In December of 2007 I’d been living in Lubbock for several months after 14 years in the Phoenix valley. I was a not by choice divorced single Dad living in a place I never wanted to live. Somewhere in the middle of the month I realized that this would be the first time in my life that I’d be alone for Christmas.

It was a pretty awful thought.

I volunteered to help with my daughters’ school Christmas party. Among the other parents there was a lady wearing scrubs. I asked her where she worked and she said, “Carillon House”. I didn’t know what or where that was. She explained it was a skilled care facility. “It being Christmas time I suppose they get lots of visitors up there”, I said. She shook her head. “Sadly, no. Even a lot of the residents who have family here in town don’t get visited on Christmas.” That’s sad, I thought. I went back to passing out candy canes and overly frosted cookies.

Christmas Eve afternoon I was starting to lose it. I’ve always been with family and friends on Christmas. Lonely was what other poor souls struggled with during the holidays, not me. “Lonely at Christmas” was an article I read in a magazine, not what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Now lonely was me.

Lonely sucks.

Ever feel like running and you don’t know where to go? I got in the car and started driving, trying to remember where I saw a thrift store. It was about an hour before all the stores closed on Christmas Eve when I found the Savers store. I went in and bought all the vases I could find, then drove to Wal-Mart and bought some ribbon and several bunches of roses. That night I prepped all the flowers and vases and went to bed.

Christmas morning I drove to Carillon House. I hit the elevator button for the second floor. When the door opened I walked to the first room on the north side, took a deep breath and went in.

“Merry Christmas. I’m Todd. Here’s a flower for you.”

The gray haired lady in her hospital bed looked at me with a mix of surprise, gratitude and suspicion. “Why…thank you. Do you have someone up here?”

“Nope. Just here to say hi and give you a flower. How are you feeling? What brought you in here? Are you getting better?”

In case you ever wondered, I’m the best in the world at asking questions. It’s because I’m genuinely interested in people and their stories. And it’s a control/defense mechanism. If I keep people talking about themselves, they won’t have a chance to ask me about me.

And so I went, room to room. I spent over four hours at Carillon passing out flowers and hearing people’s stories. The time passed until it was Christmas past.

A few days into the new week I starting thinking about the roses in the vases. They’d be drooping by now. Few things are sadder than a rose browned and bent over in a vase. They’d have to throw them away. And the vases would be empty.

It was one of those private “come to Jesus” moments. If I didn’t go back to Carillon, then my Christmas day visit would be a pure act of selfishness. Sure, I took flowers. Sure, I visited with people. But the truth is I was there because I didn’t want to be alone. If I never went back, what would that say about me?

So on New Year’s Day I said to Annie and Emma, “Girls, we’re going to go visit some people.” We got more vases and roses and off we went. We’ve been going ever since. With the exception of several out of state vacations and the girls having the flu, we’ve been there every week for the past three years. After the first several months Emma asked me, “Daddy, what’s on the 4th floor?”

“That’s Vista Care Hospice”.

“How come we don’t go up there?” I didn’t have a good answer so after that conversation we’ve been there every week, too.

Over that time we’ve met many fascinating people and heard the stories of their lives. My girls have learned what it means to “serve each other with love” (Galatians 5:13b). At ten years old they are completely comfortable around the elderly, their wheelchairs, walkers and canes. They talk and visit and laugh and I couldn’t be prouder of them. We’ve gotten to know people, developed rich friendships and grieved when they left for heaven.

Christmas is in a couple days. With due respect to my dear friends here, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t still a sizeable loneliness in my life. There’s no getting around the fact that the holiday season magnifies what’s broken in a person’s life. I still deeply miss my family and friends in faraway places and wish that I could be in their kitchen laughing and eating and sitting by their fireplace. Yet from that long ago dark night when the angel announced the Good News to shepherds in the hills of Bethlehem, Christmas comes to us where we are. And where I am, like it or not, is here.

It’s Christmas in a couple days. We’ll go to Carillon House to visit our friends who also know something about “lonely”. They’ll be thinking about their spouses who died this year or last, about all the friends they’ve outlived,  and how they probably never imagined spending Christmas in a skilled care center. We’ll spend time together, encouraging one another and hopefully remembering that Christmas comes to us where we are. And in the coming, it brings the hope that someday we’ll all be in a place where lonely is nowhere to be found.

Wherever Christmas finds you this year, remember that Jesus comes to you where you are. And that He can take even desperate acts of self-preservation and redeem them for something good.

Merry Christmas.

“But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid! For behold I bring you glad tidings, good news of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you this day in the city of David is born a Savior, which is Christ the Lord!” – Luke 2: 10-11

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

It was around Halloween when I noticed it. Near my kids’ elementary school on the corner of 17th and Toledo Streets someone had put a pumpkin on top of a stop sign.

Even if you’re not normally aware of your surroundings, your brain takes note of things like a pumpkin on a stop sign.

It stayed there longer than I expected. Surely the street department or a neighborhood resident would remove it. But it remained for at least a couple weeks till I saw it smashed on the street, a messy clue fingering kids as the disposal crew.

Whoever put that pumpkin up there had another one. Because a day later the stop sign was once again sporting an orange gourd hat. I laughed when I saw it and wondered how long this one would stay perched.

People were either too lazy to take it down or just got used to seeing it there because it survived the entire month of November. And into December. Looking quite resiliant, I might add. Definitely the freshest looking pumpkin I’ve ever seen on a stop sign after seven weeks. But it is December. Pumpkins are supposed to be gone long before the holiday fruitcakes show up.

Dropping my kids off at school the other day, it was still there. Except someone, in the spirit of the season, had painted it gold. Now it fits in with the Christmas lights. It’s still a pumpkin on a stop sign. But it’s spiffed up now. And I think anyone who sees it turned out for the holidays would have to agree that the stop sign would be under-dressed without it.

Can I say it? Christmas the event, the birth of Christ, is joyous. Christmas the season, with all its stress, is not. For most of us, our level of angst during this time of year is high as the North Pole. Every unresolved situation, every strained relationship, every financial hardship, every unmet goal, every failed resolution bubbles to the surface. Somehow we hope “the most wonderful time of the year” will fix everything that’s broken in our life. We try our best with carols and cards, parties and presents. We cover our houses with everything that glitters and glows.

Yet more often than not, it simply illuminates how undone we are.

All my adult life I’ve hoped for the perfect Christmas. That just once everything in my sphere; relationships, goals, finances, mindset and emotions, situations and circumstances, would be as perfectly synchronized as the blinking lights on the tree.

Is it a big surprise to say it’s yet to happen? I’m always disappointed. In fact, several of those years have truly been “The Nightmare Before (and during and after…) Christmas”. You’d think I’d adjust my expectations. But every year, sure as stripes on a candy cane, my hope for the perfect Christmas appears.

