Whew. Almost Here!

It's almost here.  We have shopped and polished and mailed.  We have delivered and cooked and wrapped. The tree is decorated.  The turkey's  defrosting.  The  presents are wrapped and waiting.  Christmas is almost here.  

This is my favorite time. Everything is ready and I am anticipating the arrival of my family.  The house is sparkling.  The freezer is full.  Expectations and excitement.  And of course the reality when they all come roaring through the door. Chaos. Noise.  Dirty clothes.  Dirty dishes. The sounds of my family as they come home.  For Christmas. Finally!

What follows is an essay by Annie Lamott. one of my favorite writers.  She shares some interesting insight about the season and the expectations and  traditions that surround it.  If you are not familiar with her work, Lamott's guide to writing and to life, Bird by Bird or  Stitches , a book about hope and healing, are great places to start.  Enjoy.  Oh and Merry Christmas. Chrissie.

We did it! It's December 22: we are within striking distance of December 26. That means there shalt be parking spaces again. There shalt not be any more bell ringers, or Rudolph, or Almond Roca. No more chocolate covered Peppermint Bark, barking its way past our clenched teeth. No more deeply unhinged people beaming at us with a rictus of holiday mirth, wishing they had a grenade. No more young children shaking wrist bells at us, plotting our overthrow.

Now, by the same token:

It IS the last Sunday of Advent: let there be light, and let it begin with me. Let others see the Light inside me, through my cracks and dents. More Light! Each day will be a tiny bit longer; the Spring is coming. We are so much closer to the Spring the we were in the glory days of September. it's time to plant bulbs. No, no, you didn't blow it--it's never too late. We plant them in the cold and dark, in rocky soil that nicks our fingers, and yet when they bloom, daffodils and paper whites, each one is like a candle with a stamen, not a wick. They remind us that nothing--nothing!--is ever lost. It just may not be its time to appear yet.Bulbs and then...wait...wildflowers.

Once on a cold dark mid-December's day, I happened to be at the Book Depot in Mill Valley with Wendell Berry, who said gently, "It gets darker and darker and darker, and then Jesus is born." I love that so much.
 
 I wish God had consulted me when God thought up December. I would have said, "Dawg! Don't do it." Seriously, it's one of those thoughts that you have at 2:00 with a bunch of other cokeheads, that seems like a good idea at the time--which will be the title of my autobiography. It Seemed Like a Good Idea At the Time. Really, if God had thought to ask, I would have put the kabosh on December, snakes, and tonsils. Ixnay on the ats-ray, too, Dude.

But at the same time, we've done it--we've come through. It's like coming through labor, where you realize midway that you don't like children but you push on. The holy days are a mixed-grille: holy and hard. Yet when the motley group of relatives and riff-raff that we call "our family" gathers for a meal, here is what we may note, if we remember the priest who said, "Sometimes I think that Heaven is just a new pair of glasses:

We'll see everybody at their best and worst, meaning well, sharing what they can. Trying not to drink so much, trying not to nag so much or provoke; trying to be better than they are. We will see people who used to hate each other passing and receiving the gravy, and that is what grace looks like. We will see stingey people who have spent too much on our children. Along with the horrible sweet potato dish and Almond Roca wrappers, we'll see good will. Good will--Wow. 

We'll see relief on the faces of the old, that the family is intact, ish --and that is a miracle. We will see hope in the talented teenagers. We'll see too many people squished in at the table, because we invited people who had nowhere else to be. It will be the loaves and the fish and the terrible sweet potatoes. And wonder of wonders, we'll see forgiveness marbled throughout it all. Hammarskjold said that Forgiveness is the answer to the child's dream of a miracle by which what is broken is made whole again, what is soiled is made clean again. Or at least, broken things that work well enough again, against all odds.

I would fall to my knees and say thank you, if I could, without risking seriously body harm. So I am not going to say that prayer today: I am going to BE it.  Thank you.