I used to write on here on the regular. And then semi regular. And now, it looks like annually. And I suppose at some point I will delete this all together as I’ve evolved so many times since the beginning. But sometimes it’s okay to have reminders of how far we’ve come. And why. And so, in the spirit of Christmas, here is my yearly Christmas piece.

Christmas writing is my favorite. It is the sort of guiding light that I need to make it through the long darkness. I love the Winter Solstice for that reason – it marks the end of the reign of darkness. From here on out, it must recede.

This is one of our quietest Christmas seasons. It’s one of our quietest seasons in general. Isolation is hitting many of us so hard. And while I crave (super crave) physical contact and experiences outside of these four walls, what I’m finding within them is so surreal. It brings me great pause.

Never before have I tucked in so closely.

I’ve never been one for roots, Restless to my core, I always felt like I was searching, too afraid to be stuck in one spot. I’ve been flighty. I’ve been wayward. I’ve been lost. And now, for once, I’ve been found.

I’ve never spent so much time in one place. Mentally. I have done this before, physically, under great protest, watching my mind drift to and fro. And now, here I am. Rooted. Grounded.

The day the world shut down, my daughter was born. She is the icing on the cake of our family. We waited and prayed for her – ten long years we whispered her name in prayers and through long dark nights. When my body was wracked with infection and trying to piece itself back together, through pain and fever and addiction, I thought of her. She filled my dreams and always brought me hope. Ten years. We waited.

And then one dark evening, she burst into the world. Named with the meaning of ” bright, shining light”, she has brought us far more light than I could have imagined – more light  than my dreams, more light than what guided me all those ten years. It takes my breath away that she is here. I’m getting to know her. I’m loving her. She is changing me. And I am just trying to take it all in.

I tried to share her with many, virtually. And I pulled back. I wanted to share her in person, and we pulled back to be safe. Instead, we just have tucked in closer and closer. I know her every move, her every noise, her every want and need.

And right now, in this Christmas season, all I can think of is Mary – how the bustle was going on all around her:  the census, the angels in the night sky, the traveling. And yet she chose to pull in, to ponder it in her heart. Because, somehow, he was the Savior of the world, but he was also her son. She had carried him in her body, given birth to him, and now she was going to raise him as well.

 The whole world had waited for him. Through long dark nights they had whispered his name Messiah. Through the pain, the silence, the slavery, the dessert, the oppression, they had waited. And now, on this glorious night, they were all bursting forth. And Mary, she was pondering.

The world is a little mad right now. There’s a lot going on. And while my daughter isn’t a Savior, she is somehow helping to save me. The whole world wasn’t waiting on her, but I was. We were. I carried her in my body, gave birth to her, and now I’m going to raise her, somehow. She was promised and now here she is. What a miracle. And all I want to do is ponder.

To feel complete and settled is a new miracle for me. I don’t want for much. Sure, I still get restless sometimes and need air, but there’s something bigger happening – shifting, cracking, light breaking through. Settling into motherhood is an experience (even though it seems about ten years too late, here it is). I’m stepping into a place I’ve never been before. It’s all happening and I don’t want to miss a moment.

How did Mary ever take her eyes off of Jesus? Did she lay awake watching him breathe? Did she laugh when he made funny noises? Did she teach him to walk and read and climb and run? How did she hold every day in her hands, knowing they weren’t hers to hold, knowing her time was so limited? She knew the prophecies, and yet somehow at her young age, she pulled in close and loved well anyway. I wish we knew more about her journey of motherhood. But what we do know is she was the chosen vessel.  And somehow, that was enough. For her, for all of us.

Glory be. The Light has come.