Sometimes I am a paradox. I want things to be familiar, while I also crave novelty. The shepherd's choir began rehearsals last week. The music is so deeply embedded in my heart, I started to cry. The carols playing in the car, the festive quilts on my walls, and the string of our cards from the past forty-four years ground me. The twenty nativity sets waiting to be set up are steeped in history, from the carved set John brought home from Ghana to the needle pointed holy family made by a woman in Florida who didn't like us. Well, eventually she did. 

 

Yet I welcome the unexpected as well. Already I have cloaked a small pile of surprises under the branches of an evergreen. The red and green bags themselves have been around a long time, as is evidenced by the fraying ribbons. But the contents are new. No one who will wake up here on Christmas morning knows what is inside, except me. I like it that way.

 

The recipe of known mixed with unknown is itself magical. One without the other slides into boredom, or chaos. But in combination, it keeps my attention. 

 

A young mother was describing her child's fledgling first steps. It sounded like a complete miracle, and yet every person throughout time has done the same, with few exceptions. Which is it? Magical or mundane? 

 

Perhaps it is both. If I tell the people who wake up with me in twenty days that I love them, is that old news? Or is that day's portion an astonishing development? I think I will grasp both potentialities with all the strength I can muster.