The wreath on our door is dying. The dark green edges are fading into pale browns and yellows, and little bits of pine fall to the ground each time I leave our house in the morning and return home in the evening.

I should throw it away, but I still remember how it looked the week before Christmas when I first hung it on our weathered front door, fragrant and bushy and festive. Every time I walked by the wreath, or the little lopsided fraser fir in the living room, or the cinnamon candles on the kitchen windowsill, I hummed the song: “unto us a son is given, unto us a child is born…” This year, those words reminded me of Jesus, Son of God, and also of my own son. I hoped that a promise given thousands of years ago to a people worn out and discouraged by oppression was also true for me, holding on to a slim hope that a baby boy with only half a functioning heart would be born to us, alive and well.

Christmas is over a month behind us now, and my wreath is deteriorating while my belly continues to grow. All there is to do now is wait. Unto us…God, let those words prove true.

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