It’s Friday night. All is silent. All is bright. Sitting in my yoga pants on my couch with the hubbie, football for background noise. The kids are sleeping, the kitchen’s clean, and no one has to set an alarm to get up in the morning. After a long, busy December week, there’s nothing better than this quiet night at home.

The thing about quiet nights in December is that you really, really appreciate them. As the frenzy cranks up notch after notch, these little pockets of silence become all the more precious. During this time of year, I have to find these little pockets. I need them to sort out the mass of paperwork in my head, the tangle of thoughts that start with what to get my mom for Christmas and end with me cleaning out the fridge. So much to do. So many people to think of. All the expectations to fulfill, the hopes to make happen. The everyday hustle and bustle covered in tangles of light strings and travel plans and precious family memories to make.

It’s the physical act of putting up trees, driving to stores, and coordinating events…but it’s all the emotions, too. As a mother and a wife, a friend and daughter and church member, I feel the emotional weight of tending my children’s tender hopes for Christmas, creating quiet spaces for them to rest, staying on the same page as my husband, supporting friendships, nurturing connections, and reaching out to those in need. Oh, and I’d like to have a few sweet Christmas-y memories and some fun, too.

Christmas is just such a big thing now. Almost a monster. It just keeps getting bigger and louder, too. So much so, that it’s hard to hear the silent night. It’s hard to feel the all is calm. It’s hard to cut through the trimmings and trappings and expectations and exhaustion to see the holy infant, so tender, so mild.

I’ve been coming down with a cold all week, not getting as much done as I need to, but it’s been the best thing. I’ve slowed down, made some choices, been forced to put down my expectations. Which is good. I have been forced to lay it all (expectations, to-do lists, and fear of not being enough) at the manger.

At first glance, laying my mess at Jesus’ manger does not seem like an appropriate gift. But, this gift of burdens, is actually a beautiful present for my King.

Lord, take my fear. Lord, here is my worry. Jesus, I’m giving you my hopelessness. Here is the problem I’ve been trying to work out on my own. Son of God, take these worldly expectations. Take my pride. Take it all, Jesus. It’s for you.

When I bring the gift of my burdens to Jesus, I am also giving him something else: my whole heart. God has always, always wanted his children to give him their burdens and fears and worries, the crippling idea that we have to do it all ourselves, and the pride that leads to hopelessness. He wants us to realize that in exchange for all this, he gives us peace, hope, joy, and a quiet, focused heart.

So let’s lay it down at the manger. Let’s bring him the gift of our burdens. And let’s sleep in that heavenly peace.