It doesn’t feel like Advent.
Maybe because my 6-year-old was home sick most of last week.
Maybe because two nights ago I was bent over the toilet losing everything I’d eaten.
Maybe because we keep fighting rounds of head lice.
Maybe because for the first time in years we don’t have a real tree, so it doesn’t smell like I think Christmas should smell.
Maybe because Spotify won’t randomize my 1,378-song Christmas playlist.
Maybe because the renovation of my garage into a living room is happening, so there’s construction noise, and the big table we bought for the old living room that will be dining room is shoved up against the wall, and there’s not really room for the couch and the tree, but they’re all hanging together in this room that’s also doubling (tripling, quadrupling?) as my office.
Maybe because I got in the mood to rearrange my kitchen, something that has needed done since we first brought our kiddos home six years ago.
I’m not complaining. Minus the sickness and the head lice, life is good. All of these things are blessings. Even the fake tree, because for the first time in years, I’m not worried about the tree catching our house on fire. (It’s dry enough here that our trees just stop drinking.)
It feels a bit like spring, like rebirth. New room, new arrangements, everything a little cramped until it blossoms.
So maybe my life is more like Advent than I care to admit. We’re not saying our prayers around our little Dollar Tree Advent wreath every night, but we’re squeezing them in.
I don’t have the pictures and activities in each pocket of our Advent calendar, but my husband is moving a glue stick steadily along.
Tonight as I sit thinking about possibility, I have peace in my heart and goodwill toward people.
Another night, I will think about my privileges and the responsibilities that must come with them.
But just for tonight, I will bask in expectation and imperfection. I will be joyful that Jesus was born so long ago, and that we still sing “Joy to the World.”