I am earnestly trying to engage in the Christmas spirit. Whatever does that mean? To me, it is a glad heart from good tidings. But this year is different, I just seem to be living any old month in any old year, the latest in my current 62. The setting is good, Fair Haven, a fire in the stove, grey and cold out this morning but clear blue skies await the burning clearing of the sun. And it is Sunday, we will gather with some body of believers in some church, somewhere, today. The Advent wreath is here. It travels with us every Christmas season in hopes that preparing our hearts is not in vain, that Jesus will come, that he will be with us, live and breathe along with us, strengthen, guide, and come along with us in our journey on his earth. It just that this year I seem to be duller, less moved, not altogether into it. It is our children, grown, gone, and separate lives. This year I am sadly aware of their absence in my life, their ongoing living woven into mine, the family quilt being sewn, strengthen, mended, and patched. Now—fewer squares in mine, more in theirs. There were times when we slept elbow to elbow, ankle to ankle, all of us under one tent, one family, one for all and all for one. We are now five families, truly five, that now try to occasionally push into; under one roof. I have gone on enough down this lane of grey. The mighty Tennessee just now visible in the tiny ripples of its surface changing its color slightly from the fog that colors it above and it is cleansing. It is Christmas. The good tidings come again, Glory to God in the Highest, the Babe God is coming and the world he made is clearing in front of me. I am washed again in the Blood, the Babe Blood and His Birth remembering is good tidings even today, childless, “For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” And the Square that binds our five quilts back into one.
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