We’re staying home for Christmas. And by home, I mean here. Where we live. Where we spend our everydays. Our extended families will celebrate 734 miles away from us.
And I have a secret.
I’m okay with that.
It’s not that I don’t miss spending Christmas Eve at my grandma’s house. Or that we wouldn’t delight in our kiddo seeing her grandparents on Christmas morning.
It’s that there’s something special, something beautiful about waking up in your own bed on Christmas morning.
And it’s easier to focus on Christ at Christmas when there aren’t roomfuls of relatives with arms full of presents. When there aren’t six parties to fit into two days. When relationships aren’t being pushed to their max.
We love visiting family. And we find it’s so much more enjoyable, so much more meaningful when it’s not at Christmastime. When travel is less hectic, schedules are more relaxed and expectations are based on reality instead of tradition.
So Christmas morning our little family will wake up and spend the day together. We’ll stay in our pajamas with virtually no external expectations.
And I’m okay with that. Even thrilled.