As I sit at the computer, both of my boys are playing a new video game punctuated with cheers and laughter. An occasional argument and accusations of cheating will erupt requiring a simple threat to turn off the game to restore order to that side of the room. My man is in his office trying to finish some last minute expense reports so his picture is not the one hanging in the accountant's office being used as target practice.
Our tree is blinking but is bare underneath. There are random gifts scattered, leftovers in the refrigerator, and a pile of dirty stretchy pants in my room. All signs of the Christmas season coming to an end.
It has been a day of responding to neglected emails and wrapping up other loose ends before the end of the year. I feel the need to somehow document this holiday season but have been putting it off for fear that my quest for joy in the last few months will be a journey I would rather forget.
Three days ago I sat in a pew during Christmas Eve service and wished I was anywhere else but there. Singing rang out all around me and I went from complete disdain to a puddle of tears in a matter of minutes.
Somehow, somewhere, I had lost my joy.
I don't think I realized how bad it was until a month ago when I was standing in the kitchen with my sister after a great day. We were chatting when suddenly I looked at her and told her that I felt happy. True and complete happiness and it was so out of the blue, and definitely outside of what had become normal for me, that I had to give voice to it.
There is no one event to blame. There is no one person to blame. Life has just been more challenging and my suit of armour has been hanging in my closet gathering dust.
I am a girl in need of a new beginning. A girl who needs Joy in her life once again. A girl that needs to desperately seek her Messiah every single day.
A girl who is remembering that all those things were promised long ago when a Babe was born.
Merry Christmas to me.