Christmas is here. Today. Tomorrow.
I can’t seem to tuck away the dog-eared pages of my own story this year; smooth, crease and hide them back in Luke 5 or better, the obscurity of Jude while adoring the cherubic Christ and his romanticized parents. It’s just not happening. The pressure to create lovely and my ability to do it in years that looked harder than this one seems to snear at every effort from my heart and hand at settling into a season of hope and joy. I’ve never wanted it to be over more than I do this year.
Wonder crept back into my life three years ago and I can remember where I was standing when I realized it wasn’t just for children. The weary world rejoiced and hope seemed to explode from every twinkling light on the tree.
Our new puppy chewed the power out of a strand or two of lights on the lower limbs of the tree and and the top of that tree shines on. I’ll do the same today, in fact I’m going to go light a candle and start singing with Bing right now.
I’ll frost a few remaining cookies with my kids and iron the wrinkles out of their good clothes. It’ll be fine. It always is. But I can’t pretend that it feels fine any more than we shouldn’t pretend that the stable was sanitized and romantic. It wasn’t.
Nichole Nordeman wrote a song that speaks to the futility I’ve felt in cleaning up my Christmas feelings this year. If the stable and the people in it were really real, I want to be too.
Nichole Nordeman Real