One Quiet Life

My neighbors have hung Christmas lights. Friends have decorated their trees. Christmas music wafts down the hall from my daughter's bedroom. This is more than the normal commercial push. After months of social isolation, brutal protests, and ugly politics, people are craving Christmas this year.  We need a little Christmas, right this very minute... Good tidings and warm fuzzies. Twinkle lights and mistletoe. Romantic movies and Santa. It's the most wonderful time of the year... Misers give generously. Unkind people learn to love. Damaged relationships are mended.   Have yourself a merry little Christmas... Families gather. The decorations are flawless. The perfect gift is found. All our troubles disappear.  The world's idea of Christmas crumbles beneath our expectations . That Christmas, for all its shiny promises, misses the mark. Hope wrapped in pretty paper and ornate ribbons will always disappoint. True hope was wrapped in swaddling cloths.   A thrill of hope, the wear

I step over the threshold and am immediately engulfed by the absence of my grandfather's waiting arms open wide. I walk past the kitchen which so often nourished me, and into the living room where I have listened to thousands of tall tales and stories of the good old days. I overlook the dust and gaze back into the holidays and the ordinary days spent here. This is the place where my daddy was raised. Where the yard was home to a giant grapevine and an old tire swing. Where the dog was always named Bullet and the kitchen counter always held a jar of jelly beans. Where dessert meant yellow cake with chocolate icing, and Granddaddy drank milk with every meal. This is the place I cannot imagine my life without. I move through the house and silently say goodbye. It's unlikely I will return.  As much as I ache for the past, I cannot recreate it. All that's left are time-worn memories of people who loved me without fail.   ~~~~~ I am ecstatic. My cousin has gifted me with the bes

Onyx patterns stand against the pale morning. The shapes recognizable, but not distinguishable. The sun has yet to illuminate the unique features of each tree. I am reminded of a portrait that hung in my grandparents' home. A child's profile stamped onto creamy paper, her identity hidden.   ~~~~~ As a young bride, I sit beside the man whose heart is so freshly knit to mine. The artist uses scissors rather than a brush. When he is done, I survey his handiwork. Somehow we two are joined together; our individual characteristics are not visible. Our marriage not yet defined. This new creation is unmarked by years heavy with life. Nearly three decades later the outlines may look slightly different, but the people within them have been much altered by grace, love, and loss. ~~~~~ Isaac, a sacrificial son bound by obedience. Did he chafe against the ropes? Did he beg his father to find another way? David, a shepherd boy from Bethlehem. He cared for his sheep. He ascended to the throne