My brain quickly gathers the pieces of my favorite Christmastime memories and fits them together into one magnificent Thomas Kinkade-like memory medley. In the scene unfolding in my mind, I hear Christmas music playing softly in the background and I know snow is falling sweetly outside.
The joyful season is in full throttle now, and my brother is out tromping through the fresh snow with the neighbor boys working on the 6th annual Huckleberry Palace (the name we dotingly gave the giant snow fort located in front of the cottage; the fort that has never been completed due to rain/lack of snow.)
The dog scampers in from outside. She shakes her paws. Snow puddles onto the linoleum. She dives under the "hill" of blankets to share my body heat. One full circle and she's down. She probably won't move again until I do. My eyes close as I lay my head back on the couch. The memory medley continues to unfold.
Papa is down stairs. His wood lathe is humming cheerfully as he creates another wooden masterpiece. He says that each piece, regardless of the item, turns out differently each time. He can scratch an idea on paper, but really it's the lathe and knots in the wood that determine the product. The garage is thick with the smell of sawdust. Oh! The love I have for that smell! It must be one of my favorites. Books and sawdust...they each have such a charming and delicious fragrance about them.
I recall my uncles laughing at Mama and Grandpa playfully arguing about who broke yet another Scattergories rule, how it was done, and how they oughtn't to get away with it. I haven't heard that laughter in a while; such a very long while. How I miss the Christmas we all played games and opened gifts by the fireplace in the cottage. I miss those years before everyone moved, when the whole house was filled with happy voices. Christmas hasn't been the same since.
I remember when the entire family, Grandma and Grandpa, the uncles and their friends, Mama and Papa, Bubba and I, always went to the annual Christmas play. Oh! The memories! Afterwards, we would scout out the neighborhoods with the best Christmas lights. Grandpa would tell stories the whole time. "When I was a boy," he'd begin, "back when I lived on 909 13th Avenue West." He would go on telling some naughty story of his boyhood days, always ending with, "And was I proud of it?" Giggles would surface all around as we chorused, "Nooo!"
Suddenly, I'm back at Grandma and Grandpa Sample's, snuggled in bed, listening to Papa read the latest Christmas in My Heart book as we drifted off to sleep. Mama's breathing is soft and rhythmic as she listens to the stories alongside us. Some of those tales leave us feeling sad, while others leave tiny "joy sparkles" in our eyes. There is placed in my heart a special cubby for each of those books. They always make me think of chocolate oranges, but I'm not really sure why.
That is what I think of when you say Christmas. Those are the visions that play through my mind. And, mind you, I like thinking of Christmas like that. It's comfortable. It floods my soul with thousands of warm fuzzies, and it makes me smile. But, what if, Christmas made us think more? What if, instead of fireplaces and shiny ornament balls, we thought more of one helpless Baby?
As I sat in church this week I was thinking about what the Christmas story would have felt like in person. We read stories and sing hymns about that silent night so many years ago. We dare, only for a moment, to think about how uncomfortable it was. Then, we smooth it over. Polish it up. Make it feel it cozy. However, cozy was the farthest thing from the truth. We fondly picture a snowy scene with cattle lowing. Yet, if it WAS snowing, I highly doubt it created any feelings of fondness. It must have been so cold, and straw isn't exactly the softest blanket in the world. I'm sure the cattle WERE lowing, but something tells me it WASN'T pleasant. It probably added only to the wish for real beds, fresh air, and quiet.
Not only was it not comfortable or cozy, but I can imagine that both Mary and Joseph felt an incredible sense of shame. Here they had been given a baby to care for. Yes, a baby, but also God. They had to care for the Messiah. "Those same fingers reaching in the night, were the VERY ones that measured the sky. His infant eyes had seen the dawn of time." ("Here With Us" by Joy Williams) Yet, somehow, a poor carpenter and his virgin-wife were supposed to raise Him and to teach Him in God's love. I would have felt intimidated just by that, but on top of all that, things had already begun to wax wonky. Mary became pregnant before she was married...at that time a disgrace punishable by death. They were far from home. And, now they were desperate enough to deliver Jesus with an audience of animals. I'm sure it didn't feel like a strong beginning...like...at all.
The story of the Nativity is not some sweet fairytale story sprinkled with a dusting of difficulty to make it a tiny bit more plausible and designed to spread warm fuzzies. Uhhhh, no! It is raw. It is real. And, it is a whole lot of compressed power. It wasn't invented to make you feel snug and comfy. It was made reality so that you could be set free from bondage to sin. It was made reality so that you could be reunited with the living God. It was made reality so that you could get out of your comfort zone and show the world our Lord's love. Through Christ, God infused our world with vigorous grace. Through His sacrifice, Christ redeemed our race. And, it all had to start near the manger, on a cold, terrible night, with a load of shame and dishonor. That is really what CHRISTmas is! Let that sink in. Put down your device. Close your eyes. Now, spend five minutes pondering what the true nativity was like. It's incredible, huh?!
~Brooke
Thank you Brooke for your descriptive and thought provoking thoughts.
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