Calendars are full. Tasks get added every day, sometimes by the hour.
Without measurable snow it doesn’t look like Christmas here in the Upper Midwest, but the planner says otherwise. Places to go. People to see. Tasks that must be done. In one sense its tiring and a reminder that I am in the autumn of my life. In another it’s blessed because each and every one is a reminder that there are people out there who still wish to see the holiness of these times, who still take it seriously.
Being a Priest, a Pastor, means never having Christmas the same again, ever. There’s a vast difference between celebrating these days and being the celebrant. Still, being the celebrant is how you celebrate, the gift you give so that God may have the glory and others can glorify Him.
Later, after the final services are complete and a quiet place at home becomes your retreat, you can take everything in. The fast-moving waters become still. Flashes of light become subdued. The constant need to be “Up” for everything fades away. Your gift is a phone that stops ringing and your own thoughts as you think of the people you love, wherever they are, and all the Christmases past. People long gone become alive and present. A child emerges in the responsible adult and the cold winds outside your door become filled with an inexpressible warmth.
That “after” is what makes all of the “before” worthwhile. The rest is what makes the exhaustion bearable. The dream is what makes the waking hours holy.
The Beautiful Path 