Christmas has always been, at least until recently, my favorite season. I love everything about it. I love Christmas music, decorations, baking, snow, family, giving...And I love the real Christmas. I love celebrating Jesus' birth. I love (and need) the reminder each year. I wish I didn't, but I do. Because in the chaos that is often life, I lose sight of my savior. It's ridiculous if you think about it. I live, breathe, and move because of a God who loves me so deeply, so passionately, that he was willing to sacrifice his Son for me. Motherhood changes that for me. I see that sacrifice in a light I was never capable of before. And when I think of how much I love my son, and I think of how much more infinitely God loves his, I am astounded. And yet I still sail through my days, often not stopping to really reflect on these truths. Christmas is a beautiful reminder of it. Up until a few years ago, I really didn't seem to have a problem with celebrating both aspects of Christmas. The social, commercial version and the original, holy version. A few years ago I hit a bit of a bump in this blissful relationship with Christmas. I found that the Christ was being obscured by the world's Christmas. That the simplicity and beauty of Jesus' birth had become lost in the shuffle. I know that this is something that happened many years ago; but for me, it just occurred that year. This was also the first year that I spent Christmas away from my family. I went up north with my new boyfriend, Matt, to spend Christmas with him and his family. I also had a particularly nasty cold (that seems to almost always be the case, though). While I'm quite outgoing and lively around those I know and am comfortable with, I'm painfully shy around those I do not know. So I found myself miles away from my family, my home, the snow, and all that I found warm and comforting on the day of the year that I craved them the most. I was happy to be with Matt, and I was grateful for the kindness of his family. But I was painfully uncomfortable in my unfamiliar surroundings. I felt like for the few days that we were there, I was in performance mode. And in the midst of this awkwardness and discomfort, I lost sight of my Christmas. Matt has this big family, and I was this outsider. They were kind, to be sure. But I didn't feel like I belonged. I remember one night going into the guest room, curling up in the bed, and crying. I wanted my family. I wanted to feel welcome. I wanted to know where Christmas had gone. In all of the anxiety, all of the discomfort, and, for the first time with any kind of potency, all of the consumerism, I felt lost and alone. For the first time in my life, I didn't go to a Christmas service. Surrounded by people and activity, I couldn't find quiet time to think and pray. So that night, crying in that strange bed, I made a decision. I realized that the world's Christmas wasn't a bad thing. A day where people get together, share a meal, and give each other gifts is a wonderful kind of day. But God needs to have his day, too. And for me, in order to fully enjoy both Christmases, I would need to celebrate them separately. And so, for the last three years, I have.
It's now four years later, and somehow I feel infinitely worse. Every year since has been the same. Instead of finding myself amidst warmth, sharing, love, comfort, and "cheer," I find myself amidst angry shoppers (who are probably nice people all year until they turn into fierce demons during the holidays), fighting, guilt trips, and tears. Matt and I try so hard to love on and please our families. But somehow it's never enough. We trade off holidays every year to try to be fair to each of our four families, but no matter what we do people get angry and hurt. Every year I run myself into the ground trying to find thoughtful gifts, often taking hours to make things, and yet still, every Christmas ends with an argument about how Matt and I are bad, selfish people who play favorites. And it doesn't matter which of our four families we're with--the script simply changes. And in the midst of the conflicts, I once again lose sight of where it all started and should always be; with a baby in a manger, destined to save the world. He's still there, I know--I just can't find him quite like I could before.
I know that this is the plight of married life. I know that no matter what we do, because our families live on opposite ends of the state, we have to be with one and not the other. But somehow, what was once my most beloved time of the year, is quickly becoming my most dreaded. And now I have this sweet, wonderful little boy. I want Christmas with him. I want to wake up with him in the morning, make hot chocolate, and open presents. I want to read him Luke 2 and watch Christmas movies with him. I want my Christmas back. The warmth, sharing, love, comfort, and "cheer." I want to make new traditions with my family. Except that once I again I find my little family, now of three, the rope in this seemingly endless tug-of-war, and this year's match has already started.
Dear Santa, Please bless my family this year. Help me to find cheer and lavish wonderful memories of Ben's first Christmas. signed, Shannon
Dear Jesus, I love you, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've let myself get caught up in all of these messes. I'm sorry I keep losing you in the midst of the chaos. Please help me find you again. Please bless my family this year. Help me to find peace, joy, and love. Please give me patience and grace. Help me to anticipate this week with hope and faith, not fear and dread. love, Shannon
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