Our countdown to California Christmas chain is getting shorter and shorter. Elliott is aching with anticipation of seeing her cousins, aunties and grandparents. It hurts me a little bit to see how excited she is. She misses them so much.
I told her the true story of Christmas today, in a rare, leisurely moment that required no rush, no hurry, just lingering in the language that I heard so many times throughout my childhood...for unto us is born this day...this shall be a sign unto you...suddenly, the great heavenly host appeared...and Mary pondered all these things in her heart. I found myself with a lump in my throat as I allowed her questions to guide the telling. Jesus, come to earth as God. Not into a house, but into a cavernous, drafty, damp place. To be born like Fiona was born. No blankets, no cradle. Just some hay. They had to walk to Bethlehem (Beflaham). I was watching it all sink in, as she acquainted herself with Jesus, come into the world , not as a king but as the least of these. The last shall be first. I am always trying to explain this to Elliott as she insists on being the "winner" and the "leader" every time we walk up or down the stairs (and invariably bursting into tears when she is not). I saw in the Christmas story a beautiful example of Jesus living it right from his birth.
It was a moment that is now part of Elliott's history. She knows now how Jesus came, what it was like. Having already been at a birth enriched her understanding of the Christmas story, I believe. When we finished, she wanted to start all over again, so we did. And I hope we'll do it again. The story has power to it; in recounting the familiar phrases, I found that they held meaning anew for me.
Well, I just looked up to see Fiona playing with scissors. They're Elliott's child-scissors, but I still don't think this kind of thing is going to win me any parenting awards. Time to go.
May the dawning of the advent season bring meaning to the mundane in all of our lives.
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