Good Tidings to You

Hello hello. I'm writing to you from the prairie, blizzard wrought land of Nebraska. We're back for the holidays, and I've felt a little bit like my own Laura Ingalls Wilder over the past few days. My sister and I drove into town on Wednesday, thus I had the chance to spend a few days with my beloved siblings. Paul wrapped up services at church and made the trek yesterday. Yes, through the thickest thick of the blizzard. I was a wreck, feeling much like waiting for Pa to come in with the team of horses (with a Christmas penny and orange, nontheless) throughout the whole day until he arrived, safe and sound. Lesson learned: never again drive separately to Christmas in Nebraska. I'd much rather think we were going to die together on a barren Iowa highway than Paul die alone and leave me now as a single mother while I ate the day away at my mom's house (yes, my anxious mind works this way, enjoy the look inside).

But all is well. We're here. Paul is sitting next to me on the couch wrapped up in the Husker Snuggie he received in the cousin gift exchange, and we're enjoying hugs and kisses from our sweet nieces, chatting with the fam, and catching up with old friends for the next few days. And we have had a white, white Christmas indeed.

It's a season of change. We're thinking about how we'll be parents next Christmas, and what that means for the old traditions and routines. We are catching up with high school classmates, laughing in disbelief over the fact that this summer we will all be back for our 10 year reunion, wondering where those years went (while remembering that really, a LOT has happened in this past decade). Decade, wow. And at some point in the next few days, I need to spend the afternoon at my mom's house, sorting out the bizarre time capsule that is the bedroom I grew up in.

On Christmas Eve, my family toasted to the 20th anniversary of moving into the family home. The house, built in parts by my father, sits on an acreage in the middle of town - a rare little jewel. As any home, it was and is much more than a place to lay our heads. We watched my dad grow gardens, we learned how to drive on riding lawn mowers, we built a shoddy tree house, sledded down snow covered hills, and hosted countless slumber parties and get-togethers. I know that a house doesn't necessarily "make" a home, but how can one really separate the significance of the two? Perhaps more importantly, how can you prepare to separate yourself from the place that symbolizes your formative years?

So this week, as I box up photos and old books and high school letters, I'll try to ready myself emotionally to someday soon close a life chapter. Meanwhile, Paul and I are simultaneously preparing for a new, big old chapter to begin. And somewhere in between, I'll just have to remind myself that beyond blizzards and babies and memories, Christmas will come again next year. And that, somehow, beyond the tears and laughter, the hellos and goodbyes, we couldn't really imagine it any other way.