Two weeks ago I had a Christmas meltdown. I'm still housebound with the broken ankle, still scooting up the stairs on my butt when I'm by myself, still wearing an orthopedic boot, and still, for the most part, dependent on crutches.My meltdown began dramatically with "This is the worst Christmas ever." My husband did all kinds of kindnesses to head it off at the pass, including getting a fresh Christmas tree, decorating, even helping bake cookies. And I remember all those things. But the thing I remember the very most is what he said.
After my litany of why this is the worst Christmas ever--I haven't been out to see any decorations, I haven't been able to shop, my own house isn't even ready--he broke in with, "But none of that is even Christmas!"
In the moment, I ignored him. But now I know he was right. Christmas was this Sunday night--sitting together on the couch. Football on tv. Shared blanket on our laps. Holding hands and falling asleep in the gathering dusk. Perfectly calm, safe, peaceful. Full of gratitude for the past and hope for the future and perfect love in the moment.
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