I remember my great grandma’s apron at Christmas time. It was constantly worn and almost threadbare, but it never looked unkempt or particularly dirty. It suited the happy scene and it suited grandma. She was in the environment she thrived on and the little frown wrinkle between her brows didn’t fool anyone. She loved to serve. It was her domain and she ruled it – the house, the feast, the table, the decorations and the day.
Come, Grandma! Sit down and eat! Isn’t that what we all say to the bustling women in our lives? The thing you are doing can wait! Come and feast with us! 
But the woman in her home knows better. She knows that the salt shaker will be wanted and that the deviled eggs will be missed. She notices that the butter dish is almost empty and that someone hasn’t got a fork. She remembers the apple pie in the oven. She sees that you haven’t got a chair. This is her space and it matters to her. You matter to her. She is proud to serve. Her home, her family, her skills, and her womanhood are shining for all to see… with the queen humbly disguised behind her simple apron.
I am not my great grandmother. My fumbling efforts in my domestic world have given us years of laughter but it doesn’t really bother me too much. I am a modern woman, after all, following in the footsteps of all the great and counter cultural women of history. I don’t need to be tied to a stove in order to find my place, my purpose, my joy. The outcome of my cheesecake does not define my worth. And yet… there is something that is blossoming within me as I head toward forty years. Something that reminds me just a little bit… of my grandmother.
When I was a young girl, I saw my grandmother’s apron as dingy and found her worn and gnarled hands a little frightening. What a fool I was! It has taken me many years to realize that she was royalty. She was queen of her domain; her planning, her culinary skills, her attention to detail…  and her deep understanding of the significance of home and feast. She was the genius behind the full bellies and the happy home.
My great grandma never used a computer or wore a pair of blue jeans. And I sit here with my lap top perched on my denim-clad lap. She was the image of everything that I sought to escape as a mainstream feminist, and to all outward appearances, I am not much like her.  But now, I find myself being drawn back, awestruck by the amazing facility with which she wielded her womanly power in her home. In a curious twist of perspective, I find that I wouldn’t mind being a woman like my grandmother.

The Advent season is for all men and women. But there is something about the preparation of hearth and home that belongs uniquely to women. Without the feminine touch, the men might be tempted to simply exchange gift cards (maybe) and a beer (definitely), grill something spicy, turn on the football game and call it a night. A woman knows that there is something about the careful preparation and presentation of a feast that shouldn’t be neglected. And we bless others (especially those men!) in our life who often don’t even realize they are being blessed.

 I am a New Feminist. I know that my worth is not limited by the kitchen door. I also know that the value found behind the kitchen door, beneath the apron, wrapped up in every detail, is the treasure of the feminine heart. I am not limited by my unique ability to serve, but empowered by it.
Yes, Grandma… I know what your superpower was. You were clever at hiding it but the truth always finds a way to sing. Your superpower was your womanhood, lavishly and generously offered to everyone who came to your humble castle. You were a queen disguised as a servant. You led a hard life… but you helped build the foundation of my life. You made sure my boo-boos had bandaids and you prayed for me. You created a place I could rest and eat and thrive. You fooled me then but you can’t now. I see that you, like all women, are at the very heart of the preservation and elevation of culture.
The real power of Christmas is hidden in a humble family. A man who walks an arduous journey to care for his wife and unborn son. A mother who quietly treasures the life entrusted to her and endures hardship for love. An infant who makes His grand entrance wrapped in rags. Homeless, humble servanthood. Hidden Kingship. Secret glory. The whole point of the holiday season.
So, women of the world… wear your aprons with pride this Christmas! And if you’re not an apron wearing kind of gal, just put on your favorite pair of jeans and set the lap top aside. Adjust the little vase of flowers on the mantle and fold the napkin “just so” before the family comes to mess it all up. If you feel moved, decorate the lunchroom at the office. And don’t forget to add the pretty name tags to the gifts for your friends. Bake an extra batch of fudge for the neighbors and rearrange the ornaments just a little bit on the tree after the kids go to bed. Put swirls through the cheesecake and spend some of your Christmas budget on someone who needs it more. Most of the details will be eaten, tossed aside or unnoticed… but that doesn’t matter. You are secretly blessing the world. These are the details of love. The details of joy. Your feminist domain. Your Christmas superpower.