blissful dreams

𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐞 🌾🌼

𝖿𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗒𝗅𝖾 𝖢𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖤𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇

My mother also talked about periods to my brothers.

When I first got mine I had terrible cramps. Crippling cramps. I once was camping with my family and a few of my big brother’s friends when my period came. My cramps were so bad that my mom gave me a full pain killer ( I was 13 and before that she only gave me pills cut in half).

I literally laid down on my parents’ air mattress and cried in pain for an hour before the pill kicked in.

My brothers friend came in to the big tent and I was just curled up and sobbing. Now, I was quite the tomboy and was known to rough house with my brothers and their friends and made sure I wasnt seen as just “a little girl.” So my brother’s friend was confused to see me openly weeping in the fetal position (seriously, these were the worst cramps I have had in my life. My vision went white). He asked what was wrong with me.

My big brother stood up immediately and suggested a nice long hike. During this hike I am sure he had a pretty awkward conversation with his friend explaining menstrual cramps, because when they got back the pain pill had (mostly) kicked in and I was sitting up at a table when my brother’s friend sheepishly asked me if I was feeling better. I said I was better, and he said good.

When we made s'mores that night my brother and his friend kept me well supplied with chocolate.

Making sure sons know as much about periods and menstruation as daughters makes them better brothers, better sons better fathers, and better men. A man that understands a period will not lightly accuse a woman of “being on her period” if the woman is in an argument.

Mary and Joseph certainly weren't, walking the deserted streets of Bethlehem desperate for someplace to bring the God-child to birth.⁣

The shepherds weren't, dragged by the angels' Gloria to a stable where they knelt--unwashed, in shabby clothes--to pay homage to an unexpected king.⁣

The magi weren't, bowing low before a peasant child in a nowhere town when a palace glittered not 10 miles away.⁣

The people of God weren't, their eyes searching for a warrior or a statesman though their hearts longed for the freedom only the Prince of Peace could bring.⁣

The nations weren't, reconciled to a world where gods stayed in the heavens (or safely in their shrines) and men were free to wound and weep and wile away the years with little hope for anything more.⁣

The prophets weren't, though their very words foretold him. The lepers weren't, though he gave them all they sought.⁣

The world wasn't ready for God-with-us, for divinity in diapers. Our hearts aren't ready for the reckless love of the incarnation, the reckless love of the Cross, the reckless love of the Eucharist.⁣

That his very gifts are dangerous he shows us when he asks consent before healing. "Do you want to be well?" he asks. Because you might not be ready for a heart made whole and a life made new.⁣

Maybe this year you're ready for December 25th, all your gifts wrapped and treats baked and rapid tests hoarded. But you're not ready for Christmas, for the wild outpouring of love in a manger, for the silent gift heralded by hosts of angels, for the beginning of salvation given for free and costing all our cruelty and shame and fear and pride.⁣

So if your shirt isn't ironed and your presents haven't shipped and your menu is frozen pizza, take heart. If you're grieving loved ones lost to death or division, if you're stuck in isolation wishing for Christmases past, take heart. If you're just not ready to rejoice, take heart. The best way to celebrate Christmas is to acknowledge that you're absolutely not ready. Not for a love that changes everything. None of us is.»