still (adjective) – free from disturbance, agitation, or commotion (as in a still, silent night); or (adverb) at the present time, for the present (as in, we are still there).

Quiet. I feel like there hasn’t been enough quiet lately, and it’s catching up to me.

I don’t mean quiet as the absence of noise. I mean a quiet mind, and a quiet heart. I’m not sure why this feeling, this noisy static, has been so pervasive the last few months, but it’s wearing me down. And there are so many things about this season especially that I want to catch; to savor, like you savor hot chocolate, loaded with marshmallows, after being outside in the beautiful, snowy cold.

Like wrapping gifts with Eric. I love wrapping Christmas presents. It may have something to do with my memories of doing it as a kid, sitting on the floor up in my parents’ room, my mom showing me how to carefully fold the corners to get tight creases, or how to use one blade of a scissors to make a curly bow. I want more of those memories. New ones, for next year’s Christmastime, and for the ones after that.

~*~

I plug in the Christmas tree lights and put on some music- the kind I grew up listening to. We’ve discovered, Eric and I, after two Christmases together, that we brought our own idea of “classic” Christmas music into this new family of ours. For me, it’s Perry Como, Mitch Miller, and Kurt Bestor. For Eric, it’s Mannheim Steamroller and Kenny G.

I choose Mitch Miller, and start getting out the wrapping materials. Almost immediately, Eric calls from the kitchen.

“I know what that accordion means…”

I laugh, and he sticks his head out of the kitchen, singing along in a deep, warbling voice, “… and on every street corner you’ll heeeaaaar, silver belllls, silver belllls…!”

“Ya goof!” I tell him, laughing, which is probably what he was after in the first place. He sits down on the floor next to me, surveying his options for wrapping paper. I got my gift wrap ideas off Pinterest this year, and they have Eric a little stumped.

“Red or brown?” I ask. I have green and red ribbon, some twine, jingle bells, and fake evergreen branches to go with the plain paper. The results, so far, have been quite pretty: a quaint, country Christmas kind of thing.

Eric opts for red paper to wrap his first gift: I guess he feels it’s safer to go with something that’s automatically Christmasy, considering his other option is a post-office tan. I turn my attention to the dilemma in front of me: brown paper, green ribbon. Maybe a twine bow and some evergreens to finish it off? I’m in the process of trying out different looks when Eric gives a cry of dismay. I turn, and see him holding an almost-wrapped gift. Almost, because he cut the paper too small, and there’s a tiny square of box showing through on one side. I laugh, then grab a piece of scrap to tape over it.

“There!” I tell him. “No worries!”

He sighs, then, and picks up a roll of ribbon, looking at it like it’s from outer space. “Where are the bows?”

“You can make one.” I wave a hand toward the wrapped gifts already under the tree, hoping he’ll find some inspiration there.

His brow furrows, and he goes for it. He tries- really hard. And I try- really hard- not to laugh. Finally he tosses the ribbon away.

“I can do bows!” he says emphatically. “I can do the ones where you just—” he smacks the top of his box— “stick then on!”

So I grab a piece of twine and show him how to make one on his own, stringing on a jingle bell for a little something extra. As we finish, and he slides the gift under the tree among the others, he asks for normal gift wrap and bows next year.

 ~*~

This is the kind of quiet I want more of. Christmas-quiet. Memory-making, together-with-the-people-you-love quiet. In my head, this quiet has color. Christmas Eve quiet is gold and silver. Gold, because when you walk into church that magical evening, everything inside the sanctuary is warm and glowing: the trees covered in lights, tucked behind the altar; the hushed sound of the congregation singing Silent Night, somehow filling the big church even without the help of the organ; the glowing advent wreath, every candle finally, finally lit. But silver, too, because of our breath forming pale clouds in the sparkling night as we leave church. The grey sidewalks, the vivid snow, the steely echo of our footsteps against the faraway stars themselves.

Silvery, golden quiet.

And then Christmas Day: Christmas Day is red and green. It's holly and mistletoe and poinsettias and wreaths with fat, jolly bows. It’s Hark! The Herald Angels Sing and Go Tell It On The Mountain.  Its sturdy handshakes, giant smiles, and one boisterous “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” after another. It’s an outburst of joyous celebration: the only response possible after the breathless awe of the evening before.

Red-green quiet, the color of a happy, happy soul.

And it occurs to me that there’s a connection between my own immediate longing for quiet, and something else: a bigger, holier anticipation. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, because it’s so innate, so much a part of human nature—and creation itself—that it’s hard to discern just what this longing is for.

But I like to imagine that it is the hope for peace. Like the peace I am so looking forward to in the next few days, when we’re home and happy with our family, and the only thing to do is be with the people we love. Only, this hope is bigger. This hope is for an entire creation to be at peace with its Creator.

~*~

snowfall (for the first time, again)

it’s infinity falling
and even though you know it
(or maybe because you do)
some little corner of your brain
is still watching for the
end, still waiting for the
                                            last
                                                piece
                                                       to fall.

it doesn’t, though
(at least, not while you’re watching)
and something about those
quiet, dancing flakes makes you
brave.
makes you
understand
a moment
                    of
                          eternity.