Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Christmas is for stopping. It's the time when all around the world, people get quiet in that late hour. Some are at church singing by candlelight. Some are at home with decaf coffee. Some are at home with wine:) Some may still be traveling. But Christmas Eve seems quieter to me than any other night of the year. It's one of my favorite times. After all the rushing (which I personally do not mind. You know Mary was feeling rushed 9 months preggo on a d*mn donkey looking for a place to get down and start birthing the SAVIOR! Hello!), the wrapping, the frantically finishing work early for family time, the partying, the cooking, after all that, comes the quiet. I welcome this quiet. If I don't get to adequately experience it, Christmas doesn't feel fulfilled. It's the time when I look at all the material gifts under the tree and I think about how I don't need them. I like them; I just don't need them. I think about how I am so incredibly blessed already, and how I have every day what I particularly cherish on Christmas Eve. And I think of those that are alone, or cold, or hungry, or both. And I wonder how they feel. Those without Christ and those with Christ. How do they feel? Those of us with battle scars already experience a bit of the melancholy on holidays. It is what it is. But do those with no one, with nothing, realize they also get an invitation to the gift? The biggest gift? Do they feel it could make a difference? Really make a difference? And do I, as one who feels blessed, who feels that He does make a difference, do my part to make those without feel that difference too? Do those that are hurting in a physical way that I cannot understand feel the quiet the way I feel the quiet? How do I give someone that gift? That gift of quiet on Christmas Eve that feels, yes, heavy in some ways, but hopeful? Quiet hope. How do I give that? Because if we are to give and be an example for Christ, wouldn't that be a good start? Quiet hope. Quiet. Hope.