This Christmas, I’m trading in stress for rest.
I’m boycotting emotional eating, and taking up joyful toasting.
I’m going to stop worrying if my tree/cards/kids look like anyone else’s in the world, and just let them be what they are: beautiful.
I’m going to hang up any dreams of Pinterest-worthy gingerbread houses and let my boys smear their fingers in the icing and eat all the gumdrops. I’m going to let them wear mis-matched jammies to open their presents, and draw Spiderman on their Christmas cookies instead of snowmen, if that’s what they want to do.
I’m going to stop freaking out that I haven’t read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, or worse, the King James Version of The Nativity Story, and rest in the knowledge that I have told my boys a thousand times that Jesus loves them (and I will tell them a thousand more), and they are going to figure it out.
I’m going to take so many photos – not for posting on Instagram, for saying, “Look how idyllic it all is”, but for framing and hanging on the walls of our home, so we can remember what joy we found in each other, in celebrating.
When my mind starts drifting away from everything in front of me to what we haven’t got, I’m going to reel it back in. Because I am rich, rich, rich beyond my wildest dreams. Because there is so much sadness in the world. So much heartbreak. But there is so much good, too. So much joy. And I hold it in my hands, in my heart. When my children hug me, when they sing the wrong lyrics to Joy to the World in the backseat of the car. When my husband rests his hand on my hip as we fall asleep.
And I am rich, rich, rich – no matter what lies I have been told about subway tiles and Eames chairs and Winter’s Latest Trends.
Just stop. Step away from the internet (but not quite yet). First, raise your glass with me:
Here’s to a Christmas of peace and joy and rest. Here’s to a Christmas of really celebrating, maybe for the first time since we were small and oblivious to all the reasons not to; maybe for the first time ever.