Blessed is she who believed, for there will be a fulfillment of those things which were told her from the Lord. Luke 1:45
By Livonia Glaves
Holidays on Westlake Drive were special, especially Christmas and especially if you were a five-year-old. Christmas was all about waiting and believing that something wonderful was going to happen. Believing was easy for this five-year-old and waiting was just part of the process.
My fifth Christmas was no di?erent than any other. It was about waiting. First, I waited for my father to put up our Christmas tree. He went out and scoured all of Dallas to find the perfect tree (which was never perfect). He would bring home a tree and spend the rest of the evening ?improving? its look. By the time it was ready to decorate, it was time to go to bed.
Next, I waited for my older sister to help her bake Christmas Cookies. She said I could, but what she really meant was I could bring her the eggs and flour and sugar while she did all the mixing and rolling and baking. She said that I was just too young, and I had to wait until I was older to actually make the cookies.
Then, I waited for the big brown package from my Uncle Joe in West Texas. Now that was a package! When you opened up the box, it was filled with gifts for everyone of us, all seven members of our family. He was the ?fun? uncle, so we knew that each gift would be special. But, I had to wait until Christmas morning to see what surprise he had sent me.
Yep, waiting was just part of life for this five-year-old. I guess Mary felt the same way as she waited for the fulfillment of the promise of a spectacular event to come to her. She had to believe the Angel's message and then wait. She had to wait for Joseph, she had to wait for the trip to Bethlehem, and she had to wait for the birth and she had to believe that the things that were promised would be fulfilled.
Lord, give me the patience to wait for those things promised. Amen.
Livonia Glaves is a member of the Pilgrimage Class and has recently had her first book published: Memoirs of a Five-Year Old, My Friends