These days, my heart beats a clear parumpapumpum.

So very different than a week ago.

Where it was drowned out by candy canes and my selfish,

“I deserve halls, decked and a season, jolly.”

Where I sat amongst twinkly lights and sugar cookies.

Snuggled sweet babies and look forward to my fa-la-la-la-la’s.

This Christmas was ours, to be quiet and lovely.

To be filled with all things joyful.

To be mine, wholly and fully.

No appointments. No wallowing. No sad songs.

But in the shadow of all the finery, it still played.


Even in my discounting…

It beat slowly and steadily.


And then the strength of it grew as the holiday noise quieted.


With each gentle crescendo, you could hear it sing,

“Jesus is coming. Jesus is coming.  Jesus is coming.”


With each tube and line and history taken…


With each pain and pill and morphine dose offered…


With each gown and nurse and aide…


Just me and my drum.

In the silence of a hospital room,

Where you can hear with such clarity.


“Code Blue in Room 414…”

You listen, you pray, you give thanks that your stay is routine.

All to the tune of…


The laundry is everywhere.

The Percocet is flowing.

The TV has been playing non-stop.


Pull-ups have been peed-through.

Underwear reeks to high-heaven.

Homework is irrelevant.

And still…


For it is in the quiet chaos, you remember that in a Christmas sans lights and cookies and halls, decked,

You can hear the battleworn’s heart cry,

“Jesus is COMING.”

So if you are heartsick and lonely,

Jesus is coming.

If you are so tired it hurts,

Jesus is coming.

If the loss and pain of this world steals your very breath,

Jesus is coming.

If you can’t deck the halls and the holly is wilted and the season is so far from jolly, even Santa won’t come…

Jesus is.

Jesus is.

Jesus is.



From me, my heart and my beat-up drum.

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