There is a problem when my eighteen-year-old son has the cleanest room in the house. I’m not saying that because he’s a neat freak. I’m saying it because the rest of the house is a mess!
Even though I don’t forecast any snow storms here in Little Rock, the “to-dos and want-to-dos” have hit my home with blasts and dumps. The dining room table is stacked with presents that need to be wrapped and mailed to distant family members. The breakfast nook table is stacked with Christmas cards (because I’m sure my friends will not feel loved unless I send them my sentiments in a ninety-nine-cent greeting).
Whew. We’re more than halfway through December, and I’m ready to give myself a time out. Seriously. If there was a Naughty and Nice list, I’m finding myself trying too hard to be nice—to the determent of what this season is supposed to be about.
For a child is born to us, a son is given to us. The government will rest on his shoulders.
And he will be called: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
During these frantic holiday days I’ve already forgotten that the whole thing is supposed to be about the Prince of Peace. That title holds a lot of meaning.
Read the rest of this article on Allume, where it was originally posted.