I’ll be the first to admit it.
This year I’ve been a bit of a Grinch. Or Scrooge. Or Nicholas Cage in that movie where he sees how his life could have gone if he’d made different choices. (what’s the name of that one?)
It’s not money, though, that I’m stingy with. (although, I’m not handing it out by the bucketful, that’s for sure.)
It’s time. My time. My time with my family.
Christmas seems to have become even less about presents and more about commitments. Go here. Be there. Show up for this. Volunteer for that. Oh, and could you make some cookies while you’re at it?
It’s tough. Tough to feel cheerful and spirited when I’m exhausted and overwhelmed. Tough to be thankful when I wish we were just at home on the couch listening to the girls push the button on the singing “Jingle Bells” book a zillion times.
Even today, when I have a free day home thanks to icy conditions, I’m left feeling as though I haven’t done enough. Played enough, rested enough, cleaned enough, bought enough. I certainly yelled enough.
Yep, got that one covered.
You see, unfortunately, sometimes Christmas brings out the worst in me. The Grinch, the Scrooge, the…whatever his name was.
I get too caught up in the perfection of the tree, the house, the gifts, the baked goods. I want it to be special and magical and unforgettable.
I realized on Sunday morning when I was reading a devotion in my Bible instead of paying attention to the Sunday School lesson, that the person I really am right now is Martha.
The workaholic. The perfectionist. The demanding one.
Help me prepare for you. Me. How selfish it truly is.
Martha almost missed the message because she was too busy preparing for it’s arrival. I don’t want to miss the most special moments because I’m too busy getting ready to make them wonderful and not still enough to cherish them.