We've been getting lots of Christmas love in the mail this week - cards and pictures and even, today, a gift from my Nana. She wrote out her life story and my aunt had it bound and mailed it to us.
It is amazing to read her story in her own words, trying to imagine all the pain and joy hidden behind her brief sentences. It's 1am and I should be in bed because morning comes loud and demanding and all I want to do is keep on reading.
My nana is here, and my Grampie, and my own little mama, and her brothers and sisters and family friends who have nipped in and out of stories I heard all my life. Here is the tale of my uncle drinking turpentine, my aunt getting hit by a car, my young grandmother fainting with fear when her aunt jumped out and scared her.
These are the stories that shape us. My Nana's stories are my mom's stories are my stories are my children's stories. We are all curious collections of those who came before us, those whose expressions and habits become inevitably our own. Reading these is all the more fascinating for me because the stories of my beloved grandparents are the stories that help me make sense of me. (I, too, hate when someone jumps out and scares me!)
The Christmas story
Is our story.
I read it and reread it and still it keeps unfolding new thoughts, new beauties, that echo loud in my heart.
I pray that you will open up the scriptures and let the Christmas story - Jesus' story, our story - fill you with its jewels.
Merry Christmas, friends.