Robbie's done something to his back. My brother says it's called "turning 25". We call my brother a jerk. 25 is not nearly old enough for back pain. Old enough to not be able to recover quickly enough from a hangover but definitely not old enough for back pain.
Either way, after trying as many home remedies as we could think of, we sucked it up and went to Urgent Care. Where we spent what felt like 2409887 hours in a germ-filled waiting room and watched crazy grinchy people yell at the nurses.
And I couldn't help but think. There we were, less than 24 hours after the most cheerful day of the year and already the joy was completely gone. People were right back to their entitled time-schedules, thinking only about numero uno. And it just made me sad.
The love and joy and peace and cheer that we sing from the rooftops during Christmas-time should last all year long. It doesn't have to be a one month gig.
As I lay here on my couch, where I've spent far too much time the past few days by the way, surrounded by twinkly lights, because unlike half of my Twitter timeline, I've still got my Christmas decorations up, and a snoring hydrochodine-filled husband, I'm making a pact. A promise to myself to keep the joy throughout the rest of the year. To hold onto the warm fuzzies that have been in my heart for the past three days and do my best to spread them around. To remember that while Jesus is the reason for the Christmas season, He really should be the reason for all the seasons. His love and selflessness should be admired and reflected through us all year long.