Bravery, with Lights On

I've been trying for days to write our annual Christmas letter. You know, the peppy list of everything you did over the year, complete with flourishes and a professional photo. Bright smiles and color and accomplishments. I sit here and fret, type a few words and erase them, drink a sip of coffee and sigh and start again.

After all, what did we do this year?

We stayed alive. We marched in and got vaccinated when our turn came, and then went in again for our booster shots. We did our best to keep going, like everyone, in these strange and difficult times, threading our way through change and uncertainty.

But we traveled when we could; we weeded the garden and did the dishes and put in a new well. We bid a sad goodbye to our old dog. I made a trail in our woods and knitted an afghan and took classes and kept writing. We went to church and meetings and funerals - too many funerals - on Zoom. We welcomed a new grand-niece into the world. And while all the storms and struggles ebbed and flowed, we kept getting up every day and moving on - just like you.

I sigh, take another sip of coffee, and my gaze falls on our Christmas tree in the corner of our living room. It's a tiny little thing, a bit bedraggled, barely two feet tall. If you saw it, you'd probably laugh.

You see, last year I gave away our big Christmas tree, the one we've used for years. Just the thought of lugging it out and putting it together felt exhausting, and I figured someone else would be happy to get it. Instead I dug out the little tree I used to put up in my classroom.

It's probably the shortest tree in the neighborhood. It took about 10 minutes to decorate, using the smallest ornaments we have. We put it up on a tall table, where it looks brave and a little ridiculous.

You know, maybe that's what Christmas is, in a way. Brave, naive and kind of foolish. After all, it's not the extravagant light displays and parades, and it's sure not the commercials and shopping lines. It's trusting and hoping, even when there doesn't seem to be any reason for hope.

Christmas is a baby born to a homeless couple in a shed out back, with nobody to see or care except for God. Christmas is someone loving you even with all your faults, trusting you and giving you a chance to be better. It's hoping even when every story on the news says to give up, and putting up a dinky little tree and a string of lights to drive away the darkness of despair.

I look back down at my letter again. You know, maybe it's not that important if I don't have a long list of accomplishments to write. The people reading it won't care. They know I wish them all well.

So here's my Christmas letter to you, my friends - a tiny tree in the corner. Here's to keeping the lights glowing in the darkest times. I wish you well.