Endings and Beginnings III: a marker in the middle

For those that may not know, I like marking time.
I celebrate my favorite authors' birthdays, my friendship anniversaries (when I know them, that is),  and season changes. When a special tradition hits a mile marker, like the 15th week in  row that my good friend sent me the same meme on a Friday morning at 7, I celebrate that too.
I mark serious events too, letting myself be aware in the moment, the day, that so many years ago I was in a certain place, and then life changed. I mark these days the way my parents marked my height against the wall, standing next to the previous graphite smudges to see how tall I've grown.

On the Desentimentalization of Christmas, and also, Why I need Story

The sermon was titled "Keeping Satan in Christmas". How's that to catch your attention? The thesis was simple, however. The pastor referenced the cries to "keep Christ in Christmas" and "remember that Jesus is the reason for the season" and argued that its not enough to merely remember that He is the reason for the season, but to also remember why this is the case. The text was 1 John 3:8 which reads:
"The one who does what is sinful is of the devil, because the devil has been sinning from the beginning. The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the devil's work"
And HE DID JUST THAT.  He came and He defeated Sin and Death; He defeated our mortal Enemy.

Catching Up

Hello, old friend... how long has it been since we last spoke? There have been times when I've meant to sit down and tell you the beauty, the ordinariness, the simple rhythm of my days, but those times were never destined to be. But here I am now--and there you are--I'm here, you're there; neither of us are going anywhere, so I know you won't mind if you let me sit and tell for awhile.

I meant to tell you about the small wilderness driven through every day; the creek-bottoms, where the mists lie low and the sycamores grow tall, exposing their bone-white winter arms. I meant to tell you last year of the beauty of the sycamores; of how--wherever they are--there, I am strangely connected.