It’s Christmas in two days. Two days too many, in my four (and a half!) year olds opinion. This is the first time he’s really got the excitement thing, and boy, it’s wearing.
I don’t remember the last time I felt that way. I really don’t. I feel as if I should, as if all the sparkle and glitter should mean something more to me, but it doesn’t. I just don’t feel Christmas, and in a society where the Christmas season apparently starts in October, I feel decidedly the odd one out.
Why? So many. The dreams I had for the year, unfulfilled and likely to remain so. The babies we will hold in our hearts but not our arms this Christmas. The stresses and anxieties of every day life. The desperate worry for friends stuck in appalling situations. The ones who should be at our Christmas tables and instead will only be there as photos on the mantle. S many reasons.
But then I read the Christmas story again. There’s no sparkles. No glitter. No expensive presents, no ‘family time’. Just two frightened teenagers in a stable. Desperately hoping they were doing God’s will, desperately afraid it would break them into pieces.
That’s the Christmas I can deal with. God in human form, Emmanuel. The one who sees our brokenness and enters into it willingly. The word of God, who tabernacles amongst us. The one who becomes broken for me, so that somehow my brokenness is made whole.