I never dreamed I would write what you are about to read. The Christmas season is hard for me.
Christmas is hard when people we love have moved on from this life to the next. I really miss my father. Two-thousand eleven, the second year of not buying him chocolate covered cherries for Christmas. And approximately the fourth year missing the sound of his contagious laugh.
Christmas is hard when you thought some people should be in this life but they are not. Two-thousand eleven, the nineteenth year of confirmed childlessness. No legacy to live on in human form.
Two-thousand eleven is the first year I boldly approach the manger. I want to get a good look at the baby Jesus, but as I approach, he is not there. “Am I too early, or too late?” my mind wonders. As I turn away filled with emptiness, I am met with a radiant new mother, Mary. She says, “Kristine, behold the Lamb of God. Born for you this day, He is a true gift from God.”
I never dreamed I would write what you are about to read. The Christmas season is hard for me, I am busy holding baby Jesus.
Because of baby Jesus, I will see and hear my father again. Because of baby Jesus, I cannot say I am childless.
Then young women will dance and be glad,
young men and old as well.
I will turn their mourning into gladness;
I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.