It's 8:38am, Saturday morning. It's quiet. Every one is sleeping. I can hear the different rhythm of each child's breathing. It's a peaceful sound. Listening and typing away behind the soft glow of my computer - it's peaceful.
I have my tree up. We'll decorate it while we make our Thanksgiving feast, which is actually our tradition, but it's been up a while. With gifts wrapped in lovely paper, bows, matching tags. Christmas is soothing to me. The lights of the tree soothes my nerves. Gifts under my tree represent love and joy, and the magic of childhood.
Christmas was not always like that for me. Living with my parents we were lucky to help decorate the tree, if that happened at all. We were not allowed in the living room, ever, to look at the tree. My parents were very unimpressed with the holiday. We were given very generic gifts - gloves, boots, socks - - all came in sets of threes, all the same color, same style. It didn't matter if you were a boy or girl. I don't remember a single toy my parents (or Santa) ever brought me. Not one. There was no joy behind gift giving and no joy behind shopping for that perfect gift. We were lucky to even have our look-a-like gifts - - my parents didn't think anything of doing away with holidays - - no trick or treating, no Easter baskets...... none of it.
All of the things my parents hated about Christmas, I ADORE. I love shopping for those I love. I love finding the perfect gift. I love pouring over toys and selecting ones I know my children will love. I love the hunt to maximize my money. I love gifts under the tree. Gifts, for me, represent love. They represent the love and joy I have over the holidays, over my family, over the magic of the season.
This Christmas represents the love I have for my God and for my Savior. I've had a hard time showing it. Feeling it even. When I listen to the stirring music of the season my heart thumps in my chest as a testimony I have. I find myself crying as I listen, as I feel the reason of the season. God lives. Christ lives. I identify with the sacrifice that was given. I gave up my boy. God did the same.
I miss my sweet Isaac with every breath that I have. Many times my heart hurts so that I fear that it will break from the physical pain I feel. I have a weary heart, sweet friends. Such a weary, sad heart.
The greatest gift I gave this year was life. I gave life to my boy, even though I knew he would die. His spirit was tenderly given a body, no matter how broken it was. He was - correction he IS - the most valiant and pure child - spirit, even - that I have ever been fortunate to come into contact with. I am thankful for him, for his life, for what he has given me. His sweet face will never be erased from my mind. Those full cheeks and loving eyes, and his mighty soul. I will never forget the mightiness of his spirit and the army angels he showed up with. He is my soldier in heaven. Always. And I am his Mama, always. No one, no one can ever change that.
Sweet dreams, sweet baby boy, but I have a feeling there is not sleeping to be had in heaven.
PS: Come back soon, if you will. We're kicking off the holidays with a series of giveaways. The catch? Getting to KNOW you, my reader.