I suppose it’s my own fault it’s after 10pm this chilly December 5th and I’m still wide awake.

The kids fell asleep almost two hours ago, exhausted after a morning grocery shopping, an afternoon Christmas decorating, and no naps. Their mother is quite exhausted herself, but she made the mistake of drinking a cup of coffee during dinner. My husband made it hot and fresh before he left for his night at work, and I knew I didn’t need the caffeine but I wanted something to warm my soul anyway.

Now my body is tired but my mind is alert as I sit here, knowing fully well how I’ll feel at 7am when my son comes bounding into our bedroom requesting breakfast.

In a way it’s nice to be up late, alone. The peace feels glorious.

But the quiet is painfully lonely.

The beautiful lights strung up and down the tree, Amy Grant’s Mister Santa wafting through the living room, the soft glow of a thousand yellow bulbs illuminating the computer, the friendly blue felt snowman smiling down from his perch on the bookshelf–

–None can hide the fact that this Christmas season, it’s a me party.

We’re 1900 miles from my parents and literally half a world from my in-laws. My husband works long hours overnight and my kids are the sweetest company but come bed time, I also feel like my sanity is a wriggling eel that I’ve lost my grip on.

As I sit on Skype with my Dad discussing the plans for all my siblings to arrive home in Colorado, I know my husband is working on Christmas…and the days before, and the day afterwards. And also on his birthday, and again on New Years Eve and New Years. There’s no family around–it’s just going to be me and my two little peeps. I remember Christmases past and practically piling people on top of each other to ensure the whole family fit around the refinished wood dining table, and a stuffed kitchen as 10 people worked to prepare Christmas dinner. I remember the chaos, the noise, the bustle and the laughter.

This Christmas is going to be quiet, simple, small.

For a girl who comes from a family of five kids, a girl who married into a family that gave her five new siblings, with two psychotic offspring of her own, a quiet Christmas is new.

It’s different.

It sounds so very…lonely.

But then Jesus. 

Imagine Mary laboring by herself in a stable. Surrounded by inns too full to accept their Savior, she and her new husband were without family or loved ones. All around her was chaos. Noise, I’m sure–from animals, from the thousands of people who had converged on Bethlehem for the census, noise from birth (not usually quiet, FYI.)

There was Mary, delivering her first child, on a hay floor. Imagine how very lonely she must have felt as the world around her was too jam packed to even offer her a bed, and she alone bore the load of birthing the Son of God.

Joseph, who held his tiny newborn son, and knew this was the baby who would change everything.

What a big task, raising the Savior of the world.

What a weight to know God had chosen him and his young bride for such a monumental calling.

What a long road his son would have to walk–yet at that moment, it was just a father and his swaddled baby.

And I can’t help but wonder what Joseph felt as he looked down into the tiniest eyes, framed by dark eyelashes. Was it perfect peace? Was he overwhelmed by love or uncertainty? Was it lonely to know that he alone had been called to father Emmanuel during his time on earth?

Whenever we turn our eyes towards Jesus, our own little worlds fade quickly away.

And now at 11pm, Micheal W Smith still wafting through my apartment, mixing with the noises of DC traffic and rustling leaves, a million tiny lights still glowing, my blue felt snowman still smiling, and myself…still alone…I can be nothing but thankful.

My bed is a heck of a lot more comfortable than a hay floor. A lot warmer too. My kids are going to change the world, but they’re not here to be anyone’s Savior. Perhaps they make me want to pull my hair out, but tomorrow I get to snuggle them while they stare with baby Yoda eyes at the Christmas tree in wonder. I have a smart phone that plays Christmas music while I type out my feelings on a glowing box that can then share those feelings with the world.

And Jesus came.

He came in the loneliest, simplest, quietest way possible, without fanfare or trumpets. He did have a glowing star and, at one point, a choir of angels, but the ultimate King could not have arrived in this world in a more plain way.

So my simple Christmas?

God turns simple beautiful in an instant. He is the master of joy in the quiet, of peace in the solitude.

I’d love to be with family. I’d love to be with my husband, too, and not half a world from my in-laws, and enjoying the snow in Colorado with my parents and four siblings.

But simple is beautiful; quiet might be what my soul needs. It was perfect for Mary and Jesus and it will be perfect for us.

This holy season, whether in the chaos or in the still, remember Jesus and how his parents spent Christmas. What a glorious day, in every way. No matter by yourself or in a house that can barely contain the laughter and the people, remember the stable. Remember that you’re warm. Remember joy.

Remember Christ.

All photos taken at Enchant Christmas DC