the eve of our Saviour's birth

I'm sitting in the kitchen surrounded by sugar cookies and gingerbread boys dotted with little red candies. I sit here because through the glass doors in the kitchen I can see the snow falling. I love the snow. What is it about snow that makes me feel such a quiet gladness? What is it about walking through the snow, watching the snow, lying in the snow, that makes me feel such a still happiness? The war movie-watcher in me remembers scenes of battles in the snow, frost bite and gunfire and exploding shells breaking the silence and peace of the snow. The numbness in my fingers and toes while shoveling the driveway gives me just a taste of what those men must have felt, and forces me to respect and admiration and gratefulness. The writer in me tries to document and analyze the feeling I have at the sight of snow. It's always a futile attempt.

Still, still, still one can hear the falling snow. For all is hushed, the world is sleeping; Holy Star is vigil keeping. Still, still, still, one can hear the falling snow.

This year Christmas has been more about Jesus than is has all the years before. The focus hasn't been so much on presents and traditions, since parts of my family are absent and the traditions have sort of shattered and been swept under the rug. So Christmas morning won't be spent waiting at the top of the stairs for Dad to get his camera ready, like the previous 21 years of Christmases. Instead of the bustle of wrapping paper flying and telling Kitty to stop eating the ribbons, I can spend more time thinking about why Christmas even exists. "'The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel'—which means, 'God with us.'"

My anticipatory prayer on the eve of our Savior's birth: O come, o come Immanuel!

get behind me, Satan

I feel like I'm trying to quit smoking and people keep blowing cigarette smoke in my face. I'm not sure if I've ever been this tempted to listen to Christmas music this early in the year. I keep listening to soundtracks from The Family Stone and Little Women in attempts to assuage my needy Christmas spirit. My mom just sent me my favorite cookies (which we always bake at Christmastime) and Holiday Inn (Irving Berlin's debut of "White Christmas" - but it doesn't count as a Christmas movie). I am going to eat and watch and think about how there are only 27 days until Thanksgiving break.