Eleven years ago, I was robustly pregnant at Christmastime and poor. My husband and I were both working full time, but only one of us was bringing all of her paycheck home. The other was using it for other purposes. As Christmas grew near and nearer and I realized that we did not have enough money for a tree, I became acutely depressed.
Although an unbeliever, my fondest family memories were at Christmastime and near our tree. It seemed the only time of the year in which my mother came out of her neglectful haze and really tried to make us a family. It was the only time of the year that she would spend direct and purposeful time with me, as we trimmed the tree and smiled over the years of school-made ornaments and decorations she kept, telling each and every story again of how I could never wait until Christmas morning to give her my gifts, but instead immediately unwrapped each one and presented it her as soon as I reached the car ((I still cannot wait well)).
When I was older and perhaps a bit wiser, I discerned that these stories and ornaments were cherished by her. They made her smile a warm motherly smile, not often seen during other months of the year. Finally, I was made to believe that she really loved my toilet paper roll Santas, my elbow macaroni glitter trees, my paper plate cotton ball angel toppers; finally, I was made to believe that she really loved me.
But she was dead by then.
Eleven years ago, I really needed a tree. It was my first Christmas without her, and I really needed to feel loved again. I really wanted to caress those ornaments and trinkets, to remember those stories, and to trim a tree with her gaudy fake garland and vacuum-killing plastic tinsel. It would've been the most beautiful tree...for awhile. It would've been beautiful until the sight of it rang hollow in my new heart of flesh. The tree, its ornaments, the whispers of those old stories, the memories of my beautiful mother were never meant to take the place of my new lord, the true Lord, my God.
God withheld that tree from me for my good. In its place he brought me closer to Him, as I grieved over my mother, my ever-absent and neglectful young husband, and my dashed earthly hopes for my first child. And, He brought me closer to Him as I learned to rejoice that He, unlike my neglectful mother and husband, was always meant to fill the void in my broken and wounded life.
He always loved and loves me, not just at Christmastime.
He holds every homemade and sacrificial gift dear to His heart.
Boy, does He have stories to tell! ((Shhhhhhh, Abba.))
He is always present, never forsaking me, never neglecting me.
My children belong to Him, and His hopes for them are greater than my wildest dreams for they are not bound to this earth.
This year, we don't have a tree. Not that cannot afford one--we can. Not that we don't normally trim one--we do. But we, feeling led to give more at this time of year, are making some sacrifices, and the very first thing to go was the Christmas tree. You see, although I love, love, love to sit next to a fire with soft hymns playing in the background and a mug of something rich between my palms, contemplating the glory of Emmanuel, I don't need it anymore. I don't need those ornaments and stories to feel loved. I don't need to fill the gap of my formerly neglectful husband anymore. And, I don't grieve for the futures of my children either--pooh.
No, I know the Father's love for me more deeply than ever before. It's not only "Christ with us" but Christ IN us, THROUGH us, and FOR us. He is truly risen, He is truly King, and He is truly all I ever need.
