Late at night.
Christmas Eve.
Church with the family. Shepherd boys, children’s choir, Silent Night by candlelight and such…
and now home.
So quiet.
The tree is twinkling. Ornaments hanging with decades of stories holding them on evergreen branches.
Amy Grant sings in the background.
Gifts are wrapped.
Bows are tied.
Vacuum is run.
Kitchen tidy.
Dishwasher humming.
My work is done.
And now I wait.
Bedtime in a bit.
But not without a few minutes to notice.
I take an intentional moment, just before heading off to bed, to sit still and alone on the floor.
I lean against the sofa and look around.
I created this.
This Christmas wonderland… a combination of yesterday and today, past and present.
Remembering when my teenager was a toddler, and how different this night looked then.
And okay with how it is now.
Just so different.
Trying to keep up.
Keep my head and heart in what I have now.
I force myself to see exactly what is.
It is good.
If I’m not careful, I will unravel.
Unraveling is fine.
And '“careful” is overrated.
I’m just so wanting to hold it together for now.
Unraveling will come soon enough.
I have shelter from the cold.
I have food enough.
I have a husband and a child.
They’re healthy, sleeping, satisfied, peaceful.
The table is set. Three plates. Three forks. Three knives. Three spoons.
All good.
But there’s a problem.
Or so it seems.
We used to have five forks and five knives and five spoons, plates, glasses, and bowls.
Christmas with three is fine.
But Christmas with five is what it’s always been.
And now it’s not and the absence haunts me.
I have always been the deep in contemplation and soul wrenching aware type.
The gift and curse of my particular DNA.
When I wish I could just jump in bed, though dirty dishes might remain in the sink and unwrapped Christmas gifts could just be thrown together another time, I’m not free like that.
And so I sit on the floor replaying, and remembering, and wishing I could rewire it all.
That she would be back.
Opa would be with her.
And our three would be five.
But it’s not like that.
Change comes.
Christmas change.
And I have to accept it.
And so I do.
For now.