I sit in my blue flannel jammies.  In the chair by the fire.  Through the window, the trees are gray and bare and lichen covered and still tinged with a spattering of snow.  The ground outside is covered in white. 

It looks cold.  But I am warm, here in this house.

Our Christmas tree glows in the dim light of evening.   

The packages are wrapped. 

The mulled wine simmers on the stove.  The smell of clove and orange and cinnamon and wine fills our kitchen.

The dough for our Christmas fasnachts is rising.

It’s O Holy Night plays quietly in the background.  A plate full of raisin-bedecked gingerbread men waits…

The refridgerator is full.  The pantry overflows with tomorrows bounty.  I think how lucky we are to go to bed each night with full bellies. 

The children, in their new soft jammies, sleep soundly.  Wrapped up warmly in their beds.  And surely, visions of sugar plums are dancing in their heads.

And though there are fingerprints adorning what seems to be every shiny surface in this house, there is peace in my heart.  Though the vacuuming is not done, I am content.  Though the dust abounds and there are sprinklings of glitter and sparkles everywhere, I am ready. 

Tomorrow, He comes. 

Merry Christmas…


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