Last week, I climbed in the passenger seat of our minivan and strapped in my seatbelt as my 17-year-old daughter, Lydia, slid behind the wheel. Not normally one for thrill rides, I leave most student-driving lessons to my husband, Dana. But I was on a mission.
Dear Bath,
Eighteen years ago, God blessed my husband, Dana, and I with our first home, a snug white New Englander abutting hundreds of acres of towering pine trees along your busy High Street. We brought our 9-month-old son, Judah, our long-haired black-and-white cat, Achilles – named for the black spots on his heels – a U-Haul of second-hand furniture and our dreams.
It seems wrong to celebrate when the reality for so many this holiday season is grim. A month ago, my husband and I cautioned our children not to expect many gifts for Christmas. Instead, I wanted to set aside the day as a time to enjoy each other and celebrate the true meaning of Christmas. Exactly where that will be, we don’t yet know as we are in the middle of moving.
Wife, mom, writer, friend, sharing God in my everyday life through “Faith Notes.”