Although I knew intellectually that Herod is a miscreant that slithers in at Christmas, I had trouble doing anything about it. The sequence of annoyances that weighed me down were so decidedly first world problems they are almost half world problems, if there is such a metric. 

I have named and rehearsed strategies for mood shifters. Appreciation. Hard work. Being in nature. Music. Laughter. Reading the Word. Yet as the day hobbled on the orneriness clung to me like a leech. I walked away from the sewing project that was fighting me, and stepped into the living room. The music was playing, and the twins were climbing furniture to decorate the top branches of the tree. That should have been enough, and for a brief time it was. But then on an errand I turned on the radio and the droning reports wrapped around my ankles like shackles. 

Why was I grouchy? I debated as if logic can dethrone emotions. Has that ever worked? 

"You are right! I should not have these feelings. Thank you for the meticulous bullet points negating them. I will be cheerful now."

Then, as my schedule dictated, I went to my small group. We have met weekly for fifteen months, with remarkably few skips. The brightness splayed from the host's windows against the darkness, and invited me in. No scolding, no reprimands for how I had squandered my day, just a sense of welcome. 

As soon as I walked through the door I felt calmer. Even before anyone spoke, the physical space washed me. It mattered not that there were boxes of ornaments on the floor suggesting that they too were not quite ready for Christmas. The tea kettle announced that hot water was waiting, and I filled a mug and sat down. 

And just like that Herod was on the other side of the wall.