So what to do? Abandon hope? Embrace cynicism? Quit on Christmas?

Those are options. Many people have chosen one or all of them. Having been there myself, I can’t blame them.

I’m moving toward another solution. To accept, as best as my kicking and screaming self can, that that this side of heaven my life will never be in sync. I’m a broken person living in a broken world. My idealistic expectations are getting in the way of my potential joy.

Reality is, this side of heaven, my Christmas (and my life) will more often look like a pumpkin on a stop sign than the star on top of the tree.

So the best I can do is paint the pumpkin. To dress up and turn out and not worry about the frayed edges of my life. To express sentiment without fear. To celebrate what is instead of bemoaning what isn’t. Most importantly, focus on Jesus. The One who loved this out of sync world enough to leave His throne and show up as a baby so He could live our life and walk our walk.

Jesus our Savior, born for us.

Immanuel, God with us.

The One who understands that painting the pumpkin gold is sometimes the best we can do.

Merry Christmas.

“The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us. We have seen His glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” – John 1:14

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Tell us a story, Daddy! Tell us a real one about you when you were little,” says Annie.

Emma said, “I like the one about when you fell down and cracked your head because you didn’t mind the teacher.”

Annie and Emma particularly enjoy the stories where Daddy learned a lesson the hard way.

“Ok, girls. Let’s see…when I was your age we would spend Christmas in Texas with your Uncle Jack. He’s my cousin, you know.”

“One Christmas when we were about five years old he and I got the coolest present. It was a dart gun. But not just any dart gun. A double barrel shotgun dart gun. It came with a wind up mechanical rabbit that would scoot around on the floor. We’d shoot the rabbit with our dart guns and knock it over. It was so much fun.”

“But after a couple days of this, we got bored. So we started shooting the darts at other things.’

“Ooh, Daddy, that’s bad.”, says Emma with cautious tone.

“I know. Well, we started shooting them at the ceiling.”

“Daddy, you’re not supposed to do that.”, Annie reminds me.

“I know. But your Uncle Jack figured out that if you licked the dart first, it would stick on the kitchen ceiling tile. They’d stay up there for a while, then fall down.”

“Daddy, whose idea was it to lick the darts?” That Annie asks this question means I’m not spinning the story well enough.

“It was your Uncle Jack’s idea.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Anyway, we were busy licking the darts and shooting them at the ceiling. What we didn’t realize is that when the darts fell down they left little rings on the ceiling tile.”

“Daddy! You are so in trouble!” Emma is sitting up now.

“We heard the car pull into the driveway. Our Moms had been down the street at the store.”

“Uh oh, Daddy! What did you do?”

“We dropped our guns and ran like the wind. We hid under the bed. Then the darts started unsticking and falling off the ceiling. That’s when your Aunt Evelyn yelled, “Where are those boys?!!!”

Annie and Emma are both sitting up now, more than ready to hear what form of retribution would befall me.

“I told your Uncle Jack we should go out there but he said “no way”. We’d get a spanking for sure. We could see their feet walking down the hall while they looked for us. Just like the Tom & Jerry cartoons when Jerry is looking out from his mouse hole.”

Annie scolds me. “Daddy! You shouldn’t have listened to him!” I must be spinning the story better now.

“Then what happened?”

“Your Aunt Evelyn yelled something about going outside to cut a switch. I told your Uncle Jack we should surrender but he said he didn’t have a good feeling about that switch remark and that we should stay put.”

“Daddy, did they find you?”

“Oh, yes. They found us.”

Emma leaned forward, smiling and almost giddy. “Daddy, did you and Uncle Jack get a spankin’?”

“I think your Uncle Jack did.”

Annie is unconvinced. “Yes, but Daddy did you get a spankin’?”

“I can’t remember. My memory is fuzzy on that point.”

The girls laid back, pulled up the covers and looked at each other.

Says Emma, “He got a spankin’.”

Says Annie, “Yep. A big spankin’.”

Some 39 years later, Jack still has his wind-up mechanical rabbit. It sits on a shelf of memorabilia in his home, an all-time favorite Christmas present from childhood. 

The joy of Christmas is enthusiasm and anticipation to be sure. The joy of Christmas is also presents. Under the tree, hidden in attics and closets and on high up garage shelves, tied up with ribbon and beautiful paper. Presents are wonderful. Who doesn’t like to give and receive a present? Even Dr. Seuss’ cold-hearted Grinch eventually warmed to the spirit of giving. We all have memories of opening a Christmas present that made our face light up like the star on top the tree. Life around Christmas is presents and all that comes with them.

I hate to say it, but sometimes well-meaning Christians are a real downer this time of year. More concerned about what they see as commercialism run rampant, they approach this wonderful season with the freshness of last year’s fruitcake. Some of them, which is to say some of us, try to emphasize the true meaning of Christmas with phrases like “Remember the Reason for the Season” while decrying the buying and selling and the emphasis on gift giving.

When we communicate this either/or approach to Christmas, we give the impression that  genuinely remembering the reason for the season means being serious, somber and boring. We symbolically shake the snow dust from our boots as we pass the Super Wal-Mart and Toys-R-Us, as if celebration and partying have no part in the reason for the season.

Jesus Christ is the reason for the season. There is no better reason than Him to celebrate and party. God is the gift. We give because He gave. Let not your heart be troubled when you see malls full of stores making money hand over fist at Christmas. Nor should you waste your time crusading against commercialism. A moment spent decrying the holiday profit margin of The Gap is a moment not spent pondering the miracle of God with us.

If you want people to know the real reason for the season, let your celebration be worthy of the Gift you’ve been given. What’s the proper expression of celebration for being on the receiving end of forgiveness, unconditional love and eternal life?

Smile. Sing. Laugh. Party.

Be grateful. Give gifts.

Give of yourself. Volunteer.

Extend grace.

Be joyful.

Here’s hoping the memories you make this Christmas will become stories you tell to those you love for years to come.

Merry Christmas.

“For to us a Child is born, to us a Son is given, and the government will be upon His shoulders. And He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of His government and peace there will be no end.”

- Isaiah 9:6-7

Back in the day, a child’s Christmas wishing started in mid-October when the JC Penney and Sears Christmas catalogs hit the mailbox. I can still remember tearing off the brown paper sleeve, giddy to see the treasures inside. Kids could instinctively open it to the exact page where the toys started. Lots of time was spent anticipating and dreaming about the gift you wanted. You knew that the Hot Wheels Supercharger race track was on page 298, Item B. By day you dropped hints to Mom and Dad, the subtlety decreasing in proportion to the available shopping days till Christmas. By night you’d fall asleep thinking about what it would be like to see and hear those cars fly around the orange plastic track. Which car would be faster? The Lola GT-70 or the Beatnik Bandit?

