The towel is over my shoulder.
Waffles are warming in the oven.
The farmhouse kitchen is a wreck.
So is every other room in this old Farmhouse.
The floors, table, ottoman.
Papers, socks. . . the vacuum.
A trail of the day metered out as if to find the way.
‘The way where,” I ask?
Where are we going?
Where are we headed?
In the midst of the chaos.
In the midst of a mile long list.
The youngest farm girl switched Pandora to a Classical Christmas Station.
The usual Christmas music changed up a bit.
So, I sit.
In the middle of chaos.
Loving every minute.
Assurance that Immanuel has come.
He is here.