I wasn’t going to decorate for Christmas at all this year – no tree, no lights, no huge stocking on the front door. I was boycotting the holiday, and this from a girl who loves her Christmas – tacky bows and all. Frankly, I feel like I’ve been on a treadmill that runs the full length of I-10 from Phoenix to Tucson, my little Volkswagen sucked under the belly of the machine then spit back on top only to repeat less than a week later. I was bone-weary tired, and, really, what was the point of dragging all of those boxes of ornaments and such out anyway? I wouldn’t be in my house any single stretch of time long enough to enjoy them fully. If you’re thinking of any version of Dickens’ Christmas Carol, even the one with Mickey Mouse, feel free to visualize because that was exactly how I was feeling.
Then today, as I sat in my completely non-festive living room, staring at my options for viewing choices on Netflix and Hulu, the holiday movies started popping up. (Has anyone noticed that all the contemporary holiday movies are taking on a decidedly romantic vibe? Please explain that to me. Did someone hire my nemesis, N. Sparks, to write Christmas movies???) Suddenly my front window devoid of its seasonal Charlie Brown tree seemed incredibly sad to me, and I just couldn’t stand another moment of the thought of canceling my own Christmas.
Now, here’s where all of my theologian friends will want to weigh in with the heavy arguments about why not decorating a pagan symbol has no bearing on the celebration of Christmas which really is not the true anniversary of Christ’s birth anyway. Just so you all understand, I get this. I totally understand your point of view, and I love you for your very academic approach to a very sentimental time. But I need to celebrate in a way that feels meaningful to me. Bring it on. Bring it all on: the pagan tree, the tinsel, the Santas, snowmen, and stockings.
So, I climbed into the top of my closet, (No, I really did – up onto the shelf above the hanging racks because I just could not figure out how I had maneuvered the storage boxes up there last January.) There was absolutely no other way to get those boxes down except to sit on the shelf with them and shove them off. (If I was a kid and playing hide’n’seek, that dark upper shelf is where I’d hide every single time. No one would ever find me.)
Jug was slightly concerned about my foray into the upper reaches of the closet. I think he was sure I was going to fall; then what the heck was he supposed to do? As impressive as that dog is, he has no opposable thumbs and, therefore, cannot dial 911. But I didn’t fall, and now he’s asleep, poor stressed pup, exhausted from his babysitting ordeal.
Up went the tree. Fluff went the branches. On went the ornaments, ribbon, and silk flowers. And onto the very top, the angel who lost her wings last year took pride of place again to remind me that we all suffer, we all fail, but in the midst of our brokenness we can remain gloriously beautiful.
And when I had finished with my slightly battered but much loved tree, I turned to the other boxes and began sorting through what I was willing to pack away in less than three weeks. Needless to say, almost everything else went straight back into the top of the closet. But there was one thing I just could not stow away, one thing that my heart cried to display, because without it Christmas really would be reduced to that pagan evergreen (in my case plastic) and that date mandated by the early church to (potentially) discourage those pagan celebrations of Satunalia, Yule, or Winter Solstice. So, my hands gently reached deep into the Mary Poppins’ plastic box of merriness searching, searching until they seized upon the familiar royal blue boxes of my treasured pewter nativity.
As I set the crèche upon the piesafe my father refinished for me so many years ago, I ran my fingers across the little barn’s smooth metal, reflecting on the Love born into this world more than 2000 years ago. Let me rephrase that: the Love that chose to step down from His throne, chose to be born of woman, chose to become man all the while knowing the end result would be horrific betrayal from one He loved leading to an unimaginable (to us) death. Then, setting the pieces of the Holy Family in place I stared in awe at the gentle and courageous Mary, the humbled and faithful Joseph and wondered at the strength of the faith that carried them through their long journey, and not just the one to Bethlehem but also the one that would lay scorn at their feet for a man who would marry an already pregnant girl – a journey of faith they both necessarily were aware of and even still bowed to the will of their Father. Finally, holding the tiny baby Jesus nestled in His manger, I imagined a warmth emanating from its center, and the warmth felt like His love tangible. I’d be less than honest if I said that tears did not fill my eyes as there is nothing that I have ever done in this life that has made me even the smallest bit worthy of that Love.
But that, I suppose, is the true meaning of Grace and Mercy. That, I suppose, is why we decorate our homes with trees and stockings and lights. That, I suppose, is why we wait 364 days a year for Him to come again.
The Unexpected Life 