I still can’t quite believe it’s over.  All that thought and time and energy and money put into one of the most wonderful days of every year, and now . . . it’s already two days past Christmas.  The good news, of course, is that Christmas is really just the beginning of the celebration.  It’s the day Jesus was born – the day God became man so we could begin to grasp the depth of his love for us.  The rest of his short life was equally as amazing and, don’t worry, there are even more donkeys and angels.  YAY!

Christmas this year was a whirlwind for me, as I imagine it might have been for many of you.  There were family gatherings and parties mixed in with all the decorating, shopping, wrapping, and cooking in a way that makes me wonder exactly where the month of December went.  Honestly, I think I spent most of it trying to come up with elf tricks. 

And now that Christmas Day has come and gone, and I’ve had a full day to reflect on the most magical time of the year . . . I’ve come up with two moments that defined my holiday season. 

The first came on Christmas Eve, smack in the middle of a beautiful candlelight service.  My nine-year-old was sitting to my left, my dad on the right.  Everyone was dressed up and the air was full of excitement and the joy could clearly be heard in the voices of the congregation, our voices lifted to the heavens in praise of the One who came to save.  My eyes filled with tears, as they often seem to do when thousands of people are singing together about Jesus, and I could actually feel the magic of Christmas flow through me.  And then, my precious son, dressed in his holiday best and bubbling over with anticipation about the hours ahead, leaned over to me, and with wide eyes and a very serious demeanor, asked the one question I’ve happily avoided for all of his nine Christmases so far.

“Mom, what exactly is a virgin anyway?”

I probably shouldn’t cuss on a blog about Jesus, but man, I sure wanted to at that moment.  In church.  On Christmas Eve.  

Not to worry.  I simply told my son we’d talk about it later.  The problem, of course, is that now it IS later, and because my son has the best memory of anyone I know, I feel quite certain the chat I’ve never wanted to have is going to happen any minute now.  Awesome.  Next Christmas, he’ll probably lean over and want to know exactly what those “band-aids for Mommies” are that sit in a box on the back of the potty for a few days every month, and I’ll be trying to figure out how to explain tampons while everyone else is belting out Joy to the World.

The second monumental moment of Christmas 2012 occurred at precisely 12:07 on Christmas Day.  The reason I know the exact time of this disturbing event?  It was the time on the clock when all of my Christmas decorations, minus the tree, were officially down and packed into tubs in the storage room, not to be seen again until next December.  An entire year of therapy and THAT’S how much my OCD has improved?  You’ve got to be kidding. I’d like to blame my insanity on the fact that we were leaving the house at 12:30 and not planning to return for over a week.  But really, I’m not sure that fact offers much of an excuse.  The scariest part of the whole deal is the way I felt when I looked at the clock at seven minutes past noon and realized the only thing left to do to “undecorate” was to take down the tree (which won’t happen until after our trip). 

I was ecstatic. 

And that, my friends, is why I need Christmas.  Because despite all my efforts . . . despite all my plans and intentions and prayers and dollars spent trying to work through my mess . . . I need Jesus. I will always need Jesus.   

And He is here.

Emmanuel.

God with us. 

May he bring peace into your lives as 2012 comes to a close, and my he bring peace into mine as well.  The kind of peace that settles my heart when I know I'm on the cusp of an important conversation.  The kind of peace that allows me to find calm in the midst of clutter.  The kind of peace only the Prince of Peace can offer.    

Hallelujah, the King is here

Given for all men

For today the holy son of God

Is born in Bethlehem.

"Born in Bethlehem" by Third Day

 

Merry Christmas!  I hope you have a wonderful day celebrating the birth of our Savior with your family and friends! 

God bless you . . . every one.:)

 

So, here's the deal, friends.  You can't read this post.  You have to sing it to the very familiar tune of Jingle Bells (but with an extra verse between each chorus, because I just couldn't make it work any other way).   Go ahead now.  Belt it out.  And don't worry - no one can hear you.:)

 

Dashing through the Forum,

In my banged up SUV,

Cursing every minivan,

That pulls in front of me.



Who are all these people?

Where did they come from?

Don’t they know this is my mall,

Who invited them to come?



I’m running out of time,

There's only one day more,

How will I be super Mom

if I don’t hit every store?





OH, jingle bells! Jingle bells!

It’s almost Christmas Day,

Only hours left to go

SO GET OUT OF MY WAY!

 

 

 

I find a spot to park,

I grab my purse and run,

I’ll make it through this shopping list,

And boy will it be fun.



I find the things I need,

But the lines are oh so long,

I’m mad at everyone I see,

Why does this feel so wrong?



I wait and wait and wait,

I buy and buy and buy,

I add up all the money spent,

I think I might just cry.



OH, jingle bells! Jingle bells!

It’s almost Christmas day,

I should be filled with happiness,

But I want to run away.

 

 

 

Finally I’m done, 

I slump back towards my car,

Then glance up at the dark night sky,

And glimpse a shimmering star.



