Christmas
magnifies everything. Whatever you’re going through seems bigger at
Christmastime. The good things seem even better, and the bad things ~
infinitely worse.
New romance
is ecstasy at Christmastime. Loneliness is a bottomless pit. Family ties seem tighter
. . . or more frayed. Grey weather is even bleaker on Christmas Day . . . and
fresh snow even more magical.
It’s like
Christmas is an overlay that changes the color of the everyday. A filter that intensifies everything. A magnifying glass that highlights the
tiniest detail.
Christmas
narrows it all down to one pin-point of time ~ that breath-hold as you wait for
the gift to be unwrapped, for the verdict on its value to come down. I only get one chance at this ~ and what if I fail? We plan and
strain ~ and too often our dreams of a Dickens Christmas die in a disappointing Christmas, and it doesn’t measure up. We don’t measure up. Again.
Across much
of the world, Christmas is the pinnacle of the year. And how it captures our
hearts! But Christmas is only one day ~ a man-made opportunity to remind
ourselves of the greatest Gift ever given, and the Family that will never die.
The twenty-four glittering hours pass, and life moves on. Hopefully, we are richer
for taking the time to stop, be together, and believe.
My
grandmother gave birth to her first child (my mother) on December 21. What
intense joy! Five years and one week later, she lost her husband to kidney
disease at age 28. What intense heartbreak. On her way cross-country from New
York to Indiana for his final hospital stay, she heard “I’ll be Home for
Christmas” playing in a restaurant. She said it was a long, long time before
she could joyfully listen to carols again.
But she
walked on. She did embrace Christmas again . . . and again ~ over 50 more times
before she celebrated with her husband in Heaven. I remember that her home
glowed with garlands and ribbon and mantel-snow and lights ~ I never knew the
current of sorrow that surely ran underneath it all.
My
mother-in-law spent Christmas 1982 in the hospital. She had been diagnosed at
age 44 with a brain tumor and was to have surgery the next day. I treasure the
photos of her opening gifts in her hospital bed with her children by her side.
She’s smiling. She was to have only one more Christmas with her family. But
still, she celebrated. And we still celebrate. We miss her presence intensely; but,
because of Christmas, we know we’ll see her again.
How well I
remember my own intense Christmas of 2012. On December 20 ~ the day my son came
home from his first year in university ~ I lay on an ultrasound table,
undergoing a follow-up to my mammogram the week before that had showed
something “suspicious.” The intense joy of our reunion mingled with intense
fear over my future.
There
followed two breathless days of waiting, and a phone call from my doctor on
December 23: “It’s a complex cyst,
probably benign. We’ll follow up again in 6 weeks.” What intense relief! And
yet . . . and yet . . . the question still hung . . .
I felt Christmas
so deeply that year. I realized that illness doesn’t take time off for the
holidays. I watched wide-eyed, taking everything in. Some of my favorite
memories from that year were totally unplanned: my youngest watching a
spontaneous early-morning Christmas movie with Daddy, the breakfast table made
festive simply with what I had on hand.
And yes, two
months later I was diagnosed with breast cancer. And yes, I underwent surgery
and chemotherapy and radiation. I struggled to regain my strength. And for two
years I seemed to appreciate Christmas more. Then this year . . . I took on the
burdens again. I clutched for control. And I lost some of the joy.
So I’m
reminding myself: slow down, breathe, and revel in God’s good gifts.
There will
come a last Christmas together. We may or may not have the warning: savor every moment. I’m not sure that I
want it. What I want is to be in the
moment, pleasantly surprised by whatever comes. And the knowledge that
whoever is missing from the family circle is celebrating Christmas with Jesus.
And the hope that . . . Someday . . . we’ll all be together again.