Letters to my Stepdaughter IV

Christmas time was special when I was growing up.  I loved the decorated tree, the lights, the fire in the fire place, the presents under that tree, the Christmas specials on television.  Of course, one had to watch everything live because there were no VCRs or DVD players.  And, of course, we played the scratchy, vinyl Christmas records that we got out each year. Goodyear produced a “Best Songs of Christmas” album each year.  Choirs, soloists, and orchestras would perform all the favorites:  “Silent Night”, “Sleigh Ride”, “O Holy Night”, and “Here Comes Santa Claus”.  I took it all in. I felt “good” about it.  It was like what they now call comfort food.

My mom reminds me how I loved to sing. On the day of the Christmas program in elementary school – the Christmas program was always the day before Christmas vacation – I was going into the bathroom when a boy pulled on the hood of my coat.  I tumbled down and landed hard enough to get a shiner over one of my eyes, as well as blood on my shirt.  My mom just reminded me of that the other day, and how I still belted out the Christmas songs that the combined choir sang in the auditorium.  I walked home from school afterward (we just lived a few blocks away from school) and my mom could hear me singing as I was turning into the yard, “We three kings of Orrie and tar” – that’s how I pronounced it.  She said she met me at the door laughing.

 

The other side of the holidays is not really surprising.  Christmas can be a very melancholy time.  I loved the holidays and I hated when they came to an end.  It would be years later that I would begin to see the trap.  I was trying to make earthly experiences, even good ones, my idols.  If life was just the way I wanted it to be then, well, life would be wonderful.  It wasn’t until the Lord invaded my life, renewed my heart, and gave me the faith to believe that Jesus Christ was a savior worthy of worship that I began to see the emptiness of my personal dreams.  Not empty because dreams themselves are bad.  It’s simply that the story of my life was intended to be written and directed by Him, not the whim of my immediate emotional desires.  God himself is “the author and finisher of our faith” as the scripture says.  When He makes a human being into a new person – born again is the biblical term – then that person knows the truth.  The truth is this.  Life worth living is found in the One who offered Himself on the cross, willingly and intentionally suffering for undeserving sinners that He had loved from before the foundation of the earth.  Those who turn to Him by faith and put their faith in the Gospel – the good news that eternal life is given to those who are broken-hearted because they realize they have sinned against a holy God – have true life, life that will go on eternally.  A once-a-year celebration of Christmas, no matter how enjoyable, is nothing compared to that. 

So I’ll sing the songs, and I’ll laugh, and I’ll enjoy some holiday chocolate fudge.  But I won’t quit thinking about and meditating joyfully on that Baby who grew to adulthood, shed His Royal blood for me, and has prepared an eternal home for me.  That is a real Christmas celebration that never turns melancholy.