“This is just wrong,” I mumbled as I
stepped out of the store’s festive holiday glitter and into the lukewarm
humidity of East Texas in mid-December. The Chipmunks chirped We Wish You a
Merry Christmas over loudspeakers in the parking lot where teenagers in yellow
rain slickers sold evergreen trees. Small bunches of live mistletoe could be
purchased for a quarter apiece, and I decided to splurge. It grows wild in the
south, a parasitic plant clinging high atop trees some entrepreneurial soul had
mustered enough courage to climb.
It was 1980 and my first Christmas away
from home in Manitoba where Christmas sounds, looks, and feels like it’s
supposed to: the sharp crunch of snow underfoot, little kids bundled into snowsuits
like overstuffed teddy bears, and wisps of white frost clinging to mustaches. Hubby
was in university and we were expecting our first baby. With money tight, we’d
agreed a trip home was not feasible. We would create our own holiday memories
instead. We found a little artificial tree for three dollars at a garage sale
and decorated it with one small strand of multicolored lights and a set of tiny
wooden ornaments. Painted red and gold, the set included bells, Santas, skaters,
rocking horses, angels, toy trains, and my favorite: a wee nativity scene. Made
in China, the characters’ painted-on faces were Asian in appearance, reminding
us of the universal nature of the holiday and how it didn’t really matter where
we celebrated.
But as Christmas day approached, I grew
melancholy. Thoughts turned to my siblings gathering at home, the coats piling
up on Grandma’s bed, the homemade cabbage rolls and perogies being consumed,
and the wild pandemonium of nieces and nephews tearing into their gifts. I
pictured them enjoying it all while we sat in our dreary apartment with our
Charlie Brown tree, exchanging practical gifts like socks and pencils. Though
longing to set up a nursery, my nesting instinct was trumped by our empty bank
account. I yearned for a little snow. Surely all of this was rationale for a
pity party, and I zealously indulged.
Then, as Hubby read aloud the familiar
words from Luke 2, I looked at my round tummy and thought of our coming child.
I felt him move and I identified with Mary. She, too, found herself far from
the familiar faces of home. The climate in Mary’s homeland of Israel was far
more comparable to Texas than what felt like “proper Christmas weather” to me.
The stable where she gave birth was anything but cozy and inviting. Not only did
Mary have no nursery to decorate, she barely had a roof over her head! Yet her
humble obedience resulted in the greatest gift ever given—the birth of Messiah.
I’d been making it all about my own traditions and memories. Perhaps it was
time to focus on the one whose arrival we celebrated, wherever we found
ourselves and whatever the circumstances.
Each year, when I pull out those tiny
wooden ornaments, I’m reminded of that lonely, long-ago Christmas and of the
lessons learned. I recall how little we had, but how rich we were.
Let every heart prepare him room.
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| Photo by G. Loewen Photography |
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