patience, safety, rest, and maybe, just maybe, mercy on myself for letting the plan go.
Good King Wenceslas ventured into the cold to do what was right. But sometimes, love isn’t about walking through snowdrifts; it’s about recognizing when to stay where you are and care in the way that matters most. Sometimes, the heart’s journey is inward, not on the road.
So yes, I didn’t make the eight-hour trek to eastern Kentucky this year. But in not going, I got what I needed: clarity, health, and the reminder that love doesn’t always require a GPS.
And who knows? Next year, Wenceslas may just lead the way, after we all get a good night’s sleep.
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