rest later

My days have been filled with merry and bright for the past few weeks.

 Temple Square visit in early December
 Geo reading or traditional Christmas story to the boys
 #4 as Joseph
 Our flamingo at the nativity
 Making room for the grandkids and the great grandkids in the nativity
Braided bread I make for neighbors

A field trip to the mall for a Christmas scavenger hunt with the special kiddos, a class program where a few of us cried a little, family get togethers, a nativity scene that involved a flamingo and a unicorn, surprising our two teens with a big plasma TV for the family room, and a phone call to Monterrey, Mexico to talk with our son who reeeeally struggled with his English, I might add).

I understand the concern about forgetting the meaning of Christmas.  Keep it simple, we hear all season.  Remember the reason.

I get that.

But I love the hubbub.  I love finding that last cool thing to buy.  I love the full calendar and the visiting and the parties.  I love all of the things that make these few weeks really stand out from the rest of the year.  I can stick it out, even though I may crash in January.  What else is January for, except recovering from December?


Why is it that I get all mushy and nostalgic during the holidays?

Yesterday evening I sang in a concert where a little nine-year old brunette played a snare drum while we sang of princes and fifes.  The least emotional of our 20-piece program, yet I could hardly get the words out because I thought of my own little drummer boys and how they are turning into men.

my son, Perry

And when Sister Cutler handed me a list of songs and asked if my husband could play them for the ward Christmas party next weekend it hit me again.  There on the list was "When Joseph Went to Bethlehem" I went back 20 years in my mind to when my first-born would sing this song.  Each line went up in pitch until his neck was stretched out and his voice cracked and his dad and I would smile and ask him to do it again.

I am home today, taking a sick day.  I will be blowing my nose and napping after I write to my missionary son.  And as I walk back and forth past my Christmas tree I will see the handmade ornaments and the glittery stars cut out with six-year old hands and I may get a little misty.

Though we celebrate the birth and life of the baby Jesus on this holiday season, I find myself thinking of my own baby boys.  Swaddled in my arms, with their own futures to face.  And I love Him, and them, even more.