Getting the Christmas Spirit

Every year the intangible moment when I first feel the Christmas spirit comes in a different way. Christmas spirit is the feeling of knowing that it is Christmas, almost believing in Father Christmas, feeling the joy of the Christ-child and the magical miracle of his birth.

Sometimes I feel it first through certain smells, the chocolate and gingerbread and sugar and tree sap and cold, dead leaves and cranberries and spices and my Gramma's perfume and the smell of the pages of Lord of the Rings. Sometimes I feel it when I hold a leaf frozen perfectly in a layer of ice. Sometimes when I feel the dough of cookies gritty with sugar, or the heaviness of warm blankets in bed, or cold hands on my face, or the softness of a sweater, then I know it truly is Christmas. Sometimes I feel it when I taste the short sweetness of meringue, or steal a spoon of cold cookie dough, or the cold air on my tongue. Sometimes I feel it when I hear the sound of bells, or the gentle crooning of Bing Crosby, or the glorious melodies of Christmas sung by Kathleen Battle, or the heartbreaking Christmas in the Trenches, or the sound of scissors cutting through wrapping paper. Sometimes it happens when I see our yard frozen into a winter wonderland, or when the tree lights shine, or the sparkle in someone's eyes or the stars late as night.

How do you find your Christmas spirit?

Snapshots of a Deployment

"I don't want to call my mom, she'll make me cry. I don't want to cry." Shane stared hard at the sky, clench his jaw to keep the tears from flowing over.

Nick held Ben for ten minutes, as Ben uncontrollably sobbed with his face on Nick's shoulder.

Branson laughs loudly, flirting with us girls to forget where he is going.

Dusty stands quietly by himself, gulping his coffee in a corner.

Ryan doesn't stop talking, not giving himself time to think that he should have been going home in a week.

Ben holds Amanda tightly, his arms holding her close. His tears soak her sweater, but hers slide right off of his waterproof jacket.

They are called into formation, and we desperately get last hugs, every one tight, lingering, no one wanting to let go. We pray for them, holding hands tightly, reluctantly releasing our hold. They stand at attention, all visible tears are gone. They call their names one be one. Shane is the first of ours to be called. He avoids our gaze, turning away. Then Branson goes, turning sharply on his heel, his head held high. Dusty is next, slipping away, then Ben, who looks long and hard at Amanda one last time. Ryan is the last. He turns halfway, then meets our eyes, giving a half-salute, smiling a little, unshed tears making his eyes shine. They join the line of other soldiers, and we can no longer distinguish them amid the sea of camoflouge uniforms.

I hold Amanda as we both crie, unable to stop. "He'll be okay. He's going to be okay," I tell her, trying to believe it. Statistics say they have a better chance of living going to Iraq than driving down the highway, but cold facts are no comfort when those you love are going into danger.

Two commanding officers come up to us. We pray for them, and when we are done, both of them looked each of us in the eyes and gave us a promise. "We will bring them all back."

These are brothers in Christ, guys I have come to love in the few months I have known them. And now they are gone, and I cannot stop my tears, or the terrible weight on my heart. But only, with the protection of God, for 425 days.

The Lines on the Road

Headlights shone on the road in front of us, the power of their light dimming into darkness within a few yards. The road beneath us was freshly paved and black. To our left the yellow line stretched bold and bright and sunny. To our right the fresh, stark white line followed the curve of the road, fresh and unmarred.
A black skid mark scarred the pureness of the fresh white paint. Soon more marks of use further mar the complete whiteness. The yellow line fades gradually, the color still strong, but the brightness gone.
Now the white line is covered in nicks and tire skids, in a few places disappears all together. The yellow continues to fade, its original color fading to a dull straw shade.
A few men labor silently, breaking the road. They pour fresh asphalt, and repaint the lines, pure white and shining yellow.

The sun shines on the road before us, the road beneath us freshly paved and black. To our left, the yellow line stretches ahead, seeming to absorb the sun's warmth. To our right, the clean white line follow the curve of the road.


(its not supposed to make sense.)