Ten minutes and many deep breaths later, the family tumbled out into the night. There was no way of knowing whether it would be a peaceful evening or not. At least the cool air felt good.

The place that sells Christmas trees was eight blocks from our apartment. Two-year-old Stephen chattered happily as he rode in our collapsible laundry/grocery cart. Eight-year-old Mary spied the shadow of the moon grinning faintly behind its glowing crescent. My husband Andrew pointed out the spire of the Empire State Building lit up in red and green, seven miles to the south. John was reserved.

The Christmas tree vendor, in town from Vermont for the month, still had an ample selection. The fresh pine scent was invigorating. We decided on a tree, and it was straight-jacketed in plastic netting so it would fit into our cart. Stephen gladly gave up his place there and walked, talking, the whole way home.

John read a book while we trimmed the tree and set up the crèche. Five-year-old Maggie asked if she could sleep on the little sofa. Stephen wanted to sleep near the tree too. So did Mary. They trotted off to retrieve pillows and blankets.

“Can I sleep on the big sofa?” John sheepishly asked.

I looked searchingly at my ten-year-old, my constant challenge, and nodded. That’s when I knew that however his feelings might shift, whatever the ups and downs, whatever tomorrow would bring, this was still a season of hope.

Jesus, sometimes I wish You’d just fix what is wrong. Help me, instead, to trust in what is eternally right.