A Christmas Carol (or ten)

That’s what I told a few of my closest friends on Facebook yesterday. I was kidding (sort of), but I wasn’t lying (not at all).  Even as we speak, the sounds of a lively chase are wafting up the stairs, and I hear the pounding of feet, shouting and riotous laughter from the smallest runner. I can tell by the slamming of the doors where they’re at. (“Do You Hear What I Hear,” Mr. Schrock in your office?)

“Silent night,” we sang hopefully at season’s peak.

Silent night, huh? Well, a girl can hope. And keep right on hoping, too, when “Deck the Halls” became “He Trashed the Halls.” (‘He’ being College Kid, ‘halls’ being every room and walkway and ‘trashed’ meaning his stuff is everywhere ’cause he’s home from school.)

Perhaps, though, I feel like nothing quite so much as one of the shepherds who watched their flock by night. (Maybe that’s just me, but it’s how it seems, so baaaa.) For Mr. Schrock, it’s not as much “watching the flock” as “trying to get the flock to shut that thing down (the X-Box) and go to bed while it is yet night.” Those are no angels we have heard on high, see, and there’s little rejoicing from the three “Good Christian Men” who’ve been so instructed.

In all the melee; the mess and the uproar, I find that there are real pockets of joy. In my world. For as I confessed only yesterday, “There’s a lot a mother doesn’t get right. Then the house smells like cinnamon rolls baking in the oven; The Guppy’s standing on a chair beside you drying dishes while the Christmas music plays; and you think, ‘Maybe just once in awhile…’”

Perfection? No. Joy? Yes. Peace, too, and hope. Not because a guy in a red suit came to town, but because The Babe did once, far away in a manger. Who really does see us when we are sleeping and knows when we’re awake.

And that’s some very good news.