Words have not come easily in this blur of a semester. Rather, words for myself have not come easily. I pick up books by Shauna and Dickens and am amazed that they had the thoughts and time to put down in volumes worth reading. I would like to write as they do, bursting through pages and either confronting or comforting the reader. Both would be fine by me.
(sidenote: solder is pronounced “saw-der” and everything I have ever thought before has essentially been a lie. Thank you, Kassandra)
I haven’t been this blocked for a long time. August to now has been captured with photos and laughter but not words. Christmas is approaching, though, so maybe the final caught breath of 2017 will allow me to put down something worth reading.
In my mind’s eye I picture Christmas in the Cratchett household, lights off and smiling faces flickering in the candlelight as the highlight of the year is revealed: the pudding, afire and smelling like clean laundry and food (Dickens, I may never fully understand your language but I appreciate how my mind imagines the rooms you wrote).
I picture the first ever Christmas, the one before that word was invented or gifts were given in honor of the best gift. That night must have felt fearful and lonely to Mary, confusing and stressful to Joseph. The carols had not yet been written, the fulfilled promises not yet understood, the animals probably didn’t smell like cinnamon and cloves. It probably didn’t feel like the most important Christmas night to those two humans who just wanted their Messiah-son to be born safely.
I remember every Christmas from my childhood, the gifts that seemed unthinkable (and were definitely undeserved), the melted chocolate in my stocking because “Santa” forgot to turn off the gas fireplace before we came downstairs, and the unmatched bubbles of excitement on Christmas Eve. I feel cozy and safe when the memories of Christmas Past come back to visit.
Literature and my own memories hold so many versions of Christmas that it is hard to sort out what I want to continue in my life and what is better left under the Christmas tree. Advent sounds good to my heart that is a little tired of shiny colors and overpriced presents that don’t have a heart-thought behind them. Jesus has already been born and died and returned once, leaving for the last time with a promise and a Holy Seal. Maybe that’s the expectation and sense of waiting that will keep Christmas warm in my heart for the decades to come, rather than reliving His birth each winter.
He is coming back, and soon. Praise the Father, and let us be ready for Him.