Christmas Eve

It's quiet now...quiet enough to listen to Mr. C's chair in the living room, the heat venting through the ceiling ducts, the cat strolling up and down the hall.

Are Christmas Eve's supposed to feel so incongrous, pieced together from shards of errands and cooking and decorating and as little cleaning as one can do and not feel like a house slut instead of a domestic goddess?

It's nice to catch my breath, and think about the service ahead. The four of us will cram into a church jammed with families, and lit by red candles that dot the aisle. We will sing "Silent Night", Pastor Chad will preach, and there will be a wonderful predictability to the service. In a fall that has seen so much distress and volatility, predictability is to be savored.

But so are some changes. The DQ is doing a solo tonight. Mr. C is playing his trumpet. Although they come from separate homes, their mother, and their father will sit together in church, united in trepidation and in gratitude. He may roll his eyes if Mr. C flats on a carol. She may bite her nails or refuse to look if the DQ gets scared up there.

But that's when all the different pieces of the day will probably come together -- in a silent hymn of thanks and wonder.

And may your holiday's be joyful, dear readers!