Drifting snow. Twinkly lights. Lovely gifts, woodsy garland, and a simple nativity scene.
Mystery and joy.
It was Christmas Eve and our very first together.
We were newlyweds living in those dreadful pink apartments and I was eager to have his family out to celebrate Christmas Eve with us. Everyone was invited over for "light snacks and a festive evening".
(Did you catch that? "Light snacks and a festive evening." Just wanted to be sure.)
I put together a platter of cheese and crackers, a large bowl of popcorn, and an assortment of Christmas cookies. The doorbell rang and Matthew's parents, his sisters and their families poured in and soon our tiny apartment was full to overflowing. Everyone was in good cheer and began nibbling on the goodies.
After an hour or two, however, something seemed wrong.
A slight tension.
I could feel it in the air, but couldn't quite figure it out.
Finally, my sister-in-law softly whispered, "Um…..I don't mean to be rude, but my children are starving...
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