quiet-Christmas-spirit-peace-whispers.

Christmas usually comes in bright lights and crackling colors for me. It's loud and in my face, laughter and anticipating excitement that carries through all of December, Christmas carols and live productions, family gatherings and races through Michael's, shopping lines that seem more like black holes than anything else.

It's so fast, it often flies by like the flurries outside, and then

The magic is gone.

But this year, I haven't even had that much Christmas spirit, haven't felt it in the air or breathed it in my lungs. If anything, it's felt like a slight burden, cardboard gifting checklists that never dwindle. Just keep crossing the Ts and dotting the Is, breathing will come easy later.

At the same time, I also recently submitted a blood test to find out the details on a rather extensive list of foods my body is currently rejecting. The results were disheartening, to say the least, and the next several months will be a pretty challenging road of a very limited diet to get my system back in working condition. Hearing the news around Christmastime added to the discouragement, seeing that cookies and pastries become another food group during the month of December.

But after the grieving, after the mini-self-pity-party and anger at my body, I came to a place of contentment. I began to see it as a gift, as one less Christmas obstacle that gets in the way of seeing Jesus. It reminds me that he really is ALL and the season isn't always meant to be loud.

My Christmas spirit has been awfully quiet this year; it's come in subtle little bursts throughout the mundane, the day-to-day tasks I don't think twice about, but suddenly Christ is there and I'm resting in His arms of grace and lovelovelove.

It was listening to Katharine McPhee's stunning rendition of "O Holy Night" while driving, and taking in the full meaning of the lyrics for the very first time as she didn't belt out, but gently cried, Fall on your knees! A simple, childlike plea, true intimacy with the Father that reminded me why He came, so we could be brought near as children.

It was driving through the plain country side at night, sparsely lit farm houses and small grave yards coated in snow, listening to A Fine Frenzy's Redribbon Foxes, one of the most haunting, truly gorgeous Christmas songs I've ever heard. The truth of the song hit me fullest when I was away from the bustling city life, the raging lights and crowded shops, when I had time to slow down and soak it in, the peace that isn't always found in a carol, or a store, or even a service at church, but in the raw bareness of the quiet, where I hear God whisper and he tells me that everything really is going to be okay.

For love doesn't come in boxes
No truth in a crowded shop
Those redribbon foxes are not so easy caught
But the search goes on and on.

It was falling asleep next to an uncovered window looking out over an oak tree, layered in blankets of peaceful white and keeping watch as I smiled at God and closed my eyes to dream.


It was turning off every light in my place except for the glowing bulbs on the Christmas tree. I sat in my pajamas on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, just sitting. There were no sudden revelations or life changing epiphanies. I wasn't praying, I wasn't even really listening for God; I was just being. And each little light on the Christmas tree was like a bright spot called hope.

Still, still, still.
All is calm, all is bright.

It was receiving a handwritten letter and chocolate bar from my dear sister, Emily, halfway across the world in New Zealand, experiencing adventures walking in the Spirit and listening to His voice, drawing nearer to His heart and speaking prophetic words of encouragement into my life from thousands of miles away. It was reading her letter in a dimly lit room by myself, yet feeling like she was right there with me, talking comfortably like we've done since childhood.

It was listening to one of my good friends play violin with his mother's piano accompaniment, a reluctant one song limit that turned into two, then three, then four beautiful hymns of praise to this Holy Breath Child, lifting cold spirits up and bringing life to the room. For it was just as much a gift to his mother as it was to me, and for several minutes at least, all really was calm, all was bright.

It was driving up north with friends, winding roads and endless conversation to keep us awake, probing depths of hearts that beat inside our chests and bind us closer together, brothers and sisters in Christ that light up with life. It was spending the weekend close by their sides, leaning heads on shoulders and resting in the sheer comfort that comes with knowing such friendships are for life. I see Christ so vividly there, He's radiating off of everyone's words and eyes, filling me with His joy, the same joy that came down into this world with weak baby hands to push back the darkness and stretch out His peace.

Mercy is here.

Joy to the world
The Lord is come
Let earth receive her King
The glories of His righteousness
And wonders of His love...

Christmas is still three days away, so I may add to this list before that time is up. Until then, these are some of the small things in life that have led me deeper not only into the Christmas spirit, but into communion with Christ, Light of the World stepped down into darkness.

Merry Christmas, beautiful friends. Peace to you during this season of Light.

throwing up yellowtree on paper.

December 1.

Total words written in the month of November = 50,072.

Total words currently written in Yellowtree = 80,923.

I guess you could say I just barely scraped by, 72 words over the minimum requirement, but it still counts as a victory in their books.

Here's why it counts as a victory in my books. I really could've cared less about the word count and the quantifiable progress I had to track throughout the month, statistical bars rising with each passing day. What mattered the most to me was getting myself into the habit of writing, in hopes that it would become something I make time for every day, whether or not I'm feeling 'inspired', whether or not I like my characters on that particular day.

In reality, I hated my characters for about half of the month. The beautiful, as well as agonizingly difficult part of National Novel Writing Month is that it forced me to just plow ahead, not looking back at what I had written and taking time to edit, but throwing up on the paper so I could look back at the end of the month and actually have something to edit.

Now, I'm still not finished with Yellowtree. I still have quite a bit left to write, and I made it my next goal to finish the rough draft by the end of the January, giving me 62 more days to throw the rest of it up. But thanks to National Novel Writing Month, I know the fallacy of waiting to write until I get a good idea, of holding off because I'm not feeling in the mood, or any of the other cardboard excuses we authors like to come up with to procrastinate. For I have sat at the computer for hours now, feeling completely uninspired and telling myself over and over again that I'm writing crap, it's better to just give up and delete it.

Don't hit backspace.

Not yet, not now. For that is writing. It's the nitty gritty, day-to-day clicks of the keyboard that feel like they're echoing into space, but somehow manage to forge a path in the wilderness when it's dark and I can't see what's in front of me. It's bringing human beings to life when your words feel dead and it's 2 AM. It's the small victory of finding that one perfect sentence in the midst of pages and pages of nonsense. It's hard work and sweat, all while lying down in bed, computer in your lap. It's not glamorous or glitzy, not New York Times bestseller lists and Harry Potter success. It has the potential to become all of that, but only after the hard stuff, only once your brain is mentally exhausted and you start seeing words in the grass.

NaNoWriMo wasn't some breezy blast where I got to accomplish my dreams and earn the right to brag about being an author. Actually, for a lot of the time, it wasn't even that fun. But that's what gives me hope that I'm maturing as an author, the fact that it was somehow still so wildly exhilarating and addictive, the fact that I wanted to keep going even when I hated my book and wanted to make my characters strangle each other so I wouldn't have to keep writing about them. Because deep down, it wasn't a hate of writing that was driving any of it - it was a love of it.

And that, my friends, is how I know it's worth it, and why I'm so crazy passionate about finishing Yellowtree.