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.
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.