And if you were lucky enough to tear off the snowflake wrapping paper and see the present you wished for? There’s no way to describe the joy of holding in your hand what you’ve hoped for in your heart.

Anticipation. We anticipate Christmas. The looking forward. The wondering and dreaming. That hopeful, can’t wait, edge of your seat, can’t sit still, counting the days feeling of expectation.

Christmas is about anticipation.

The anticipation of Christmas contains a blessing. The blessing is that it is a set date on the calendar. Every year, December 25th. Whether it’s 2007 or 2017, Christmas is always on December 25th. If it’s June, you know you have to wait another six months. If it’s December 15th, then it’s ten days away. Only so much time to finish one’s shopping. Only so many days to be certain the packages you mail arrive in time for the holiday. Part of what makes anticipating Christmas exciting, and tolerable, is that we have a definite day to celebrate. A definite day and date we can point to in the future and wave goodbye to on the 26th. Even in the anticipation, there is closure. Christmas will come and we know what day it will arrive.

But what if there was the promise of Christmas and no set date? What if there was the promise of Christmas but no December 25th? Just a “trust me, it’s coming. You don’t know when and you can’t make party plans or put it on your calendar or hang your stockings by the chimney with care…but trust me, Christmas is coming”. How would that change our thinking? How would we feel about Christmas if we had only the promise and no date to actually celebrate?

That was the reality of a man named Simeon. A promise from God that Christmas was coming, but no date on the calendar. A promise that he would live to see it happen, but no heads up as to when it would be. Simeon was a man standing in the shadows of Christmas, anticipating Christmas and quite possibly living everyday with that hopeful, can’t wait, edge of your seat, can’t sit still, counting the days feeling of expectation.

The Bible says that Simeon was promised by God that he “would not see death until he had seen the Lord’s Christ”. Luke 2 describes him as a “righteous and devout man who was looking for the consolation of Israel”. Which means he was looking for the Messiah.

Imagine the questions Simeon must have had. How will I recognize this Messiah? If I get to live until I see it does it mean I’ll die immediately when I do? Is there any chance I could miss it? Any chance I would not recognize Him? One thing was for certain. It would mean waiting. Maybe a long time of waiting.

Anticipation.

For all of us, life is full of waiting and wondering. We wait on job opportunities and wonder if and when they will become reality. We wait for a doctor’s diagnosis of our illness and wonder what the prognosis will be. We wait for grades to be posted and wonder if we passed the test. We wait as our children grow up and wonder if our parenting will help them become the responsible godly individuals we hope for.

And it’s the wondering that makes the waiting difficult. Because we’re wondering about what we don’t yet know. We’re wondering about that which has yet to be revealed. What we want is to hear the doctor say, “Recovery will take 6 weeks, but you’re going to be fine.” We want to hear, “You still have to finish the last four months of school, but your GPA is good enough to get you into college.” We want to hear, “You’ve got 10 more years of challenging child raising years to go, but your kids are going to turn out great.” It’s easier to wait when you know the end result.

Yet the Bible says we walk by faith, not by sight. The fact is you and I stand in the shadows much of our lives. We walk by faith while we wait and wonder. Even Simeon, with God’s promise in his back pocket, had to had to walk by faith while he waited and wondered.

What are you waiting and wondering about?

Like the excited child wound tighter than the stripes on a candy cane, we think we can’t stand another moment of anticipation. Christmas just has to get here!

And it does.

In a moment of awe and surprise, Simeon’s waiting and wondering go out with a bang. The Messiah is…a baby. Mary and Joseph, teenage parents with reindeer in the headlights looks, hand their baby over to Simeon for what should have been a routine circumcision. But nothing has been routine for this Mom and Dad. Angelic visitations, getting pregnant without having sex, giving birth in a stable, shepherds with stories of angel armies singing about their Son. And now this old man of a priest looking to the heavens saying, “Now, Lord, let your servant die in peace. For mine eyes have seen Your salvation which has been prepared in the presence of all people.”

Something happens when you hold a baby. You realize that life is not all about you. At no time in history was this truth more evident than when Simeon held the baby Jesus. Holding the Savior of the world in your arms will put life in perspective. The waiting and wondering for Simeon is over. For Mary and Joseph, the wondering has just begun.

Whatever it is you’re waiting for and wondering about, keep anticipating. Your wait may be long. Or it may be brief. But God always delivers on His promises. Christmas came for Simeon. It will come for you, too.

And when it does…

There’s no way to describe the joy of holding in your hand what you’ve hoped for in your heart.

“Simeon took the Child in his arms, blessed God and said, “Now Lord, let your bondservant depart in peace. For my eyes have seen Your salvation which has been prepared in the presence of all people. A light of revelation to the Gentiles and the glory of Your people Israel.” – Luke 2:28-32 

“Hi there, Todd! How’s it going?”

“Great! How’s it going for you?”

“Fantastic! I’m 87 years old and I love my job!”

“Your job?”

“Yep. I’m 87, I’m a commercial realtor and I love my job! Can’t wait for Monday to get here. I feel sorry for people who hate what they do.”

“But you know, Todd, I’m 87. So I started thinking maybe I should retire. So I said to the wife, “You know, I’m 87. Maybe I should retire.” Know what she said to me?”

“What?”

“If you do, I’m gettin’ a job.”

Enthusiasm. The optimistic, forward looking attitude that can’t wait for Monday to arrive and open itself like a present. We like being around enthusiastic people. People who are passionate about what they do and what’s important to them. I wasn’t in the market for a commercial building, but if I was I’d call the 87 year-old who couldn’t wait for Monday. Enthusiasm draws us.   

Enthusiasm. It literally means “God within”. And while it’s certainly easier to be enthusiastic if life is going smoothly, enthusiasm by definition has nothing to do with one’s circumstances.

Enthusiasm is about Who resides within.

Tucked away in the latter verses of Luke 2 we find an enthusiastic elderly woman named Anna. All we know of Anna is that she was married for seven years before her husband died and then lived as a widow to the age of 84. The text says she never left the temple. 

Given the fact that women then married young, Anna lived the majority of her life as a widow. Women had few rights in this culture. They depended greatly on the marriage relationship and extended family for support. It was especially difficult to be a widow with no family. While we don’t know for certain, that may have been the reason Anna never left the temple. It could be she had nowhere else to go.

