It’s December 25, 2009. My son is just over a month old in his blue booties, the ones I bought this summer in Italy when I went to Lake Como for a writer’s conference.

And I feel like Hannah.

Aiden is my miracle child, the one we’ve been praying for the past few years, the one we’d been prayed over for on national television by a pastor whose own mother had been told she couldn’t have children.

He is my Samuel, and I’ve been dedicating him back to the Lord ever since the 32-hour delivery and the sleepless nights and the learning to latch and the hormones.

The other day we went to pick out a tree, a blue spruce. My mother-in-law was with us and Aiden asleep in the car seat. And I gently picked him up and held him close as I smelled the evergreen, remembering Christmases past—opening those tiny little cereal boxes because we ate homemade granola every other day of the year, Mum’s red felt stockings stuffed full of chocolates and pencils and deodorant and soaps; the little red boots by our pillows overflowing with sesame crackers and chocolate kisses; jumping on our parents’ bed at six thirty in the morning and waiting for Dad to light up the tree before we stepped into the living room, aglow with presents piled high and a real tree decorated with childhood ornaments…

(Over HERE at The High Calling today; join me? And the merriest and holiest of Christmases to you all)

This will be my final post until the New Year. So much love, my friends. e.