Chubby little preschooler hands wrapped around treasured ornaments as I tried my best to oversee the decorating of our tree.
My boys were young, barely out of diapers and — try as I might to make some sort of magic out of decorating — the noise of my young sons arguing over who would hang the ornaments meant the whole experience felt more like barely-controlled chaos than magical memory-making.
“I need a break,” I whispered under my breath and to my husband. Then, I hastily locked myself in my room for a moment to reset and calm myself from overstimulation.
It was there, in the quieter-but-not-all-that-quiet space that I realized the weight of pressure had settled on me. I was reminded of something deeper: Christmas was never about creating magic. It’s always been about resting in the miracle. The miracle of with — God with us.
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