“So this is Christmas.”[1] So it is. And we can laugh about the rushing, slide comfortably into the busy. Because.
Lights slapped up all over the places we didn’t even
know were dark before—‘tis the season. Season for warm drinks on the inside,
warm scarves on the out, and every manner of thought on the in-between. To feel
overwhelmed? Or thankful? To feel at all? Yes, please. Even if it has a sour
taste in it, feel. How could we not, with magic strung onto trees and love
wrapped into gifts and joy to the world? Feel.
“What have you done?”[2] Well, what have you? After
another year (always faster than the last). Made friends? Enemies? Accomplished
goals? Unavoidable tasks? Lived alive at all, perhaps? Some breathing, some
interacting, and a lot of work. Good, good.
So this is Christmas? And little children dance in onesies
to rip into tangible love. How we love them, loved being them. Not so very long
ago. Rejoice, rejoice. Like angels to shepherds, filling skies with glory and
peace.[3] Always a favorite, those
watchers of the flock by night. Maybe because they were living, working. The
night shift no less. And grace, in the best sort of explosion, just interrupted
the mundane. Like that sensation during a fire drill—something out of the
ordinary, praise God!—but loads better.
It is forever, you know. The peace. And ‘tis the
season to feel all calm, all bright, in remembering it. This is Christmas. It
is life too. So it is. May we be merry.
It's lovely to read your writings again! :-)
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