I shuffled my feet across the floor towards the room lit by the Christmas tree. I was tired. I was overwhelmed. I was face down on the pavement with life’s heel on my back. It was my second Christmas as a single mom. And while things had gotten better, I couldn’t help but wonder if the better I felt was because I had gotten better -at carrying it all, at flashing a smile when someone commended me on being strong, at catching my tears before they fell into the sink while the kids played. I had gotten better at balancing the load on my shoulders.
All my Christmas shopping was complete, and I didn’t have to step foot into a store. The door to my room remained closed most of the time, as it served as the hiding place for my broke besties’ gifts. The Christmas lights were hung, the gingerbread houses had been decorated, and the Christmas movies had been watched.
“It doesn’t feel like Christmas,” I thought to myself as I lowered onto the couch and stared at the tree.
I think it’s safe to say, this sentiment echoes within us all. Somewhere between finding out that Santa isn’t real and buying our first drink at the age of 21, the magic of Christmas is replaced with another fluffy version.
For as long as I can remember I felt guilty for the sadness I felt despite the presence of Christmas. I couldn’t understand how I could read of Christ’s birth, the hope that was fulfilled in his arrival, and still feel resistance to the idea of celebrating.
In so many ways, the Bible stories we’ve been told, are not the stories that were recorded. We find ourselves clinging to a Christmas story that squeezes the epiphany of Christ’s birth into a sentence or two: Jesus was born and all was well.
And I know, it’s not that simple, but sometimes we shave the Christmas story down to a nub that only knows of joy when the Christmas season arrives. But can I say something daring?
It’s when Christmas doesn’t feel like Christmas that we need the true story of Christmas.
At some point, we have to step outside of our cinematic versions of Christmas and accept that the birth of Christ was a moment of peace interrupting seasons of despair. But when Christ was born, people were still waiting. When Christ was born, Mary and Joseph were still running from the dangerous implications of the census.
The Christmas story was a scandalous birth wrapped in traumatic circumstances. The true narrative of Christ’s birth isn’t one that would move our lungs to exclaim “Joy to the World”, and that’s what’s comforting. When we are inclined to wrap our sorrow, grief, and anguish with festivities and the cinematic spirit of Christmas, we remember our Savior’s origin story.
A King was birthed by a teen, running for her life from a ruler threatened by a baby. A King entered this world as a babe. A child who could not heal yet, an infant who was only revealed to a few, a babe who needed the very flesh he formed.
Christ was born in a mess. He was born to parents who uprooted their lives to bring him earthside safely. He was born in the kind of situations we pray away, the ones that make us question his presence and the ones that attempt to convince our pain is overlooked. The Christmas story is proof that God with us is not a sentiment we whisper to feel good (though it does comfort us in times of need). It’s evidence that if God would enter this world through a complicated messy situation, we can invite Him into ours.
The Christmas story we need is the one that speaks to our trauma, our waiting, and our pain with a tale that doesn’t ask us to trade our hurt to receive the spirit of Christmas.
But instead, we have the chance to lean into a story that inspires us to extend an invitation -to let our Savior be with us. In and through all things.
So if Christmas feels like an itchy sweater you squirm in, I encourage you to take it off and be wrapped in the true story of the season. If you feel guilty for feeling more despair than joyful and more heavy than merry and bright, Christmas is for you. It’s for those who cannot wait to deck the halls and fill their homes with laughter and friends. But it’s also for those who wake up still waiting. For those with phones that do not ring on this ordinary day in December. For those estranged from their parents. For those who staring at the due date that never came. For those with the divorce papers stacked on the counter.
For us humans, living broken beautiful heavy divine lives -Christmas is for you.
Christmas is for us.
Thank you for this offering. :)