Yet more important than her marital and social status is what we read about her heart. She “served continuously with fastings and prayers” and she was “looking for the redemption of Jerusalem”. Anna was anticipating God’s salvation. The text says that at the very moment she saw the baby Jesus, she “ran up and began giving thanks to God and continued to speak of the child to everyone who was looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.” (Luke 2:38)

Anna was 84 and advanced in years. Yet she’s not acting or thinking “old”. It’s true, isn’t it? We grow older but we don’t have to grow old. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Anna is vibrant in her faith and life because she focused on worship and prayer. She’s centered herself on God’s purpose. In her worship and prayer, Anna acknowledges that there is something bigger than her age and her marital status. It’s all about her God she faithfully serves. She’s so tuned in to God that she recognizes what is happening before her eyes.

Her enthusiasm turns to active joy. She continues to speak of the child Jesus to everyone who’s looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. Which in her Jewish world was just about everyone. Can you imagine her in the temple? “Did you hear about the Jesus baby? He’s the Messiah, you know. Just ask Simeon. He got to hold him! It’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened. Really, go talk to Simeon. But you better talk to him pretty soon. He could die any day now, you know.” 

Enthusiasm. God within. Genuine enthusiasm isn’t self-generated. And isn’t that a relief? It’s not some manufactured self-help technique. Enthusiasm in our life flows from God residing within us. The same God who said, “Fear not, for I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)

Enthusiasm.

God within.

Don’t be afraid.

“Now there was a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel of the tribe of Asher. She was advanced in years having lived seven years with a husband and then as a widow to the age of 84. She never left the temple, serving continuously with fastings and prayers. At that very moment she ran up and began giving thanks to God and continued to speak of the child to everyone who was looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.” – Luke 2:36-38

“All Movies $9.99″.

On the top row in the middle was “The Greatest Story Ever Told”, an epic film from 1965 about the life of Jesus Christ. From His miraculous virgin birth to His sacrificial death on the cross, and His resurrection from the dead to ascension into heaven. A three hour and 17 minute masterpiece that can’t begin to record all the works that Jesus did for our good and His glory.

Right next to that DVD in the slot to the left was “The Garbage Pail Kids Movie”. The plot summary for this forgettable 1987 flick is, according to Volker Boehm,

“Seven disgusting kids but nevertheless of interesting personality are being made of the green mud coming out of the garbage can. Once alive their master gives them rules to obey although they think that life is funnier without following stupid regulations like no television or no candy. Naturally, this will cause some conflicts.”

Naturally.

On this night before Christmas Eve, those two DVD’s side by side well illustrate the reason for the season. Jesus Christ, the greatest story ever told, comes into our garbage pail world to clean us up and make us whole. It’s not an easy task. Because we Valerie Vomit’s and Foul Phil’s and Messie Tessie’s (add Terrible Todd’s) think that life is better without following our Master’s regulations. Left to our own desires, we’d rather live in our green mud. It’s bound to cause some conflicts. We are not very loveable people.

Which makes Christmas even more amazing.

Jesus Christ willingly left the glory of heaven to be born into our muddy world. And as He lived He didn’t hold His nose while walking through our garbage. He drew near to us. To hug and to heal. To dine and to drink. To talk and to touch. To seek and to save. Instead of avoiding our mess He waded into it.

When you think about where He comes from, it doesn’t make any sense. Moving from the Ritz on Park Avenue to the dump outside of town? How can “downward mobility” ever make sense? But Jesus loves us. So much that He came our direction. He took on human form to experience everything that we do. In doing so He became our perfect advocate before God the Father. “Dad, I know what they are going through. I’ve been there.” In short, when it comes to the hard life we live, Jesus can relate.

This Christmas you, like me, may not feel worthy of God’s love. If you don’t, you’re not alone. The Bible says that all of us have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. (Romans 3:23) The fact is, we aren’t worthy of God’s love. That’s the miracle of Christmas. The sinless Christ born for sinful us.

Jesus loves us. And not because it’s in His job description. He loves us willingly, joyfully and with no limit. There’s nothing you could do to make Him love you less and no great accomplishment you achieve could make Him love you more. Jesus loves you for who you are right now in this moment. We may think we need to clean up before we can come to Him, we may think we need to scrape off the mud and find some cleaner clothes before we talk with Him. But Jesus says, “I showed my love for you in that while you were yet sinning, I died for you.” (Romans 5:8) That’s the definition of unconditional love.

This Christmas I hope your “greatest story ever told” is how Jesus came into your muddy world and showed you His unconditional love. If you’ve never experienced that or if you have questions about much Jesus loves you, please contact me. I’ll be happy to point you to the God who absolutely delights in you. The God who loved you so much He came into your world to pull you out of your mud and into His arms.

Jesus Loves You. This I know.

Merry Christmas.

“God showed His love for us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” – Romans 5:8

“And the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid! For behold I bring you good news of great joy which shall be to all people. Unto you this day in the city of David is born a Savior, which is Christ the Lord!” – Luke 2:10-11

There are other players in the Christmas drama that you don’t find in the nativity scene. These are significant, yet lesser known characters. People standing in the shadows of Christmas. The Bible talks about two of them. An elderly man named Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth.

Zechariah was a priest. Elizabeth was a godly woman. Though they were both faithful servants of the Lord, they were advanced in years and unable to have children. To be childless in the Jewish faith was a disgrace. It meant no chance for you to be parents of the promised Messiah.

Imagine what that must have been like for Zechariah and Elizabeth. In our modern technology we know all kinds of reasons for infertility. Back then they didn’t have a clue about blocked Fallopian tubes or endometriosis or low sperm counts. We know from the text that it was Elizabeth that couldn’t have children. But all Zechariah and Elizabeth knew, and all that their neighbors knew, was that they were a couple who had asked God for children for a very long time and didn’t have any.

They lived in the hill country of Judea. A small town. Small towns are a blessing because everyone knows you. Small towns are a curse because everyone knows you. You can bet this couple was a the topic of more than a few dinner table discussions over the decades. “Zach is such a good guy. And a priest, too. I wonder why he and Liz don’t have kids?” It was a burden Zechariah and Elizabeth felt everyday.

As it happened, on the biggest day of Zechariah’s professional life, an angel of the Lord appears with a news bulletin. Elizabeth is going to have a baby. A son named John. He will be great in the eyes of God, one filled by the Holy Spirit. One who will “prepare the way of the Lord.”

To Zechariah, this is too good to be true. Oh, he wants to believe it. But he reminds the angel Gabriel of the obvious. He’s an old man. Elizabeth is an old woman. Gabriel in turn reminds Zechariah of the obvious; this message comes on orders from God Himself. And Gabriel should know because he was standing right there when God said it.

In a round about way, old Zach was asking for a sign. And he got one. A loving rebuke. He would be unable to speak until the baby was born.

Just as the angel had said, Elizabeth became pregnant.

Zechariah and Elizabeth prayed for years to have children. God answered them at a most unexpected time. His answer was more than an answer. It was an invitation to participate in God’s drama.

