“Christmas is a love story.” I
read this on my electronic newspaper in the early hours of the 25th, before
even getting out of bed. I dry my eyes and shoot the link to two
girlfriends. I open it up several times
over the course of the day to read again.
I’m weary, there’s no denying it, and the spirit evades me. Christmas is meant to be the prize, the big,
joyful culmination of weeks of preparation, but every year, for me, it lands
with a hollow thud despite my best efforts to make it different. I’m certain I’m not alone in this, and this writer speaks
to me; clearly she sees this too.
“The story goes that love was
about to be born, but no one had room to welcome it. Everywhere was full, booked, closed, busy.
But love found room, as it always does, in the most humble, surprising places.”
I feel full,
booked, closed and busy. Not just with
the squeeze of holiday preparations, but in ordinary time with work, raising
teenagers, and the last seven years spent raising myself. It seems like there is no room to welcome
love. All I’ve been able to see are the burdens another
would need to be willing to take on if love were to come in.
“Whether your heart feels
festive, lit and tinseled, or barren, drafty, dirt-floored, and covered in
straw, love will come wherever there is room.”
Hope bursts out of
this message. Love can live anywhere. It doesn’t
need festive and tinseled to feel welcome. Even in my barren draftiness love
can exist.
“Love is coming either way.
Welcome or not. Ready or not.”
Maybe it’s time to stop preparing and just make some room.
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