Christmas, perhaps more than any other season, is the season of expectations.

I feel them. I know that I bring them on myself, more than feeling them from other people. I feel the expectation to make Christmas magical for my children. I feel the expectation to decorate, buy the perfect gifts, keep the household running while my husband keeps up with his extra busy work schedule this month. I feel the expectations to travel back to Wisconsin and to spend equal (down to the hour) time at each side of the family’s home. I feel the expectation to have my children behave during this crazy time.

I feel the expectations at work to still put out the same quality of work, no matter how busy or tired that I am from what December brings to my schedule. I feel the expectation to reach out, to give to others, to recognize the people in my life that help me the whole year ’round. I feel the expectation, even, to be cheerful and joyful and grateful and not be a Grinch.

I know that most of these expectations are purely ideas I press down on my own heart. I am blessed to be surrounded by supportive people: a helpful, low-key husband, two adoring, pretty chill kids, solid, I’m-there-for-you friends, great coworkers. And my family back in Wisconsin? They are understanding and loving to the end.

But still these expectations, real or imagined, linger. There’s this pressure to perform, to perfect, to make this a happy, fulfilling month for everyone around me.

I was talking to my friend, Kate about this the other day at the playground. Our kids were running around us, barefoot and crazy, she was nursing her baby on the park bench, and we were discussing the month that is December. She asked me, “Are you excited to travel back to Wisconsin?”

I answered, “Of course. I’m so, so excited to see my family. I miss them so much during the year.”

I also added, “It will be good. I think I’ve learned to lower my expectations for travel. I used to go back home and expect my children to behave perfectly so my family could see how smart and great they are. I used to expect everything to go smoothly and everyone to get along perfectly…because it’s Christmas and all. I used to expect to come home refreshed from time away. But I’ve lowered my expectations. The reality is that traveling during the holidays is stressful. My kids are out of their routine, it’s an emotional pressure cooker when everyone’s together, and traveling is tiring over the holidays. That’s the reality.”

My friend replied, on cue, “I’ve done that for my whole life, Dana!”

I laughed for five minutes straight. I was so relieving to hear someone else say that out loud. Life is rough. Life is full of beauty and good things…but also hard stuff and complications and…well…crap. As blogger Glennon Doyle Melton puts it, “Live is brutiful…brutal and beautiful.”

This is where Christmas comes in, to save the day.

Advent should not be the season of expectations, but of expectation. Singular. The expectation of our Savior, the one who relieves the pressure of all the expectations that we as humans struggle to fulfill, but can’t. It’s not about us being perfect, it’s about him being perfect. It’s about the forgiveness that is ours, not because of what we’ve done, but because of what Jesus did. That’s the expectation of Advent, the expectation of our salvation.

Advent should be about the thrill of knowing that he is coming. And when he does…well, I am sure of one wonderful thing:

Heaven will meet every single expectation I have of it.