I am awake an hour earlier than usual this morning. The gentle silence of a household at rest beckoned to me.
My children still sleep peacefully, wrapped up in downy comforters and homemade blankets. Outside the street lamps reveal the addition of another layer of snow. It drapes my mini van in a frozen veil of white, and fills the footprints that yesterday had crisscrossed the yard.
Soon, very soon, the household will rouse and it will business as usual here again. Shouts of “I can’t find any socks” and “Who drank all the milk?” will echo through the halls. The dog will want to be let out, and then come immediately back in — covered with snow and licking the frozen crystals from her paws. Before I know it, the demands of the day, of the week, and of the season will start competing for my attention: events to attend, shopping to complete, cookies to bake, and a checkbook to balance.
A schedule of the week to come hangs on my fridge, and it is packed with events — plays and movies, dinners with friends, meetings at church, and musical performances. Every moment from dawn to bedtime seems to be spoken for.
But not this one.
This moment is mine. It is a still, small space to sit and reflect in the quiet glow of the Christmas tree. I can take a deep breath, and let my mind clear enough to remember what this hustle and bustle is really about. I can’t begin to explain how thankful I am for an opportunity to sit and reflect on the magnitude of God’s love for his creation.
It is a rare, quiet moment, small and fleeting, but it is enough.