In your prayers, are you asking God for the desires of your heart? Are you prepared that His answer will be more than an answer? That His answer will include your playing a role in His plan for the world? God loves you more than you can imagine. Whether you realize it or not, God has an appointed role for you in His divine drama.

In spite of the fact that Zechariah doubted the angel’s message, God went ahead with His plan to bless. God is not discouraged by our doubts. He sticks with us and lovingly convinces us that we are of infinite value and significance.

Standing in the shadows of Christmas are ordinary people. People like Zechariah and Elizabeth. And Mary, God’s chosen to be the mother of Jesus. We know by reading Luke 1 that Mary spent three months living with Elizabeth and Zechariah. It takes us but a moment to read the passage. Yet what were those three months like for them?

For three months, one particular house in the hill country of Judea was home to three of the most incredulous people in the history of the world. Zechariah…an elderly priest whose once in a lifetime career moment was one-upped by an angel delivering a sneak preview of a birth announcement that left the holy man literally speechless. Elizabeth…an old woman who has rocked in her chair and read her Bible everyday for decades while gazing down the hall at the nursery she never got to use, but is now placing orders with Babies-R-Us.  Mary…a poor teenage peasant girl but by the favor of God Himself, richer than any palace queen.

How many discussions did they have about angelic visitations? About the miracle of becoming pregnant by a husband on Medicare? Or becoming pregnant completely apart from being intimate with a man? What was it like to try and interpret Zechariah’s sign language?

Three surprised people in the same house for three months. Absorbed in their personal wonder yet unable to escape the Divine momentum pulling them beyond themselves into world changing history. An old woman and a teenage girl sympathizing in one another’s morning sickness. A dumbstruck old man writing furiously on a piece of paper trying desperately to keep up his end of a conversation about the reality of angels.

And at the end of the day, two expectant mothers lying down to sleep, running one hand in a slow circle over their womb, filling the darkness with their silent prayers and questions.

Three of God’s chosen together for three months in a simple Judean home. Thankful they are not alone in their miracles and their visions. Scared about the timing and thrilled about the nearness of their God. Three very humble, unknown, and incredibly significant people.

If those walls could speak, what a story they would tell.
 
What is your story this Christmas? Are you asking God to break through your doubts with His blessings? Are you still waiting for an answer to prayers you’ve prayed for years? Are you prepared for an answer that is more than an answer? Are you prepared for God to use you to accomplish His plan?

God cares. Human obstacles of age and time and circumstance make no difference to Him. Or, in the words of the angel Gabriel, “nothing is impossible with God.” (Luke 1:37)

If you feel this season that you are standing in the shadows of Christmas, remember this…

God has not forgotten you. Joy and gladness await you in His perfect time.

“Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord, the Lord, is my strength and my song; He has become my salvation.” – Isaiah 12:2

“After the first of the year.” During the frenetic Christmas holiday we speak of early January as though it were a wide open, barren expanse of schedule where meetings, appointments and get togethers are free to roam and plop down at their leisure. Somewhere along the way we’ve convinced ourselves that January is December’s pressure release valve; the calendar’s junk drawer where we shove everything in our schedule we don’t have time for now but plan to deal with someday soon. It seems a distinction we give only to January. When’s the last time you heard someone say, “Things are crazy right now. Let’s wait till after Flag Day.” ?

Practically speaking, there’s no difference between turning the calendar page from December to January than turning it from July to August. And if we really analyze our schedules, every month is as busy as another. We mark time by clocks and calendars. Calendars offer the potential to set deadlines. That’s good. Calendars also offer the potential to slide commitments to a future day. That’s procrastination.

Those who know me well compliment me on my ability to be productive under pressure. I do my best work, they say, in the 11th hour. They mean it as a compliment. The fact is I work well under pressure because I’ve had years of practice laboring at the last minute. I’m a procrastinating perfectionist. I could count on one hand the number of papers in undergraduate and graduate school that I finished early. I’d need a calculator to count the papers and projects I finished at 3 AM on the due date. My college advisor, Dr. Wayne Norman, wisely described it as “going beyond the optimum level of stress.” My ability to work well under pressure is born of several decades of my bad habit of procrastinating.

There is something insidious about “the first of the year”. Insidious in that it becomes an acceptable escape for our failed resolutions and procrastinations. “I’ll start in January” we tell ourselves (sometimes in February or March) when we fail to follow through on a personal improvement promise. After twelve months of pushing them off, we arrive at the New Year only to find it loaded down with the old year’s unfulfilled goals. Add this year’s good intentions and it’s almost too heavy for lift off.

Now that we’re here in 2006, how are we going to spend our time? Some of us make lists of resolutions only to feel guilty a month later when we haven’t followed through. Nothing wrong with resolutions. But maybe a better way to be productive is to admit and act on the fact that some things just aren’t worth our time.

One time study done some years ago showed that Americans in their lifetime will, on average, spend 6 months sitting at stoplights, 8 months opening junk mail, 1 year looking for misplaced objects, 2 years unsuccessfully returning phone calls, 4 years doing housework, and 5 years waiting in line. Analyzing those statistics another way, if we got rid our our phones, quit buying Windex and Lemon Pledge, moved to a cabin in the middle of Montana and traded the car for a horse, we could get 13 years of our life back.

A simple step toward making the most of this year is to not give our time to everything that screams for it. Maybe it means listening to more music and less TV. Reading more books. If you don’t use coupons, don’t waste time cutting them out. Maybe it means admitting that the planet will continue to spin if your house goes an extra few days without being vacuumed and dusted. Don’t reorganize the junk in your garage. Purge it. And could we all make a corporate resolution to recapture 8 months of our lifetime by holding the junk mail in our hand without opening it and speak aloud the words of King Solomon, “Behold, there is nothing new under the sun” before throwing it in the recycling bin?

A successful 2006 may depend as much on what we don’t do as what we do do.

It’s officially “after the first of the year”. Here’s to not doing the unimportant. Here’s to not procrastinating in doing that which is important. You know which is which.

Now go make friends with your recycling bin.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.” – Ecclesiastes 3:1

The ease with which one can conduct their business tends to make one less disciplined in their schedule. There’s really nothing here you can do at 10 o’clock in the morning that you can’t do at 10 o’clock at night. We even have a do it yourself all-night Post Office. There’s no line at midnight. And if the box you’re mailing is too big to fit in the bin, FedEx-Kinko’s is right up the road, open 24/7.

The common denominator of our increasing conveniences is the absence of human interaction. Technology has made it possible to take care of business without having to talk to anyone. In my little world I can utilize the walk up machine and be my own postmaster. I can scan and check out my own groceries, do my banking at the ATM, and pump my own gas. And we haven’t even mentioned online bill pay and shopping via the Internet. We “talk” with machines and computers every day. A person could go a long time without talking to another human being if they had to. Or wanted to.

