As much as I miss Texas, coming home for Christmas can be a test of patience.
This week we’ve logged 13.5 hours and 958 miles of driving time. During our Tour-O-Texas Minimike had one night of nosebleed+fever, one night of fever+vomiting. She was totally fine once we got back to Lola’s house. Coincidence? I think not.
The nosebleed was actually the bigger problem because we were sleeping on Uncle Matt’s roommate’s $6,000 bed. Fortunately I can sprint to any bathroom with a toddler on my hip faster than dripping blood, a talent that has not gone unnoticed by Beijing’s 2008 Summer Olympics Committee.
So when I think of Christmas, I think of patience. I think of how limitless God’s patience has to be for him to have gone to all the trouble of arranging the whole virgin birth thing only to have people 2000 years later celebrate Chrismahanukwanzah by a pileup of hysterical gift-givers fighting over the last Bratz doll at Wal-Mart.
And the wise men following the star for however long and then had to stop off at Herod’s (when I imagine Herod in my mind he always looks like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. Is that wrong?) And then I think of how patient Grandpa was last Christmas when Mike told Minime that Grandpa really likes little kids to pick his nose. Now that’s patience.