"I once had a dream that I died and went to heaven," my brother mused as we turned along the dark country roads.
"I didn't realize you could actually die in dreams," I said, watching the frosted fields zip by.
"No, I totally did. And heaven was Uncle Cliffy's house."
"No, it wasn't," he smiled. "I was downstairs, and it was Christmas morning. I could hear everyone upstairs, celebrating. And I asked if I could go, and I was told I could. It was awesome."
He went on, "Maybe that's why we love Christmas and having a home so much…we're craving Heaven."
We are getting ready to celebrate the Advent season. And in my heart I know somewhere around January 4th, the buzz will wane and I'll be left wondering how long is too long to leave up a Christmas tree. I know it's going to fly by and I know this — it will not satisfy me.
Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas. I might be obsessed with this season. I grew up in a Christmas-loving family. I will do my best to wring this season dry of every good and sweet gift it brings.
But it will not satisfy that hunger in me that wants to celebrate. The thing in me that leaps for joy amidst every beautiful thing. The craving for all beauty and coming home and all gifts and the ones I love and all joy complete. It's not meant to satisfy that in me.
I celebrate this advent because I know another one is coming.
I know a Christmas morning is waiting. And we are playing and tiptoeing in a cold, snowy world on a long Christmas Eve.