The Stockings Were Hung…..

We’re running out of room over our fireplace.

I’m the Scrooge of the family. The one who wouldn’t decorate, who hates the continual play of seasonal songs, who grumbles about commercialism and false joy. My sweetheart hangs the ornaments and lights, plays Christmas songs all year and buys all the presents. She also hangs up the “stockings” each December.

Stockings, what a misnomer. No one could ever wear these on their feet. Each one bright, glittery, gaudy but with a history, a reason, a personality. I have had mine since I was about five, though I truly don’t ever remember not having it.

And now, there are eight more beside mine. Eight more symbols of expectation, of hope, that look to God for filling. I have never been able to put much in them. But this year, yes, this year, I have hope to. I have expectation. I want to see what God will fill them with. I want to watch God use me to fill them.

Freedom does that. Life does that. Love does that.



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