My sister said, “Too bad he doesn’t have his shirt on, then you could use it for your Christmas photo,” and I thought… Am I going to get one any better? Because that’s who William is: part wild man, part trooper. He can sweep your kitchen floor, or rake your leaves, or mulch your garden one moment, and in the next he can disembowel a throw pillow with the skill of a surgeon. My sofa has holes (now mended) pocked with an oversized porcupine quill (No Lie… Doesn’t everyone have an oversized porcupine quill lying around?) His bedsheets–darling trucks and diggers boy sheets–masterfully snipped wherever the offending cement mixer reappears in the pattern. So, since William often puts us to the test, it was nice in the searing heat of a family vacation, to put him to the test. It was 104 degrees in Chimney Rock, North Carolina that day, a 2,280 foot elevation and a four-hour hike. I wanted to have my shirt off, but that would be a terrible Christmas photo. He was, admittedly, too little to make the hike and too big and sweaty to carry, so we just kept prodding and talking him up the trail till we got the top and some pretty stunning views.

This year at the Burk Motel has seen some other breathless moments, most of them concentrated in the last few months. In the weeks since we traveled north for Thanksgiving (in itself an adventure, since the kids and I hopped a train, a plane, and an automobile to Mom’s house, all the while carrying both sets of keys Bill would need to drive the van to Baltimore in a week to retrieve us, we have endured quite a bit of death and destruction. The night before we left, Ellie’s beloved pet rats died in her hands. She held them, and I held her. Then this last weekend, the replacement rat got loose and met his demise with Molly, our 14-year-old cat who, after her last hurrah, died quietly yesterday. Because we don’t have enough to worry about each day, Mr. Shoe (the new rat) is clinging to life and will likely invoke many tears before we dig his hole in the garden in the side yard. Bill smashed and broke his finger stacking firewood out back from the six trees brought down in September by Hurricane Irene (one of which took out a shed), then William, always eager to run with the big dogs, smashed a 12-foot plate glass window at the Mechanicsville Music Store where Ellie takes guitar lessons. He was taking a swipe at his sister with the most lethal of weapons–a knit red beanie cap containing –the reasons escape me like words at a mime convention– a single pebble smaller than a quarter that William picked up out of Mamie’s gravel driveway and was (again, the mimes) carrying around in his hat. At first, the owner of the store said he would “take care of it.” Now he says Ellie’s next lesson is going to cost $1,578. Lawd, I reckon. I do believe I’m free and clear of paying that boy an allowance. EVER.

I’m thinking that this level of mayhem and disaster is meant to put the season in perspective for me. Suddenly the six dozen cookies and teacher gifts and class parties and the house looking like something off a Hoarders episode don’t seem all that bad. Heck, I can do peanut butter balls and a lawsuit in a single Friday and still wrap a few gifts on the side! Other people get to stress out at Christmas over all the wrapping and holiday entertaining and finding the best price on electronics. For me, the Christmas rush this year feels like a vacation from disaster. And did I mention there are 22 hours of greeting cards a week that need tending to as well? I work part-time for Hallmark, so at the holidays (or as the commercial culture would have it, eight to 10 weeks before the holidays), it’s especially nuts. I’ve been tripping over broken ornaments at Kohl’s since mid-September (Back-to-school cards, go figure, are not a big seller.) It is a rather amusing job because it affords a vantage point I probably wouldn’t get without a long hike. I’m not worried. I know that right around the corner from the madness is the wonder and magic of Christmas. Come to find out, amidst life’s brokenness, loss and pain, joy really is possible. And not only possible, deeper. May you and yours find joy this season, even if the hike is hard.

Sending what’s left of our love and best wishes for a happy Christmas.