I shouldn't be writing this. I shouldn't be up. I should be in bed.
We have a tree now. It is sitting in a bucket of water, leaning against the front window, of course undecorated. We have three baskets of decorations, for tree, shelves and table, half unpacked, in the middle of the living room floor. The advent wreath, with blue candles unlit, is sitting on the far edge of the dining room table, amid papers, coffee cups and assorts decorations.
The creche is fully up. Mary, Joseph, Jesus are there, as well as a camel, three wise men (they look like kings), a cow, a shepherd (not looking nearly unsavory enough, if you ask me), and one lonely lamb.
There are five stockings hung by the fireplace, for us, for the boys, and for Scout.
I shouldn't be up. I should be sleeping, and preparing for the big final push to Christmas. The last-chance, lowest-price sales, the grocery shopping for french cut green beans, Swedish meatball mix, Swedish sausage, cheddar cheese, sour cream and Southern style frozen hash browns, the last-minute brillliant sermon ideas for Christmas eve, and the calls to youth readers to proclaim prophesies at the family service.
I am not ready for Christmas. But ready or not, Christmas will come. This is my fear.
It is also my hope.