That thought is unsettling to me.

When we’re able to do most everything on our own, we stop needing one another. If I can be self-sufficient, why bother getting to know my neighbors? Instead of seeing people in stores as human beings created in the image of God with all the hopes and fears and frustrations that we have, they become a blurry moving mosaic that occasionally bumps our cart as we push through the frozen food aisle to pay and leave. It’s appropriate. Because we really have “checked out”. We’ve stopped hearing the people around us.

I was thinking about this the other day as I walked into Fry’s Food and Drug. Most every grocery store here has a bank inside. The one I frequent is no exception. I’m the next person in line to speak with a teller. It was the start of what I overheard in ten minutes at the store.

The woman at the counter is stuffing a receipt into her checkbook as the Wells Fargo rep asks, “Do you have family coming home for Christmas?”

“I wish I had family coming home. My son’s dead. This will be my second Christmas without him.” The teller looked awkward and surprised. “I’m…sorry. I hope your holiday is… as good as it can be.” Sometimes a kind wish for a sad person is the best we can offer.

“Hey! Excuse me, lady! Wait up!” A rumpled, needs a shave and a haircut 50-something man with eyeglasses sliding off the end of his nose is nearly out of breath. He’s chasing down a harried looking lady in blue sweat pants and faded t-shirt. She turns, eyebrows raised in suspicion.

“Hey! Wait up. You dropped this. Back there at the SRP counter. It was on the floor. I grabbed it for you.” He held out a fistful of crumpled cash. She looked confused. And preoccupied. As though whatever was happening in her day was so suffocating that even the act of a Good Samaritan returning lost money didn’t phase her. She mumbled a “thanks” and took the money back without bothering to count or examine it.

Back by the orange juice section a young mom was weighing her options while her three year old sat in the cart, head bobbing to “Jingle Bell Rock”. Mom noticed and said, “Are you dancing? You’re a good dancer.” She reached for the moving target and tried to pat her daughter on the noggin. I smiled and the little one smiled back, head still bobbing, her ponytail bouncing on the off beat.

At the checkout line two cashiers were having a conversation about people they knew with holiday names. “I once worked with a girl whose name was Mary. Guess what her last name was? Christmas. Imagine. What parents would do that to their kid?”

“Mary Christmas? At the last store I worked at there was a lady in the bakery named Candy. Her last name was Kane. She got teased a lot this time of year.”

On the way out of the store I walked by another conversation. A woman on a cell phone was giving what for to some person on the other end. At least that’s what it seemed like to me. But I can’t be sure. I don’t speak Japanese.

When we take time to listen, we hear more than words. We hear life. We hear people’s fears. We hear their joys. Their frustrations. We hear their pain. Their hopes and expectations. We hear the emotions that are common to all who live on earth. And that’s the key. As much as we think we can do life on our own, we’re all in this together. God created us to live in community. The snippets of conversation I overheard in ten minutes at the grocery store reminded me that I’m not the only person in the world. You’d think that fact would be obvious. But then you don’t know how completely self-absorbed I can be. Listening, among its other benefits, reminds us that life isn’t all about us.

Somewhere within five minutes of my house on Christmas day there will be a lady grieving and a little girl dancing. I know that because I listened. I said a prayer for both. It seemed like something I’d want someone to do for me.

Next time you go to the grocery store, listen. And say a prayer.

Because we’re all in this together.

Driving away I was glad I took five minutes to listen to my kids. I’d hate to miss Annie’s insight on Happy Monica. My Jewish friends will love hearing that one.

Annie and Emma are still learning about Christmas. They’re happily absorbing the entire experience. From participating in their church Christmas program, to reading books about Jesus’ birth, to watching “A Charlie Brown Christmas” on TV. They have daily reminded me that they haven’t had the opportunity to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what they want. We’re going to Santa’s Village tonight so the old guy can put their minds at ease.

Christmas is a wonderful mix of truth and tradition. Jesus birthday is the reason for the season. But there really was a St. Nicholas, too. The Grinch and Frosty the Snowman are fictional characters but a real part of our childhood memories. We read about the legend of the candy cane, sing about Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer, wonder why we put gifts in stockings and wonder why the other eleven months of the year we call them socks.

It’s the week family traditions are ramping up and rolling out. The “this is the food we cook on Christmas Eve” conversations are starting to happen. We look forward to the olfactory overload of gingerbread, pine scent from the tree, hot cider, smoke from burning logs in the fireplace and fresh baked cookies. Though I won’t be there to see it, I’m sure my Mom will be making oyster stew and chili that night. And some diehard Scandinavian traditionalists in my hometown will make lutefisk. My cousins Eric and Neil, who as children were unwilling participants of this holiday tradition, once described lutefisk as “bad tasting Styrofoam”. That’s not far off. It’s a bland, smelly, gelatinous fish that, in my way of thinking, contributed to a million Swedish immigrants getting on a boat and coming to America in the late 1800′s. There had to be better food over here.

Though perhaps we don’t notice it, over the years we’ve mixed truth and tradition within the Christmas account. We know Mary and Joseph traveled to Bethlehem. For some reason we assume it was on a donkey, though the Bible doesn’t say. They could have walked. Since there was no room in the inn, someone had to tell them that. Who else but the innkeeper, though the Bible never mentions one. It’s a good bet that animals were present at Jesus’ birth, especially since Jesus was laid in a feeding trough after He was born. Maybe some sheep or donkeys or a camel. We don’t know for sure because the Bible doesn’t talk about any animals, either.

The Bible doesn’t say how many wise men there were but every regulation nativity set has three. Probably because three gifts are mentioned. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh. That assumes that each guy brought one gift. Who knows? Maybe there were five wise men, one bought all the gifts and the other four just signed their name on the card? And don’t anyone go putting the wise men back in the box, but there’s a good chance they weren’t anywhere near the site of Jesus’ birth. It’s possible they didn’t find Him until up to two years later. Matthew 2:11 says the wise men found Jesus in a house, not a manger.

Whatever the configuration of your nativity set, there’s one piece common to all of them. The baby in the manger. That little baby became the central figure in human history. More than that, He came that you and I might have life and have it more abundantly (John 10:10). Jesus came to offer Himself as the solution to a problematic truth; the truth that you and I are sinners in need of God’s forgiveness, mercy and grace. Humanity was in need of some good news. Or as the angel said to the shepherds, “Do not be afraid! For I bring you good news of great joy which will be to all people. Unto you this day in the city of David is born a Savior, which is Christ the Lord!”

