Journal

 

The little Christmas tree, with Naomi's quilled snowflakes, is behind me. I didn't have to get it out since it was in the back of Libby's car waiting for the next craft show. Nearby is also the card holder that Naomi borrowed for her show. There are three unopened Christmas cards on it. I don't know when I will open those missives of cheer and life and goodwill.

The twenty-fifth of December is coming. One day turns into the next whether we are ready for it or not. We dread it and yet long for it to be over. This is one thing we can quantify--the first Christmas without Naomi. The first holiday where the past is vivid in our memories and we catch glimpses of a future we long for and yet we are stuck in a present without clarity or direction. We don't know what we want, except the impossible, which is that the source of this pain and loss would be obliterated; that all would be put right, the way it is supposed to be.

And there is the irony. The truth of Christmas. The gasping cry that the source of our pain and loss would be obliterated and that all will be set right, the way it was meant to be.

That is why Christ came.