Calm and Bright

It has been quiet here, hasn't it? I don't really have any explanation, exactly. But it has been good. I feel ready for the flurry of feasting and giving and receiving of the next few days. All our extended family celebrations will be happening before Monday, so Christmas Eve and Day are all ours, for worship, and simple food. Scattering glittery oats on the lawn for Santa's reindeer, rising early, curling ribbon and muffin crumbs, and two boys impossibly taller than last year. For once I feel ready to drink in all its messy glory.

This year feels different. We did the dinner party, and it was fun and busy and festive, and then I just. . . stopped. The days since have been quiet. I had a visit from a dear friend, and Joshua had a school program. Sam stood up so straight to sing in church, and we caroled on the coldest night yet. But mostly it has been reading The Long Winter aloud to the boys, opening a new door in The Advent Book each evening, drawing Christmas trees and reindeer over and over, and playing a CD changer full of holiday music on the stereo next to the tree.

I let go of many things. We were so inundated with homemade treats from others that I have not baked very much, and for the first year, we have not sent Christmas cards. I imagine myself writing some letters in January to dear ones. We said no to several events; if we were trying to decide and it seemed like a bit too much, we said no.

And just now that feels just right. To know that I would not have traded one peaceful hour for our own greetings to be winging into others' mailboxes, or to purchase one more "perfect" gift, or to turn out Martha-worthy trays of confections. Our kids are still young, and their boundless delight in the small ceremonies and celebrations of home is a luxury I am reveling in.

We have many traditions that are the bones of our Christmases, but the character and shape of them is different every year. Every year we discover a new tone to our celebration, and perhaps this is uniquely appropriate for a holiday that is not a day at all, but a Person. May we, may you, as we savor Christmas, meet Jesus in some fresh way. Let us make Him room, as the hymn says, let heav'n and nature sing.

A Feast Before Us

I am not crazy about "Christian book stores." Not because of the books, for I love books, but all the "stuff." (And I won't go on here, because there is a big old soapbox of self-righteousness calling me, and I'm keeping my feet on the ground today.) But one time, in one of those stores, I saw a poster that depicted the Bridegroom's banquet that awaits us in heaven, a table with places set, stretching as far as the eye could see and beyond. I loved that.

Last night and today, I have felt like a guest at a feasting table, each rich and fragrant dish that passes a blessing heaped on my plate. Holidays and calendars are so good for marking our time, looking back to the last time or two we hung an ornament on the tree, or set out the silver. And I cannot deny that, while there have been times of need, moments of loneliness in these last two years, we have traveled a way I could never have imagined. At last, a career that my husband loves, a home that is beautiful to us, boys blooming with health and good-naturedness, a church home. In letting go of some things, some people, my hands were opened to welcome others.

And for this moment, I am so glad to sit at this table.

To Make Ready

Every year of our married life I have filled the shallow pottery circle with water, and snips from the yard, magnolia, nandina and evergreen, fitted the candles in place. Sometimes joyfully and expectantly, sometimes in sorrow and uncertainty, through the dim sleeplessness of new parenthood and the glad noise of small ones. And we have drawn around this circle.

Likewise my heart has been in different states by this Advent wreath. Absent and distracted or worried. Longing beyond the lighting and reading to bedtime for little ones and a few moments of peace before I am sleeping too. But, somehow, always making this circle of light part of our Christmas preparation.

This year, as the cut stems drink and the wicks stand ready, I, too, am longing. To drink more fully of Advent, to experience a season of preparation for Jesus. A slow dawning in my heart, again, of what it means that God poured His divine self into a human vessel, a man who laughed and wept and taught, who made friends and loved and was betrayed. But Who, Himself, was faithful to the cross, To the tomb. And now, to the Throne. Breath held, candle lit, as an old story is told and retold in our own four-flame circle, I want to see the wonder in our faces, to be made ready to come and adore Him.