Whether camels and donkeys and wise men were there or not, what matters is that the baby in the manger was there. Jesus is the reason for the season. That’s something to think about while we’re opening our presents, baking our cookies and (gag) eating our Lutefisk. Here’s hoping your week before Christmas is full of the truth and traditions that remind us of God’s gift to the world.

“The angel said to them, “Do not be afraid, for I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all people. To you this day in the city of David is born a Savior which is Christ the Lord! And this will be a sign to you; you will find the baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” - Luke 2:10-12

Surrounded by appropriately noisy young families juggling kid packs, baby strollers and otherwise testing the limits of allowable carry on luggage, this matched pair sat quietly together with only their jackets and boarding passes in hand. Their appearance was pleasant. He in a tweed sport coat, she in a turtleneck and heavy gray sweatshirt with “Charlevoix, Michigan” elegantly stitched across the front in navy blue thread. They would be flying along with us and a DC-10 full of holiday travelers from Phoenix to Minneapolis. As I watched them I silently wondered what kind of Christmas they would have.

Upon arrival at my parent’s home one day later, we were told that my Grandfather had suffered a heart attack. He stabilized a bit for a few hours, but died early Christmas morning. My Mom woke me up to say simply, “Grandpa’s gone.” I guess if you had a choice of where to spend Christmas, heaven would be right up there.

My Grandmother asked me to speak at the funeral. During the next several days I sorted through the memories I had of my Grandfather. One memory in particular elbowed its way to the front of my mind. When I was a small boy, I loved to play in the snow. If I happened to be outside at my Grandparent’s farm when Grandpa Walt was headed toward the barn to do chores, he would pull me across the snow in a scoop shovel.

I remember the first time he ever pulled me. “Sit down and hang on.”, he said.

“But Grandpa, this is not a sled!”, I said.

“Sit down and hang on.”, he said.

“But Grandpa, this is a scoop shovel!”

“Sit down and hang on!”

So I sat down in the scoop and grabbed hold of the handle. Even as a preschooler I dripped with firstborn perfectionism. I spent every second of that first ride to the barn worried that this was not a sled. It was a scoop. Sleds are for pulling. Scoops are for scooping. This is not practical.

Before I knew it we were at the barn and the ride was over. Grandpa went in to milk the cows. I was left to look back toward the house and ponder the trip.

Sometime after that first ride in the scoop I quit worrying that it wasn’t a sled and started to enjoy the ride. I held on for dear life when Grandpa spun me in a circle over icy packed snow and swung me high and wide up the sides of giant drifts. I laughed and shrieked when he broke into a run; a mere eighth inch of aluminum between me and the frozen ground. Always before I knew it we were at the barn and Grandpa would go in to milk the cows.

I confess to you that I have spent too many of my nearly 40 years worried about what I’m riding on through life. I’ve wasted too much time wishing my scoop shovel was a sled or a sleigh or a snowmobile. And I think I’d hate to know how much excitement and joy I’ve missed by being practical instead of enjoying the ride. We Americans are particularly good at working for the future at the expense of the present. We’re so consumed with upgrading to a sled that we rarely experience the thrill of riding in our scoop.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 tells us that “there is a time for everything”, including a time to be born and a time to die. In between those two events is the trip to the barn. Are you enjoying yours? Are you hanging on for dear life and allowing God in His sovereign love and plan to swing you high and wide over the big drifts of life during this thrilling, exciting and sometimes scary pull? Or are you still trying to explain to God that your scoop should be a sled?

Whatever God wants to pull you in, sit down and hang on. Enjoy the ride. Before you know it, you’ll be at the barn. At the end when you’re left to look back and ponder the trip; you’ll want memories, not regrets.

When we boarded the plane in Minneapolis for our return flight to Phoenix, there they were. The Tweed and Charlevoix couple. Row 5, seats E and F. I wondered what kind of Christmas they had.

I can’t say for certain, but it looked to me like they were riding happily in their scoop.

While their older cousins plowed through piles of presents, Annie and Emma amused themselves with the old silver coasters they found on the end table, the same coasters they had been playing with for several days. The twins had their share of gifts to open. We tried to get them excited about it. Annie seemed to understand the concept of the initial rip, but then continued to tear the same bit of wrapping paper into smaller bite size pieces. The two of them had no desire to see what was inside their packages. Instead, Annie and Emma happily “gave” each other coasters. “I put one in your hand and you put one in my hand and we both get excited!” They spent their time gathering the old silver coasters the way a raven gathers shiny objects for its nest; oblivious to their relative value.

Watching my girls play I recalled their first Christmas last year. Babies, 2 months old, in red flannel sleepers snuggled together holding hands during an afternoon nap. And I thought about next Christmas when, God-willing, they will join their cousins in the merry mosh pit. What a brief and unique stage of life they are in. At 14 months of age they are too young to know better than to be anything but content with what they have. This year a silver coaster. Next year, a coaster wagon.

Are we happier after Christmas than before? Are we happier after receiving what was on our Christmas list than before we put in our request to Santa? In the days prior to December 25th we’re told and sold that we will be.

Marketers spend hundreds of millions of dollars to convince us that the perfect gift brings happiness to both the giver and the receiver. What they don’t tell us is that happiness is a moving target. The gadgets that hit the bulls-eye this Christmas will miss by a mile next year. Were that not true, we’d all still be enamored with our 8-Track tape players.

Inherent in anything labeled “new and improved” is a Trojan horse of discontent. If what they have is new, then what you have is old. If what they have is improved, what you have isn’t as good as it could be. The screaming Pentium 3 computer that made you happy last Christmas is now a daily reminder it’s not the speedster that is a Pentium 4. Who would have guessed that our level of technological awareness would become so focused as to be irritated by a two-second delay in processing time? Thirty years ago, the phrase “slow computer” would have been an oxymoron. God help us if we have to go back to electric typewriters and carbon paper. Because in our hard drive world I don’t think there’s anyone left who knows how to change a ribbon.

Are we happier after Christmas than before? Perhaps we can ask ourselves that question when we’re replacing the batteries on our Christmas Palm Pilots. Certainly there is value in giving and receiving, even if the good feelings are temporary. To watch our gifts bring smiles and excitement to those we love warms us. To open a gift and know that we are important to someone else is a wonderful honor.There are inherent blessings in giving and receiving, not the least of which is expressing our love to one another. We can always look for new and improved ways to appreciate the people in our lives.

Are we happier after Christmas than before? Annie and Emma showed no decrease in joy. They just kept playing with their coasters. Then again, they aren’t mature enough to appreciate that this may well be the purest, most innocent Christmas they will ever experience.

Happy are the toddlers, for no one has told them they shouldn’t be.

The 20-something brother and sister were looking through a stack of Phoenix Suns shirts.

“Who knows? We’re buying for our mother. She’s really picky.”