The bags fall from my hands,

The anger flees my mind,

Hope and peace consume my soul

As I watch that star just shine.



It’s not about the shopping

It’s not about my list,

It’s all about remembering

God’s greatest ever gift.



OH, jingle bells! Jingle bells!

Feel the wondrous joy,

All because in Bethlehem,

 Was born a baby boy.


I return home to my crew,

My spirits lifted high,

The stress is washed away,

For I'm focused on the why.



Our tree is filled with lights,

The stockings hung with care,

I pull my kids in close,

I have something to share.



"I love you more than words,

I love you in every way,

But no one's ever loved you,

Like God on Christmas Day."

 

OH, jingle bells! Jingle bells!

Thank you, God above,

You sent your one and only son,

And filled the world with love.

Shockingly, I've never won a Grammy for my songwriting skills.  Still, how'd you do?  Feel better?  I hope so. Now . . . after you go shopping tomorrow for the eleventh time this month and it takes thirty minutes to park and you wait in line for hours and you spend all your money on toys your kids will forget about in 47.9 seconds, sing it again.  And this time . . . let the whole world hear you. 

It’s number six on a list of ten. 

You shall not commit murder.

Did anyone teach him that commandment?

Did anyone teach you that commandment?

Most importantly . . . are you teaching anyone that commandment?

I spent approximately one-thousand days of my life working in a kindergarten classroom. 

Never once did I fear for the safety of my students or myself.  

Never once will a kindergarten teacher feel that sense of safety again. 

May God be with the people in Newtown, Connecticut, and with students and educators everywhere.

There are two reasons I know someone is trying to knock some sense into me.  Dream one and dream two.  Both in the same night.  Both causing me to wake up with my arms over my head in an attempt to protect myself from the enormous pieces of machinery coming towards me, while I lay cowering on the ground.  Because I have a son, I actually know the name of these demon machines that threatened to decapitate me in the middle of the night.  They were excavators, one gigantic and one just plain huge, one filled with sand and one filled with red clay.  Apparently, the attacks were occurring on Georgia soil.  

Two dreams in one night in which I was about to be clobbered in the head?  Sure seems to be clear evidence that someone is trying to knock some serious sense into me.  In this case, I believe that person is Jen Hatmaker. 

I desperately want to plagarize Jen Hatmaker because then you would think I was absolutely brilliant.  But alas, I'm not the plagarizing type, so my suggestion is you buy her books as soon as possible and read them yourselves.  Then, you too can have dreams about being frozen on the ground in the middle of an active construction site.  

Jen Hatmaker has me so stirred up I can barely sit still, or think straight, or complete a sentence.  You should see my list of things I want to write about – it’s a mile long and looks like someone on heavy drugs wrote it.  There is, however, one common theme on my rambling list of jumbled ideas – a single name that repeats over and over and over again. 

Jesus.

I know, I know.  I always seem to come back to that guy, don't I?  Trust me, I never thought I'd be that person.  I sin, and a lot of times, I enjoy it.  (If you're doubting my deep need for a Savior, I should probably inform you that Adam and I were trying to come up with something fun for the Elf to do a few nights ago, and the first thought I had involved naked Barbies, Cool Whip, and an empty box of . . . like I said, I sin, and sometimes, I giggle while doing it.)  Despite my sinful nature, I always believed God was the one writing my story, and for whatever reason, in the last few years He's encouraged me to make sure my story points to Him.

Of course, it is almost Christmas.  Jesus should be on my mind, right?  I mean, this is his time to shine.  This is the season when he actually gets to occupy some shelf space.  You might even see him in storefronts and on catalog covers right now.  He'll be the tiny one - the baby lying in a feeding trough in the middle of a barn, because that's where kings are born when hotels are filled to capacity. 

The thing is, I keep seeing Jesus and thinking about Jesus and reading books by Jen Hatmaker about Jesus, but I don't understand why I can't get the fellow out of my head.  Sure, he looks cute in his manger, but my mind isn't racing with images of a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, although I'd gladly trade my two big kids in for one right now since a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes wouldn't expect an elf to perform G rated magical feats in the middle of EVERY. FREAKING. NIGHT. IN. DECEMBER. 

All cuteness aside, baby Jesus isn't the one consuming my thoughts.  Instead, it's the Jesus of Easter I'm thinking about.  I'm way ahead on the calendar and completely off on my holidays.  Can I put a bunny on the top of my Christmas tree, because I can't stop thinking about the grown-up Jesus.  The one who performed miracles to prove he was the son of God. The one who provided instructions on exactly how we should live. The one who took every bit of my sin - all of it - and died on a cross to and wash it away forever.

Do I remember they are one and the same - the baby lying in the manger next to farm animals and the man who gave me freedom?  When I'm running around in circles planning and decorating and buying and buying and buying and wrapping and addressing and mailing . . . do I remember that the baby I'm celebrating became a man?  A man who loved me so much he willingly gave his life as a ransom for mine.

As I write the words . . . I know.  I know they are the reason I'm dodging excavators in the middle of the night.  It's not because of Jen Hatmaker.  She's a great writer and I highly recommend her books and blog, but she's not the reason I can't stop thinking about Jesus. 

