It happens every December. It happened even before I became a Christian. I stand out in the yard at night and look for The Star.
I know I won’t see it; the star I’m looking for shone only once, over two thousand years ago. But I love to look anyway.
December, December. Everything is magnified. I’m missing my father. I’m feeling guilty about the situation with my mother and sister, but it’s not within my power to fix it. I’m worried about my daughter. I’m delighted everytime we drive through downtown Eustis at night and I see all the lights. I’m happy that the Florida legislature finally passed the SunRail legislation. I’m thinking I’m happy that Gigantor is a rooster, but concerned that the neighbors may not appreciate his crowing at 3 am. I’m alternately excited and worried about what 2010 may hold. I’m worried that I haven’t yet picked something romantic and unexpected to do on Christmas Eve since Steve and I will have the time together with just the two of us. I smile every time I hear O Come O Come Emmanuel and my throat gets tight every time I hear Merry Christmas Darling. And yes, since it’s me, I throw up in my mouth a little when I hear The Christmas Shoes.
In the end, even though I know I won’t see The Star, I keep looking. “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). I know that star shone once, and that’s enough for me.
Thank you, my friends, for the precious gift of your friendship. Thank you for seeing me through the loving eye. I hope we can get together soon.