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.