My mum and dad are curled around each other in the chair-and-a-half. My sister is leaning back, her legs across her husband's lap. I am in the single chair with Brian at my feet, holding my socks in his hands.
We begin to share what we think about our past year, our struggles and our victories. We each tell of what we want for the year ahead: not resolutions, but heart-desires for our families, our children, our work, our marriages.
My parents read Scripture. The candles flicker and we sit in the glow of the Christmas tree lights to pray together. We pray for one another, placing our hands on each other, and even crying a bit. This is the best part of the day.
I hear Anne singing in her bed and go upstairs to tuck her back in. Afterwards, I stand at the top of the stairs, looking down at my family in the light of Christmas. I am rooted and grounded.
They are gathered together, a strong cord, holding me fast. They all anchor me, adore me, infuriate me, love me, encourage me, pray for me, laugh with me, hold me up and remind me who I really am.
They have all given me a lineage of faith, a tradition of love and grace, a rich heritage of quilted dreams and prayers that covers every cold and lonely spot.
I am blessed among women.
