Preparing

I have to plan for the fallout. For the inevitable post-Christmas lull that sets in somewhere around January 2, just when beautiful dead pines are tossed on the roadside. Big plastic hearts and boxes of chocolate start replacing yuletide scenes and fake snow. It happens so suddenly, the disappearance of Christmas.

I wondered if I started being more grateful about the every day things, the little moments that happen on December 23 and December 26, that maybe my post-holiday fallout will feel a little less... empty.

Last night my husband and I talked about knowing our Father. As we drove the back roads, twisting and turning past Christmas-lit farmhouses and open pastures of black, I rambled on and on. He was patient, listening to me as I tried to explain why I didn't want to fabricate my faith. How I'm tired of people trying to superimpose their walk with God on me as if it's a formula or a 10-step process. How I've realized that I'm OK with not fabricating anything, and letting God stir the desire for Him in me. Afterall, isn't even the desire for Him a gift from Him? Instead, I want to experience and love what I have, the people around me, the moments that I see Him in every day. He is drawing me in as I beg Him to draw me in. And for me, it looks like this...


14. sitting at the breakfast bar with a sweet 14-month old who dips her binky (pacifier) in my cup of coffee.

15. irving berlin, who makes my Christmas every year that much warmer and beautiful

16. really beautiful skies in the morning and evening

17. family that is growing, loving and changing

18. a friend across the country, who sends a box filled with handwritten notes, tiny bows, arm warmers and bells.

19. those same bells, ringing on my daughter's arm as she shuffles around our home

20. winter winds in Texas. it just helps this Northeast girl's heart.

21. the hope for new things as this year comes to an end.

22. the end of 2009.

23. fresh paint on a stark white canvas

24. singing Christmas carols with my husband in our car, as he holds my hand and we navigate dark, country roads.

24. realizing that I can't manufacture faith, but that it's a beautiful, and sometimes slow, blooming gift.