I’m having a hard time getting in the Christmas spirit this year. Storms a-brewing in the extended family are getting me down. I’m ready to curl up on the couch with a giant box of chocolates and block out the world.
I usually run to put up the tree, put on the Christmas tunes, get out the ribbon and tape. This year I’m dragging my heels. Everything feels heavy and dull. The usual comforts feel stressful and superficial. I don’t even feel at home when I’m at home.
A week or so ago, we were driving the kids to their Saturday morning swim lessons. When we left our house, the day was chilly but clear, and the sun was shining in a blue sky. When we turned onto the pool’s street, the road suddenly disappeared about 500 metres in front of us. There was a dark grey curtain as far as we could see to the right and left, covering the entire horizon from heaven down to road.
I was driving, and I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing. All around the car was sunshine, but we were rapidly approaching a wall of black that looked almost solid. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and it seemed too unreal to stop the car and turn around. So forward we went, into the darkness.
Suddenly we passed through the boundary into the snow squall. All light vanished and the car was surrounded by huge snowflakes, whipping around in strong winds. We could barely see the pool building even though it was less than a block away. We were lost to the storm.
The slighest dusting of snow on the ground causes a lot of excitement around here. The kids can’t wait to get outside and celebrate the coming of winter. There are sleds to pull, angels to make, snowballs to throw. They’re eager to shovel the driveway, even.
I should take my cues from them. There is joy to be found in even the smallest of annoyances. Otherwise, this Christmas will be lost to the storm, too.