Skip to main content

My Messy Christmas Wish


We're moving before Christmas.

The idea of moving across country is daunting for anyone. How do you take 16 years of living and place it into four storage cubes? How do you tackle the list of to-dos, like cancelling utilities, switching insurance policies and disconnecting cable (when they make you say "no" five times before honoring your request)?

How do you reduce ten boxes of precious school mementos to a "reasonable" three? How do you negotiate the purchase of another house while living hundreds of miles away? How do you fit in goodbyes to friends and neighbors?

The planner in me is overwhelmed. I've taken on all kinds of jobs, big jobs, intimidating jobs, but this one...this one is huge.

And then, I realized what the timing meant for me and for my family. We were scheduled to close on our house just before Christmas. That meant no going to the Christmas tree farm to cut down our tree. That meant no live evergreen wreath on the front door. No putting out the nativity set with its little bag of hay and trying, again, to find the baby Jesus.

Cards are unsent. Lights are unhung. Ornaments are still boxed. Gifts are not bought.

My heart is homesick for Christmas.

But as I sat in my little puddle of being sorry for me, I had a thought. Actually, my Christmas is a lot like the first one.

Mary and Joseph were moving for Christmas. They were traveling too - of course not with a mother-in-law, teenage daughter, 35-pound dog, in a Kia Soul. They were riding a donkey and walking; Mary with her pregnancy almost to term. They were headed cross country with no hotel room waiting on the other end.

I am sure that their lives felt completely unsettled. Mary had announced her pregnancy out of wedlock. Joseph had stood by her, but they must have had moments of awkwardness and tension. After all, they were newlyweds, parents-to-be, still getting to know one another. I'm sure they were worried about the future.

Christmas for them was about where they needed to go and what they needed to do. They were living with the expectation of the birth of their baby, this Child who would change the world. Christmas had nothing at all to do with carols and trees and ornaments. It had nothing to do with my still unopened, ten Rubbermaid containers of decorations.

So, this year, I'll have that kind of Christmas. I'll have the one in my heart that knows and believes and hopes and perseveres. I'll hug my family close. I'll dream and sing and love and celebrate the birth of my Savior.

I'll pray for a family I know whose dad just entered intense chemo. I'll pray for my friend whose daughter is leaving for the mission field.

I'll hum along to the man playing, "O Holy Night" on his trumpet in the subway station.

I'll appreciate my neighbor's Christmas lights and turn the television to "White Christmas" while I pack.

I'll refuse my gloom, put aside my Martha Stewart expectations of what this holiday should be, and celebrate this strange and  unsettling Christmas on the road.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Mary McLeod Bethune: She Has Given Her Best

I first heard about Mary McLeod Bethune when I was a student at Moody Bible Institute. She was an early graduate of my college - and an African American woman. I knew she had gone on to become one of the greatest women in our country. She was so well known that she earned the status of being featured on our postage stamps. But I didn't really know much about her. As I researched Mary McLeod Bethune for my book, When Others Shuddered: Eight Women Who Refused to Give Up . I learned a bit more about her remarkable life: She was the 15th of 17 children, born to former slaves. From an early age, she hungered for education. She graduated from Moody Bible Institute with a desire for missionary service to Africa - an opportunity she was denied because of her race. Undeterred, she started a school for African American girls in Daytona Beach, Florida, that went on to become Bethune Cookman University. She was asked to work with Franklin D. Roosevelt and led many African Am

Pacific Garden Mission: A Bed, A Meal and the Bright Light of Hope

In 1877, a woman named Sarah Dunn Clarke and her newly-wedded husband George started a rescue mission on Chicago’s south side.   They were wealthy, but their hearts were broken by the men and women who struggled to survive on the city’s streets.   The Pacific Garden Mission is the 2 nd oldest operating rescue mission in the United States. Now located on 14 th St and Canal – just south of Chicago’s loop – they offer shelter to as many as a thousand men and women on any given night.   As part of my book research to understand how the work of Sarah Clarke continues today, I visited the mission with my friend Dawn Pulgine. Entering through the side, we felt a bit out of our element. Men, black and white, old and young, clustered near the doorway. Some carried bags of personal belongings. Others were working the desk and security. It was mid-day at the Mission. We were given a tour by one of the “program men” – residents who choose to stay and live at the

Your Roots Are Showing

I'm older. I know that. But, honestly, I still feel pretty young. Well, most days at least Today I received a not-requested senior discount at Einstein Bagels. It appeared as a $1.03 credit on my receipt, along with the cheery explanation. And if other people don't tell me I'm older, my body definitely does. I traveled to and from Chicago last week with my daughter and her friend. Being the self sufficient woman I am, I helped the girls boost their luggage into the airline's overhead bin. Later that day, I felt my mistake. My back has not been happy ever since. I've been putting those sticky heat patches on it, Ben Gay rub, ice, heat wraps, you name it. And still when I turn incorrectly . . . ouch. There are other signs too. I wear glasses now . . . all the time. It started with readers, and then progressed to progressives. And I HAVE to color my hair now. Those pesky roots keep reappearing in an ever-shinier shade of silver. I (briefly) considered embr