Mersmas

That's the star rising in the east of our TV--or just my camera flash.
Also, don't mock our lack of a tree skirt. Trigs ate ours last year.

In our family, the month of December has become lovingly known as Mersmas. My birthday is at the beginning of the month, my favourite holiday at the middle-end, and my anniversary on the very last day. It's not about presents or having the month be all about me, it's about enjoying the wonderful blessings that have been given--friends and family (as birthday and Christmas and anniversary cards sprinkle their way through the days), favourite things (twinkle lights and Christmas music), warm memories (watching White Christmas with the Man and explaining manger scenes to Littles).

But the truth is that on the first day of Mersmas, there was a broken Christmas ornament by 8 a.m., family breakfast unexpectedly delayed, more fussy teething, inevitable whining, sore muscles, lost tempers, and general mayhem--just like almost every other day--because I am a sinner and I live in a family of sinners and there is no such thing as a picture perfect, idyllic anything in life. Which is wonderful.

It's wonderful because it's in the mess that we meet Jesus. It's in the mistakes. It's in the mayhem.

That's what Mersmas is about for me. Not this massive celebration of who I am, but about who I want to be in Him and, perhaps, who He is in spite of me.

When I first started this post, I had more than a few other thoughts in mind, but I think that'll do for now. I have 24 more days to talk about Christmas, and six more after that to prep for the New Year, and, unfortunately, a lifetime to talk about myself, which is what blogging is all about, right?

I do, however, want to take a moment to shout out to the Man, who not only conveniently sent me to the commissary at the exact moment when I was going to lose it with Tiny, not only bathed both boys while I was gone, not only took Littles out on a father-son date this afternoon, but also makes a mean Hungarian stew. And looks good doing it. Sure, he may call himself a Scrooge for not wanting to hang Christmas lights on the outside of the house and for being burnt out on Christmas music mere hours into the season, but he makes my heart grow three sizes each day (how do you like those mixed literary references, eh?). He's one of my favourite parts of Mersmas, and it doesn't hurt that he bought me an evergreen candle today to make up for our fake tree. That's real love, people. Real. Love.