The morning dawned quiet. I have never been alone on Christmas eve and Christmas morning. Ever. And somehow I did not feel lonely this morning.
Mr. Macho's dad had a stroke earlier this week. He and his sister have taken turns staying with him at night.
I woke early to eat my own breakfast. I read Luke's story of the birth of the Christ child. And cried through the entire reading. My Christmas waffles, the old family recipe, were extra crispy this year.
I want to write how I have felt through this week, but I don't think I can express it well. I have felt warm of heart and generous of spirit. It did not upset me to be by myself last night, nor this morning. I must say that I drove up to the hospital before 8:00 to deliver a hot breakfast to Mr. Macho. Then I spent the morning just being there with him and his dad.
The best part is this. I was gifted a special moment there. In the hospital room. Close your eyes and picture this - a son shaving his father. (I am going to make this schmarmier than it was - but I am the one telling this, so I am taking license, it is based on a true story.) Picture the son wetting the face and spreading the shaving cream across the jaw. Then the hands wipe, and touch, and shave his father's face. The hands caress the face. They wipe with a warm cloth. They stripe the cheek over and over with the razor, ever so gently. In those moments of watching I savored the gift.
I knew Christmas had come. In that very place, on this very morning.
The weather is warm, my heart is warmer.
...The dear Christ enters in.
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