The theme in church was journeys. The minister invited us to walk around the periphery of the room, following Mary and Joseph. Along the way there were cards with quotes about pilgrimages, and God's guidance. 

 

I have a long history of journeys. There was one with six kids in a car that was too far gone for my mechanic to even fix it when we finally made it home from a cross-country trek. Another time, we got a flat tire in the midwest, just as a storm was gaining on us, and I huddled with our kids while John waited for the tow truck. Even the luxury of air travel had its nail-biters, like when I was flying with two babies and an eight year old in that sour spot of bankruptcy between when I booked the flight and the morning we were supposed to take off. 

 

Admittedly, we did arrive each time. That track record in itself should fortify my trust in God. 

 

Journeys are woven into the Christmas story, though perhaps those details are muted by my ignorance around the geography of the Holy Land. Just how far was is it to Bethlehem? What were the obstacles in traveling with only starlight as a beacon? How difficult is the terrain between Nazareth and Egypt? 

 

Perhaps I will never know, and do not need to. But the physicality of plodding through and past my own arrogance is bumpy enough to hurt.