“Don’t you have the “it’s from my daughter, I’m sure whatever it is I’ll love it” thing going for you?”

“You don’t know our mother.”

“So it’s more like, “You’re my daughter, you should know better” that you’re dealing with?”

“Exactly…This looks like the right size but if it shrinks it’ll be too tight and she’ll be upset. If I go a size bigger and guess wrong she’ll open it and say, “What’s this? Do you think I’m fat?”

The brother speaks. “She likes Diamondback stuff. Get her the World Series DVD. She and Dad can both enjoy that.”

“But that’s really more of a present for Dad. And we already got him a shirt. Which means Dad would be getting a gift and a half and Mom would just be getting half a gift.”

“So buy a shirt for her and the DVD for both of them and it’s even.”

“What if I get the wrong size?”

“She can always return it.”

“From Minneapolis?”

A few minutes later they left the store carrying the weight of Christmas present in a two-ply shopping bag.

The holiday music floating above our heads proclaims this a season of comfort and joy. A quick check of the facial expressions in any mall during the month of December and you’ll see that many of us aren’t buying it. Retailers do their biggest business around the holidays. So do counselors and psychologists. Stress and the holidays go together like red stripes and candy canes.

We open more than neatly wrapped packages at Christmas. We also open up the emotional boxes we’ve been stuffing in our closet all year. Or, perhaps more accurately, Christmas opens them for us. There’s something about Christmas that shines the light of reality on our relationships. Be they good, bad or ugly, we’re more aware of our perceived success or failure with others this time of year. And our awareness presents itself…in presents.

The preferred year-end relationship therapy of Americans is to buy something. The perfect gift, we tell ourselves, will make everything better. The perfect gift will communicate what I haven’t been able to say this year. The perfect gift will make up for all my mistakes. The perfect gift will reconcile me to the one who pulled away from me. Or to the one I pushed away.

On December 24th and 25th people from New York to Newport Beach will gather in living rooms and sit in front of fireplaces, anxiously waiting for their perfect gift to land on the lap of the one they love. Or the one we wish loved us. Or the one we’ve never been able to get along with and wish we could. Or the one we’ve been trying to please all our life. Or the one we hurt. Or the one who hurt us. Or the one who keeps us at a distance.

In a few days, many of us will live or die by the expression on another person’s face. Our success or failure depends on that microsecond flash of non-verbal feedback when they open our gift. If in their eyes we see happiness and affirmation, we win. If we don’t, we lose. Until that moment, our perfect gift sits under a tree like a time bomb and we’re praying it’s full of confetti.

For many of us, “the hopes and fears of all the years” are wrapped in ribbons and reindeer paper and sealed with Scotch tape. The perfect gift, we tell ourselves, will make everything better. It will break the communication log jam. It will be the key that opens the door to a locked heart. It will win us the approval we desperately seek. It will close the gap and heal the hurt. That’s an awful lot of weight to put on a cashmere sweater from Sak’s. Or a socket set from Sears.

There’s something about Christmas that shines the light of reality on our relationships. Some 2,000 years ago God shined His light on a broken, hopeless humanity. His preferred method of relational therapy was to give a Gift. And God knows all about the deep desire for a gift to be well-received. Every day He watches the eyes of His created humans for that expression of affirmation, that confirmation that His gift of forgiveness has been accepted. It’s the grandest gift money can’t buy. Accepted, it closes the gap, heals our hurts and heads us toward heaven.

That’s an awful lot of weight to put on the shoulders of a baby in a manger.

And that’s the miracle of God’s Christmas present.

“And the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which shall be for all people; for unto you this day in the city of David is born a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you; you will find the baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” – Luke 2:10-12

In a way I understand. I don’t miss scraping ice off my windshield or trying to jump start an Oldsmobile when it’s 10 degrees below zero. But I do miss the snow. Especially at Christmas time.

For those who dwell in the land of the frozen north, snow is like the weird uncle in your family. You talk about him every time you get together, but you’d miss him if he wasn’t around. One Christmas, back in ’87, we didn’t have snow. Oh, there was a sparkling hoar frost on the trees Christmas morning. But no snow. Everything was brown. It was still Christmas, but it wasn’t the same. All day I kept looking out the window the way you do when you’re expecting a friend to pull in the driveway at any moment. That particular day the snow didn’t show.

When your family has lived in cold country for generations, snow becomes part of your family history. In the early 1920′s when my Grandfather was pursuing and courting my Grandmother, she told him it “would be a cold day” before she would ever marry him. It was. A stormy 30 degrees below zero on Christmas Eve 1924.

Blizzards worthy of reputation are known by the year of their occurrence. The March Blizzard of ’66, The January Storms of ’75 and ’83. And if Christmas dinner conversations among my elders are any indicator, the winter of ’36 was the Grand Pooh-Bah of snow and cold. My Grandmother was snowbound in her farmhouse from December until March with a colicky one year old baby. My Grandfather joined with other neighbor men in walking six miles to town to get supplies because the drifts were too deep for cars or horses to move.

In the Midwest, snow rarely arrives as a solitary guest knocking softly on your door. Most often it pounds and wails against your house with a fierce wind. Snowflakes are like people that way. Alone, they’re pretty easy to get along with. But when they start running with the wrong crowd, they change. When snow runs with the wind it changes; from a soft white blanket into a wet leather glove, slapping you in the face. Icy and mean with a cold snarl it mocks you, “Go ahead. Grab your down vest. Put on that high-tech Thinsulate parka. Get as warm as you can. Then step outside, pal. I’ll blow through you like a screen door.” There’s nothing like the experience of opening the door to a wind chill with an attitude.

Yet there are moments. Brief and beautiful moments of winter that drop by unexpectedly to apologize for months of blowing and bluster.

It was a few days before Christmas in my thirteenth year. A neighbor kid and I were standing on the sidewalk along Main Street in Fairmont, Minnesota. It was an unusually quiet evening, save the music of the season piped over the downtown speakers and the jingle of bells on store doors announcing the comings and goings of holiday shoppers. We had just walked out of Jake’s Pizza when it happened. From a seemingly clear night sky, snow began to fall. Big fluffy wet flakes, floating straight and silent toward the ground. It was the loveliest snow I had ever seen. Embarrassingly polite, these snowflakes gently tapped you on the shoulder and whispered, “We’ll be no trouble. We’re just here to make things pretty.” It was a snow so magical and quiet that folks on the street just stopped to watch. In five minutes it was over.

It was only a moment on Main Street in a small Minnesota town. I’m glad I stopped to watch. Those big snowflakes melted into a memory. One I can enjoy anytime and share with anyone. Like right now with you.

Here’s hoping that in this week before Christmas, you and yours will stop to watch the simple beauties of the season.