There's something about Christmas that brings out my inner Prodigal's Older Brother. You know, the rule-bound Pharisee who knows just how things should be done, if only everyone else would listen to him. The eldest child who checked off all the boxes and was never handed anything...and who now sees his wastrel brother -- who was given everything and squandered it -- celebrated like a returning hero! Without even having worked out any kind of repayment plan! The son who stomps his foot and cries: "What the F, Dad? Really?"
I've been doing a lot of that lately. Lots of "What the F? Really?" Lots of thinking that I know how things should be done in our family at Christmastime, and refusing to join the party because "it's not fair!"
So yesterday, with my daughter on my lap, I listen as the father draws the eldest son to him and tells him that everything he has belongs to him already. It is not too late to come back to the party, apologize, hug my brother, and have a rip-roaring good time.
A tear slides off my nose and lands in Liv's hair. "Why are you spitting on me?" she asks in a whisper.
"I'm crying," I whisper back.
She examines my eyes from a distance of one inch. Then she asks, "You sweating?"
The third and fourth graders are starting their nativity pageant. Waves of tinselly angels descend from the balcony, singing Gloria. Really!
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