The Jesse Tree sits quietly on the table, waiting, anticipating.
Good intentions brought it to into being and busy neglect has kept it here, bare.
The ornaments declaring, counting the days, telling the story, should be a blanket by now.
And the tree sits still, watching us eat our meals together, watching us speed past, through the ever-revolving door of life. It doesn’t ask for attention, just quietly waits, wondering when it will hide it’s bare branches under the blanket of the story.
I wonder, too.
But the anticipating and waiting has not stopped. It’s still here, a fragrance in the air, wrapping itself around me like baking bread.
Like a mother waiting for that moment she can finally hold her baby in her arms.
More like a girl, simple, obedient, her belly swelling with the baby inside. She is watching, waiting, expectation covering her like a blanket.
We all wait with her, for this babe to come, this Savior of the world.
This Savior of my world.
So personal, as close to me as she once was with his body growing inside of hers. He is here–mine–Husband, Father and I’m not quite sure how, but it’s perfect.
We wait quietly.
I didn’t know I was waiting when He stormed into my life and declared it His. But I was and He knew.
This tree is a reminder, a representation, of the anticipation of Christmas, but the real Christmas is wrapped up in swaddling clothes, wrapped up on a different kind of tree, wrapped up in my sin and died my death so I could live and wait in peace.
The real kind of peace.
And my humble little tree on the table, it shows us we are waiting, even if we don’t know we are.
Waiting for something, breathing in the fragrance of anticipation, filling our lungs deep with it’s wonder.
Waiting for Christmas.