Amidst the twinkling lights, stocking stuffers, and your best-dressed outfits, it’s easy to forget why we actually celebrate Christmas. You get caught up in the giggle of your grandson, your stomach’s grumbling over that glazed ham, and it’s your responsibility to entertain the in-laws this year. The festivities are alive, and it’s no wonder the moments can all race together in one big blur!
Or you’re on the W-A-Y other end of the spectrum. You feel lost this season. That job you’ve been pining for? Given to someone else. That investment supposedly paving the way for an early retirement? Down the drain. Your boyfriend you envisioned your future with? No ring or explanation, gone. The minutes and traditions drag on, and nothing really seems worth celebrating this time around.
But no matter how far we’ve wandered or how lost we may feel, no matter how perfectly our ribbons are curled or our bows are placed, there’s a hope, so boundless and crazy, offered to every one of us. And it’s found in the meaning of Christmas. Relevant to the hipsters, the nonconformists, and everyone in between, it’s a story that beckons with a plot that revives and replenishes.
Jesus, the God of gushing love, came to this earth because we were wandering. We were lost. We were sinking in our defeat, error, and purposelessness. He saw our slumped shoulders and our worn out spirits. He heard our sighing and our groaning as we laid in our beds, the puddles of tears staining our pillows, waiting for some form of relief, some sort of hope, some sort of purpose.
And He came.
Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe.
Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.
—1 Thessalonians 5:18
She slammed the SUV door as she plopped down onto the seat, raised her voice to a high pitch, tossed her blonde head forward and screeched, “It’s sooooooo cold outside!!!! I hate Minnesota!!!” Then my daughter returned her voice to normal, sat back in the seat, and asked, “Who am I?”
Everyone in the SUV laughed and looked at me.
Yes. Winter and me. We are not friends. Not since my youth when winter meant snowball fights and snow forts with my brothers, carving snow tunnels with my classmates like voles on caffeine in the shoveled, piled-high snow on the playground and building silly snowmen with my mom outside our farm house.
No. We have long since parted company on good terms. I discovered early that adulting in winter was not nearly as fun. Shoveling off my car every morning to get to work, sometimes even needing a jump-start, or ending up in ditches after skating uncontrollably on icy roads; bundling and unbundling my babies felt like a part-time job, not to mention walking the dogs with numb fingers trying to hold onto leashes while my eyes peak above my scarf hive, watering in the frosty winds while trying to avoid slippery patches…
But, I’m working on it. I’m trying to mend this relationship. I want to live in thankfulness despite of it. And although I will never love winter like I do summer—NEVER—I hope I’m making progress.