It starts on the day after Thanksgiving, in the crawl space - that deep, dark, dreaded place where things go to die. Well, if not to die, at least to ferment. Nothing that goes in there comes out quickly - except maybe the grandloves. They are small enough to fit, yet wise enough to avoid that space. While I, too, come out as quickly as possible, it is never quickly enough. But since that is where Christmas slumbers from mid-January to November, that is where I must go.
I dread the trip into the crawl to revive Christmas. I dread hauling the boxes upstairs. I don't even enjoy the decorating as much as I should - not Grinch-like, but not nearly Elf-excitement, either.
Are two trips into that dreaded abyss within 6 weeks really worth it? Why even bother? Well, dread is subservient to anticipation: the anticipation of family and friends, gatherings and joyous refrains, and perhaps a glimmer of the love that brought Jesus to earth so many years ago. Happy anticipation trumps all - even a trip into the crawl space.
It makes me wonder about Mary, though - a teenaged girl, newly engaged, and mysteriously pregnant. Dread had to be at the top of her list. What will the neighbors think? What will Joseph do? How is this even happening!? And yet, the miracle of a child growing within - and more so, the promise of a Savior! How does a heart hold that kind of anticipation without bursting?
In this Christmas season, may all our anticipations come true, but may we lean into the dread, as well. We live between the famous duo, as one sharpens the other. Dread loses its dreary edge in the light of anticipation, even as anticipation's crisp brightness revives us from that memory of where life has taken us against our will.
Wishing you the Merriest of Christmases, even with, especially with, a side of dread.
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