A Different Kind of Christmas

"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." Isaiah 9:6, The Bible (ESV)

This familiar Scripture is our church's theme for Christmas this year, and it's been forcing me to look at this time of year with fresh eyes.

The joy of Christmas begins with the birth of a child.

No matter what you believe about how we came to be, or whether God exists, we can all relate to the universal joy and expectation and wonder of welcoming a child into the world. 

How genius.

***

There he was, cradled in my arms, swaddled in hospital blankets up to his chin. Six pounds and some odd ounces of pure adorable. I'd rejoiced over the news of his conception, talked about him for months, planned the baby shower and prayed for him from the womb. And now, we finally met.

He was tiny. I had forgotten how light and fragile newborns are. (It's been a while.) He smelled of sweet newness. I examined his pouty lips and nose. Squealed with delight at each changing facial expression.

Two days old. Loved. Wanted. Here!

I took in every moment. I was fully present, aware, more present than at my own son's birth, I'll admit. Cherishing and enjoying moments I hope to tell him about some day. Moments I can never get back.

His parents (my best friend and her husband) beamed proudly as they watched us swoon over him. We knew from experience they were exhausted. But that's the crazy thing about having a child. You stare at them for what feels like forever in the hospital, sleep with one eye open so you can tend to their needs and then you see them in someone else's arms - a friend, a nurse, your mother - and fall in love all over.

We knew well the hard work and many sleepless nights ahead for our friends, but in these precious moments, our hearts were full, rejoicing at the miracle of life and all the joys one unwritten future could hold.

***

It's the most wonderful time of year, and I feel guilty about where I am personally. Christmas snuck up on me without warning only to find a very tired and exhausted Christina. We have no tree. Our hearth is only half-decorated. Our home lacks that warm, stay-a-while Christmas feeling that makes you want to curl up with a cup of hot chocolate and Michael Buble's Christmas album.

I'm slowly beginning to accept that it may be a very different Christmas this year. Working at a church means that this is actually one of the busiest times of the year for us. As these things go, I used all my leave for Lincoln's many sick days so for the first time in eight years, I have to work the week between Christmas and New Year's. A part of me just died typing that.

I fear there will be no Christmas for me.

Last year, we played Christmas music the whole month long. We snuggled over an Advent devotional to make room in our hearts. We drank seasonal Starbucks lattes at least once a week. We took selfies in front of our tree. Mailed 145 Christmas cards, each with love. There was no part of our living room, or our hearts, untouched by Christmas.

This year, I am fighting to embrace the joy of Christmas. The temptation is no longer to cling to the promise of gifts as a distraction to the real meaning of Christmas. Instead, I realize it's the proverbial "Christmas spirit" that has become the idol.

I am fighting, wrestling really, to remember that Christmas is not about time off with family, even though that is a very nice and good thing. I struggle to remember that it is not about warm fuzzies and Christmas lights and holiday lattes.

The joy of Christmas begins with the birth of a child.

How very difficult.

***

There was no shortage of compliments in the hospital room as we visited our friends and their new son. I could hear myself saying for the millionth time, "he is so beautiful," because he truly was and no other words would come.

But no matter how many compliments we showered on him, all would fall helplessly short of "Mighty Counselor. Prince of Peace. Mighty God."

These weighty words once used to describe a helpless baby thousands of years ago, thousands of miles away.

And not just any baby. But the King of Glory himself, come to earth as a child. Swaddled and laid in a feeding trough in a barn.

A baby born in a barn. (Let that sink in.) A royal baby born in a barn. God of the universe born in a barn!

And yet He came. Humbly. For us. As a child.

Oh the wonder of that night. When angels rejoiced and Mary's heart almost burst from gladness.

***

Thousands of years later, I am reciting this truth to myself like a catechism: Christmas is not something we "create" or manufacture. Christmas is a cosmic event of cataclysmic proportions.

Christmas happened that night in a barn, not a home. With the stars as the only Christmas lights. And a manger in place of a Christmas tree.

There was pomp and circumstance. No decoration. And certainly no lattes, selfies or Christmas cards.

But in their hearts, Mary and Joseph experienced a joy the angels knew was worth singing about. Good news to the walking dead.

"For to us a child is born!"

Christ the Lord.

May we ever remember.

The Father's Face

My husband had to work late tonight and got home just as I was putting Lincoln to sleep.

I could hear his failed attempt to stealthily creep up the stairs, the old wood giving him away with each step. I mentally calculated the moments until he reached the door, the light from the hallway just barely peaking into our pitch black room. 

Lincoln was almost there. Almost. But the sound of footsteps, and the presence of light, and the ominous silhouette of a tall man standing in the doorway were simply too much to ignore. He turned away from me to investigate and caught a glimpse of Musa's shadow in the dark, his face completely unrecognizable in the blackness.

Then came fear. I could sense it. In a moment, he was sitting up on his knees staring at the figure in the door. He turned to me for affirmation and, receiving none, turned again to the man in the door. Whether we were safe or in danger, he couldn't tell. 

Finally, Musa came closer, kneeling on the floor and crouching by the bed. Though now just inches away, Lincoln still couldn't make out his face. 

So he did something that would impact me more profoundly than I knew at the time. 

He reached out his chubby hand, and ran his finger along Musa's cheek, then his nose, then finally palmed one entire side of his father's face with his hand.

At last his body relaxed, clearly satisfied. Even in the pitch-black darkness, he knew his father. Not because he could see him, but because he knew his face.

I couldn't shake the preciousness of that scene this evening. (I'm a mother and these things affect me.) And more than the intimacy of a shared father-son moment, I couldn't help but think about my own relationship with my Heavenly Father.

I've had some darkness of my own lately. I know what it's like to be in that pitch black room feeling scared and overcome with fear. I've prayed many a prayer asking for guidance and wisdom followed by painstaking waiting to see how it all turns out.

And it has only occurred to me just now that the Lord was always there. What if in the darkest moments, His face was just inches away? What if the things that made me fear and panic - the trials that stretched my faith thin and tested my courage - were His very doing? The sound of Him coming to me in the blackest of nights? The steps of a Holy God drawing near to a small and very terrified me?

In Psalm 27:8 David writes this of the Lord:

"You have said, 'Seek my face.' My heart says to you, 'Your face, Lord, do I seek.'

I pray - that I would be able to recognize not just God's hand of blessing, or His voice of peace, but also the most intimate and expressive part of Him - His face. 

So that when I'm in the darkness and He draws near, I know Him still. And I'm not afraid.