Monday, December 28, 2015
A desert Christmas
A desert Christmas looks like rainbow sunsets.
Cacti as far as the eye can see.
A flood of gifts, pooling out from under the tree.
A room full of toys, acting as a bedroom.
Plastic bugs, held by tiny niece and nephew hands, glowing in a dark pantry.
A desert Christmas sounds like a nephew's giddy laughter, thrilled by an otter in a tank.
A Keurig machine, gurgling and spitting coffee into mugs.
A toy mixer steadily whirring, the button held in place by a three-year-old thumb.
Newsboys, Schuyler, and Mariah, crooning inside a Corolla racing along the 10 freeway.
Gravel crunching underfoot, then falling to silence, as someone says, "Look!" and we stop to take in the mountain view.
Tom Petty in the car's speakers, driving to the store after a canyon hike.
Small voices at bedtime -- voices that already know the Lord's Prayer.
A desert Christmas smells like macadamia oil shampoo.
Sunscreen, from a complimentary pump in the zoo (that is masquerading as a "museum") bathroom.
...nothing, really. The desert is just kind of dusty and scentless.
Kids' sweet heads, covered with soft, baby fine hair.
Ground beef grilling, in the "museum" dining hall.
A desert Christmas tastes like homemade mac 'n cheese.
Birthday cake for Jesus.
Guacamole for dinner, made by a loving brother.
Grand Canyon beer, to wash down the smooth guac.
French silk pie and pancakes in the same meal, because vacation.
Coffee Rio candies, sucked and then chewed during family outings.
Baileys in Bailey's Christmas morning coffee.
Microwaved frozen pizza after a long, night time drive, worth it to reach family at the end.
A desert Christmas feels like carsickness on the windy, up-and-down roads.
Boxes landing on my previously sleeping self, as a grown brother and his kids wish me a "Happy Boxing Day!"
An aching back, from a car ride too long.
Just barely sore legs, after two hikes in one day.
Shared laughter, after a grown brother learned his lesson about kicking a cactus.
A desert Christmas feels like hugs from bodies big and small.
Hands held in church, and grasped around the table for prayer.
A desert Christmas feels like love.