Today, like most other days, I am balancing pessimism and optimism.

I spent much of the afternoon baking and decorating sugar cookies to give to my neighbors. My brother Andrew was gracious enough (okay, maybe he was bored) to both keep me company and help bake and decorate, and at some point I realized that we were having a supposed idyllic moment that one often reads of on blogs: “Though the temperature outside hovered around 8 degrees, we were warm and cozy in the kitchen, baking batch upon batch of sugared Christmas cookies while listening to classic carols crooned by Bing and Ella.” The truth is that we had a decent time, Andrew always livens things up, but the idyllic kitchen scene didn’t hold true. I felt pressured to get the cookies done in time for Christmas Eve and had slept part of the morning away after staying up too late the night before. Instead of enjoying the warm coziness of the kitchen, I saw a mass of dough that was too dry, piles of dishes caked with sugar and eggs, and eventually, cookies that had far more in common with dog biscuits than the light, airy concoctions I was aiming for. At some point I began to lighten up and enjoy the process, and I realized that idyllic picture in my head is never entirely true. Someone may indeed have had a wonderful day of Christmas shopping—but they neglected to mention the frenzied last-minute shopper crowd, the bumper-to-bumper traffic and the frustration of not finding just the right color sweater in just the right size. Or another may have enjoyed a lovely service at church—but they chose not to remember the wiggly whispering toddler in the pew behind them, the overbearing perfume of the elder’s wife in front of them and the long-winded message given by the pastor.

I believe there is some sort of balance I need to find between the half-full and half-empty. I don’t want to see only a dirty stable filled with stinky animals on a breezy night in the rural town in Judea. I also don’t want to focus soley on the glorious star and the heralding heavenly host. I want to soak in the entire scene. The father and young mother, giving birth to a baby after a long trip back home to register for a census. The shepherds, keeping their sheep safe on a normal night, normal until angels appear in the sky, singing and praising God and pointing them toward Bethlehem. The magi, following that eastern star in order to worship at the feet of the one just born king of the Jews. Herod, furious that another might dare to challenge his authority. In my mind’s eye I want to see this scene in all its glory and earthiness. I want to understand Jesus Christ the son of God, Savior of the world, and Jesus Christ the son of Joseph, carpenter in the line of David. I want to rejoice in His birth and praise Him for taking away the sins of the world—for continuing to love me despite my persistant negativity. So I will. Rejoice, that is. I will eat my dry cookies, work in my dirty kitchen, and sing with joy for Christ has come. Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.