These days (Christmas 2020)

These are the days of constant Christmas carols coming from our piano, as Seth practices for upcoming church services.

These are the days of hearing all about Dairy Queen, crazy customers and blizzard flavors, and long stories told at Aggie-speed:  “I told someone at work the whole Nativity story; I mean I might have left out a few details but I remember a LOT of details and so I told her all the nativity story between customers today. It took a long time.”

These days, before the Christmas Eve service, we have a big ugly fight over socks.  Also, I find brown curls in the bathroom sink, but nobody will admit to cutting his hair and I’m  too preoccupied to chase down that mystery.

These days, one is an acolyte for the first time ever, but he pushes through sibling sarcasm and anxiety and does a fine job. 

These days, the church is decorated beautifully, but we all notice one ornament that looks like a coronavirus. Yes, coronavirus is present here, at least in our thoughts, but we will gather and smile and give thanks anyways.

These days my prayers in the sanctuary are still interrupted with a whisper:  "I have to poop."

These days Peter goes up to the altar wearing my tennis shoes, untied. His older siblings care more than I do about these things, but none of them caught it this time. I suppress a laugh. I can only address so many things at once.

These days the girls are singing the choir, around the altar with the others pushing their songs hard through masks, praise and joy reverberating off the walls and lifting my heart to heave.

These days, Christmas is not canceled

After service, we came home to dog puke by the Christmas tree. Copper had gotten into Peter’s butterscotch chips, ate the whole bag, and then gave them back in a slimy mess on the carpet.

These are the days of “I hate my life” and “everyone is mean

to me” but also,

These are the days of huge excitement over “my very own box of pop tarts!” 

These days, I watch the Nativity Story through the eyes of Mary’s mom, and I sigh when her daughter leaves with the Lord, far away, with no guarantees but God’s faithfulness.

And my oldest daughter rests her head on my shoulder during church

the string of my bow gets tight (like my heart) and I can feel this arrow getting ready to launch.

These days I miss seeing my family, and the snows of Michigan and the kielbasa and the noise.

and I learn that letting a few tears fall while wearing a mask is especially not fun

and I am afraid to sniffle in my emotions, making others fear infections.

(Masks hide more than just viruses, and these days I am weary of it all.)

But all through these days, the Word of God echoes in the church and in our home,

and daddy the soldier-priest stands in front of the poinsettias, 

proclaiming truth faithfully,

and the church around the world lights candles and takes refuge in God’s presence,

even in the darkness and grief of 2020

and Christmas is not cancelled.

Jesus  is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power. (Hebrews 1:3)

These days, he calls, gathers, and upholds us

Christmas is not cancelled.