Yes, they call them Christmas Cookies.
Just for the record. . . .This day is the 29th of December.
Ponzi's birthday.
So, in all probability, the cookies were not for me, but I slept through the friend's visit in a deeeeeeeeeep sleep like Snow White without a prince to wake her up. Surrounded instead by Dopey. . . and Doc. . . and Sleepy.
At any rate, let us return to those cookies and their cinnamon dots - in the center of their stars, the edges of their tree limbs, the toes of their stockings. Awakening memories of long ago, and what should have been yesterday.
When was the last time I baked Christmas cookies? Allowed them to be made in messy fashion in my kitchen? Allowed flour on my nose and counter-top? Allowed their happiness to enter my heart? Their message to enter my life?
When was the last time I felt joy?
Why do I demand a spotless holiday? An unblemished season? A tabletop tree with only matching ornaments? Why does it hurt my eyes to gaze on things out of place? My very being to exist among dog hair, crumpled pillows, and used coffee mugs?
Shout to the world that Christ became incarnate for us. Do you know that people? And I can only imagine that he came into this world in what we would now call not the most hygienic of circumstances. Would I allow sheep and cows to share my living space? A feeding trough to take the place of my child's cradle? Visiting kings to see the inevitable dung and straw thrown adrift?
The scriptures say that Mary pondered. She didn't sweep, and disinfect, do laundry, or swear under her breath when she was the only one who emptied the dishwasher. She held that tiny baby to her breast; treasuring those things and keeping them in her heart. Only God knows how hard I prayed for more joy. . . .more acceptance. . .more endurance. . . .less anxiety . . . .during this holiday season. And this very morning I almost gave up on it all - thanking God for Xanax instead.
And then came the Christmas cookies. . .
