Christmas 2007

Remember when you were a kid and Christmas was about ending the torment of wrapped gifts under that tree? You know—the ones with your name on them? The oddly-shaped one, the nice, neat cube, the long, skinny one—they all made you curious, and they all teased you. If your family was like mine, they sat under there for weeks, calling your name.

Christmas has actually been a little disjointed for me, most years. Our family, like many, did not have a lot, so you knew there was probably goiong to be a lot of nothing under there, but still there was that hope. Hmmm.

One Christmas when I was ten or eleven my dad actually asked us what we wanted. I'd never been asked that before. I was stumped for a minute; but I'd always wanted a guitar, so I asked for a guitar. I knew, of course, that the question was rhetorical, but it was fun just to ask for something totally outrageous.

So the oddly shaped package turned up under the tree that year, but there was no name tag. Later claims have been that the tag fell off. I just assumed it was something really nice from my dad to my mom. And on Christmas, when we were winding up the gift-opening thing, my dad told me to hurry up and open that thing. I was genuinely surprised. It was the guitar. A twenty dollar classical guitar, but it was a guitar. I played that thing all the way through college before I finally got myself a better one.

Later on there were the years when I could not make it home, so I was the awkward guest that you invite to your family gathering—the one that knows he or she doesn't quite belong there. That was me. Now, though, I have a family of my own, and Christmas is about long road trips to grandparents' homes, to participate in grandparents' traditions. Which, I guess, is better than being the awkward outsider, but somehow the whole thing of making traditions of your own is still missing.

And then there are the Christmas carols. Nice pieces of tradition that remind you of Christmas past, but never quite reaching me on a spiritual level. I've always resented the fact that the whole rest of the church seems willing to give up worship for a month or so, enjoying bright, cheery carols that don't quite reach the part of your heart where your relationship with God dwells.

This Christmas, though, has been different on every level. It started when we were batting around the idea of staying home. The problem with that has always been that my kids are the only grandkids on both sides of the family, so everyone always wants a shot at seeing the grandkids. For my husband's parents, that's not a problem. They're hearty and hale and they love to travel. My mother, on the other hand, is disabled and no longer drives. That would leave her limping through a Christmas day with my sister in attendance, and my conscience level doesn't allow for that. To my surprise, though, Roger's parents agreed to stop in at my mom's house and pick her up for the eleven hour drive up here. Wow! We accepted, and my mother did too.

Even before company arrived there was something different about this Christmas. The carols were hitting me on a new spiritual level. O Holy Night, for instance. “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn” was hitting me as it never has before, and I was worshipping as I played the arpeggios on guitar.

Then before I knew it the house was full (my sister flew in too), and we were into the full holiday season. I've never entertained on this level and for such an extended period before, and it took some adjustment, but before I knew it I was cooking big meals and baking desserts and having a great time making the house a welcoming place.

Which brings me to what Christmas is to me this year. I know for my kids it was opening the presents, in spite of all my efforts to instill the real Christmas story. There's only so much you can do with a husband whose idea of a good time is to go running through the garden with a handful of sleigh bells just to excite little girls who ought to be asleep. They'll have to find a more mature meaning someday, I suppose. I can't venture to guess what Christmas was this year for anyone else in my house. But for me Christmas came on Christmas eve.



A very dear friend with a very large family had invited me to bring my clan out to their clan gathering on Christmas Eve. She couldn't bear the thought of another dead Christmas Eve, and rightly thought that the intermingling of two clans would liven the party. Besides, all of her children have sung together in my praise band, I sing with them, and the blend has always worked in the most remarkable way. They all knew my sister and I blend like “butter” and would probably blend with them too. And being the harmony hounds that we all are, it looked to be a great musical evening around the piano.

So Sunday night when my voice slowly began to disappear, I fished through the medicine cabinet for every remedy I could find. I gargled strong salt water every hour or so. I desperately tried to suppress every voice-damaging cough, but nothing worked. If you've heard my Christmas greeting in TPE, you've heard what was happening. It got worse than that. My sister kept trying to get me to stop talking, but.....

Monday evening I packed up my share of the cooking, and then I grimly packed up my guitar and pennywhistles, determined to make some kind of good music anyhow. Driving was slow with snow and ice on the roads, and they live about twenty miles out in the country. The air was cold, but crisp. Upon arrival we were all welcomed into the warmth of a generously decorated lodge-style home, and all of my company immediately felt at home. None of my singing friends were too happy to hear my voice, but everyone was determined to make the best of it, so we put away our wraps and headed right for the piano.

First, my fiddling friend and I played whistle and fiddle together for a while. Then I pulled out my guitar and the singing began. My sister spent a few songs being shy, then I urged her over and she joined in. It was SO-O-O nice to sit there surrounded by such nice harmonies, and the blend was as good as I imagined. And when I heard a hole in the harmony, I fell back on the instinct of a child-trained alto, and attempted to fill the hole. I squeaked out a note. Then I pushed harder, and realized if I pushed hard enough, I could push past the squeaks and airiness and hit a rough bit of Bonnie Raitt-type voice. So I pushed hard and filled that harmony hole. My throat creaked and groaned, but the voice held. I was in heaven.

We sped happily through Rocky Top, lingered deliciously over Wayfaring Stranger, and then got to Uncloudy Day. Singing that song, I felt the reality of a better place, where a full view of my Lord was waiting for me. And my little mother (she's very short), who is not always completely with us (she's heavily medicated), got up and came over closer to the music, which is her way of telling us that it's very go-o-od. And right there, pushing my voice out into that room, surrounded by my family and like-family, singing of God and heaven, that was Christmas to me. That in one long-ago night our world was taken from a savage place with a pocket of godliness in the Middle East to a promise of peace on earth, for the WHOLE earth; that we all sit in peace on Christmas Eve, celebrating the night that history was split, enjoying Christian fellowship and caringly blanketing our pagan family members with compassion—that night in Bethlehem is worth celebrating. A birthday so special that most of the civilized world showers one another with gifts. A birthday party celebrated each year the world over.

And when the song was over my little mother applauded vigorously , we all applauded each other, and then we sat down to a lovely dinner.