I’m not prepared.
Christmas is a week away.
Sure, the house is decorated and presents are bought. But our advent readings have been left untouched, unopened. My heart and my attitude? Bah hum bug!
Our days are work and school and home: homework, dinner, bed! Quick! Hurry! Crash into bed!
Pete and Repeat were sitting on a fence…
Motions and routines and scream-singing songs on the commute to and from work to drown out the deafening silence of worry. I plead and I yell and I hope that one day the boys forgive these days of their wholly unprepared Momma, just trying to navigate her way into the next weekend, the next break, the next breath of fresh air.
I handle it all fine and well until that moment when I just don’t handle it at all.
Something strange happens when you allow yourself to feel it all,
when you break down crying because the world (yours, mine and ours) just weighs too much, and your heart gapes wide open and bleeding when you didn’t know it was still so very wounded.
When you cannot breathe through the tears and your body aches from the sobs, it’s whispered that Jesus was born in a stable and laid in a manger.
We weren’t prepared for Him, and He came anyway.