I’m in a rare moment of silence.  As I write, my two year old is asleep, as he has been since I got home from work almost three hours ago.  Today is Christmas.  Not December 25^th Christmas, but Clarke Christmas, which is its own holiday.  This means that my husband’s entire family is currently waiting for us at my in-law’s home in New Jersey.  People have flown in so that the family can, as we do twice a year, spend one full day together.  While I sit here at my desk, listening to the quiet of my home, 11 others are in Oradell, New Jersey laughing and playing and eating…and getting annoyed that the NY Clarkes aren’t there.  Or, at least the two year old.  (My husband and I have no illusions about our place in the pecking order.)

The moment Zac awakes, we’ll kick into high gear and rush him and ourselves out of the house.  But, for now…there’s silence.  It’s a Christmas gift, one of those unexpected treats that can’t be purchased or planned, but must be savored in its unpredictability.  The house is bedecked for Christmas, as is my way.  Every table and countertop was cleared, making room for Santas and nutcrackers and reindeer.  Evergreen garlands delineate the doorways and poinsettias fill every corner.  Gift boxes packed with cookies are piling up on the kitchen table and bags of wrapping paper are on the ready.

And it all sits silently, waiting.  Waiting for the children, waiting for the family parties, waiting for all the food and frolic that will soon break our momentary stillness.  That’s the Advent story.  The pregnant waiting for what is to come.  The silence of anticipation.  Every child has experienced it.  Those moments before the sun comes up on Christmas morning when it’s too early to get out of bed but much too late to try to go back to sleep.  It’s the lying in bed, watching the window for an acceptable time to rise.  Those final moments as the dark gives way to the light and the child is able to break the silence and run about the house yelling “It’s Christmas”.

I’m savoring this temporary silence, accepting it as both rare and precious. No longer a child, I know that the joy of Christmas is as much in the anticipation as it is in the arrival, that wrapping paper is at least as exciting on the box as it is torn and crumpled on the living room floor.  I accept this unexpected gift of stillness before the storm of laughter and music and pictures that are in our inevitable future, gratefully embracing the fragility of Advent.

He awakes.