The reason I can't stop thinking about Jesus is because his Father is after my heart.  In the midst of all my Christmas preparations and holiday busyness, God is whispering sweet reminders in my ear.  As I rush around trying to check off every item on my December to-do list, He wants to make sure I know . . . really know . . . how much he loves me.  And all I have to do to know how much God loves me, is look at Jesus.

The one sleeping between the cow and the donkey.

The one who became a carpenter and a man.

The one who lived, and died, to save me.

To save you. 

To save the world.   




 

I’m so guilty.  I buy into it every time.  I promise myself I won’t, but sure enough, I get sucked right in.  It happens as soon as I see the wreaths go up on the neighbors’ front doors and the stores start playing Mannheim Steamroller and my kids begin questioning the magical abilities of our Elf.   It’s as if someone has flipped a switch inside me and I can’t find the darn thing to turn it off. 

When I feel the tug, I immediately brace myself, working with intention to keep the focus where it should be.  I put out the nativity sets and hang up the Luke 2:10-11 banner and set up the advent tree.  My intentions are just that, however . . . intentions.  And the next thing I know I’m driving all over town in search of new, more, different, more, brighter, more, bigger, more, better, more, more, more, MORE.

It might have helped if I had left our house alone.  Just a few years ago, our house was all red and sage and gold.  Christmas matched.  Now, our house is all gray and blue and cream, and when I pulled out the tubs of Christmas stuff from the basement last week, I couldn’t possibly imagine living with any of it for an entire month.  

So.  I compromised.  The foyer, which has a big, bold, colorful painting on the wall, is now graced with a big, bold, colorful sixteen-inch tall felt nativity set that I envision my grandchildren playing with one day.  It’s the most precious Christmas decoration you’ve ever laid eyes on and makes me grin from ear to ear every time I look at it.  

The former living room, which recently became Adam’s office because of his new job working from home, has one very plain Santa.  He’s wood, I think, very cream and grayish, and actually quite adorable because he’s holding a candy cane behind his back.  Still, this room used to be one of my favorite rooms to decorate.  This year, I’m closing the French doors and pretending it’s totally decked out. 

All of the red and green items I previously adored are currently confined to the kitchen, which is so neutral it can handle the infusion of Christmas for a few weeks.  On December 26^th, I’ll frantically shove it all back into the tubs from which it came with an obscene amount of pleasure, but for now, it looks fun and festive. 

The family room was a challenge.  It’s very much connected to the kitchen, but every time I tried to put something red and green near the gray, taupe, and cream, I broke out in hives.  Must have something to do with that OCD issue of mine.  Things that don’t match look cluttered and I am highly allergic to clutter.  I ended up keeping a hint of green – the Christmas tree sits proudly in this room, after all – but most of my decorations are of the silver, cream, and gold variety.  I think it works.  It looks all dressed up for Jesus, but doesn’t make my brain hurt.

The dining room – well, that’s where my new color scheme demanded a bit of new and different, which, of course, meant more.  I did some repurposing before I spent any money.  I made a wreath from burlap ribbon and some old fabric scraps.  I painted and glazed some wooden trees so they are now snow-covered trees.  Yet somehow, it didn’t seem like enough, and sadly, this is where the flip switched my friends.  Before I knew it, I was holding a receipt from Homegoods that was longer than most of my grocery lists.  That’s just pathetic when there are starving children in Africa.  And Asia.  And Haiti.  And Afghanistan.  And India.  And probably right down the street.

What is it about Christmas?  Why does it bring out my consumerism to such a massive degree I completely forget my income bracket?  And really, why am I blaming it on Christmas?  Christmas is simply an excuse.  It’s my reason for the temporary insanity that causes me to throw money at items that will sit out for four weeks a year.  The real question is . . . why do I feel the need to constantly collect things . . . worthless, insignificant things that have absolutely no eternal value?  None.  Am I looking for my worth in having a home beautifully decorated for the holidays?  Will I find my worth in the perfect tree or the just-right stockings or the ribbon that’s the exact shade I need? 

Surely, I’m worth more than a bowl of ornaments that match the pillow on my couch.  

I talk about Christmas and its REAL meaning all the time.  I talk about the “reason for the season” at church, at school, in the check-out line at Homegoods.  The real meaning of Christmas is to celebrate the birth of Jesus. In my head, I fully comprehend that fact.  But if I just think a bit deeper, if I look with my heart and go beyond the meaning to the purpose, I find something else.  Something so wonderful and amazing and unbelievable, I can hardly fathom its significance.

Christmas means God looks beyond my ridiculous amounts of spending and my silly concerns with decorating and my obsessive desire to please others and discover my worth in worldly pleasures.

Christmas means God thinks so highly of me, he sent his one and only Son to die in my place.

Christmas means God loves me so much, he was willing to sacrifice his child to save me.

Christmas means . . . God thinks I’m worth it.

He thinks you’re worth it too.