I was speaking recently with a friend about how this life seems to teach us to be tough, to keep rigid edges in place. It’s as if we must hold the tension in order that life doesn’t absolutely break us. We both agreed, however, that our faith teaches us something entirely different. Our faith teaches us that we are to be tender, to embrace the good and the bad and the heartbreaking with a sense of grace and vulnerability. Our bodies teach us this as well. We are healed and mended and energized in those unexplainable moments when we let go and release and yield with wild abandon to what is. When I try so hard to ‘hold it together’, my walk is different and my shoulders are tight. I follow the lead of this voice inside my head that says, “Hold that wall up. Stay strong like concrete. Don’t give into those soft emotions.” And in those times, my body often hurts or grows ill. In those gentle moments, when I allow my being to feel what is present, to be open to pain and confusion, my body begins to rest. When I put down the resistance, all that I am left with in my body is release.
I took the stance of gentleness in the month of December. I also put down the stance of expected joys in this season of what is meant to be merriment. I only wanted to expect that what would come, would come, and what would be absent, would be absent. I wanted to truly be in this season for what is present this year, this day, this moment. I believe most sincerely that this was the gift of Christmas.
Here is how Christmas found me this year:
I witnessed my brother, David, graduate with a Master’s in Rehab Counseling. He was once lost. He said to me many years ago that his life was over, that he would never this and never that. The odds have been stacked against this man. But what does it mean, what does it say when a depressed soul finds new life again in the form of helping others? I walked the dark roads with him. And now we stand together in warm light. Christmas saved.
My father, who is the most precious man in my life, had kidney cancer. That was a bit over a year ago. Every day since his surgery, I am grateful. Truly the walls came down, and I am more present to my loved ones than I have ever been. Take nothing for granted. Nothing. That’s what my father’s round with cancer inscribed on my heart. And what did he do this year? He planned my birthday dinner at one of the fanciest restaurants in town, and he beamed at the gift. And for Christmas? He quietly found a way to record his favorite Christmas story A Child’s Christmas in Wales and gave each of his beloveds a copy of his rendition. He and I sat together a couple of nights after Christmas and listened to it. His voice would swell, and both of our eyes would spill over tears. At the conclusion, we found our arms around one another crying for all that was, for all that is, for all that will one day be. And Christmas saved.
I also had two experiences from my car that soaked into my heart. One evening, I was at a stoplight, and the car beside me had the light on in the backseat. This light displayed this precious baby boy in his car seat. I don’t know how old he was… but he was little… a toddler at the most. But he looked right at me, and then he waved. He waved and waved this most tender, endearing wave. And I felt myself saying, “Baby Jesus is here with us.” And Christmas saved again.
On my birthday, I was on my way to meet my brother for brunch, when at a stoplight there stood a woman holding a sign. Her sign said she had fallen upon hard times and simply wanted a place to be for Christmas. Yes. That is what her sign said. And here I was all dressed up for my birthday about to be treated to something extra nice… something I didn’t need, and there she was. I never know what to do, how best to address these moments, how to be wise and safe and Christian. So, I followed the thread. I looked her in the eyes, and she looked into mine. And I mouthed to her, “I’m sorry.” Then I placed my hands upon my heart, and I continued to hold this gaze with her. And then I prayed for her… hands folded to my lips, and still holding the gaze with her… we prayed. It was just a moment; all unfolding with me in my car and her on the street, but it was a moment. And then the light changed and I moved on. And Christmas saved me once more.
The last story is that after Christmas I had some art work that I wanted to have printed. For about ten years, I have worked with the same man, John, at a local print shop. He has always been this light. I’d walk into the store, and he’d welcome me like a friend. He’d inquire about my dog and my daughter and brag to other customers about my current work. He always made me feel valued… and actually, cherished. Well, he wasn’t there the day I went in recently, so I chatted with his co-worker, Tammy. In our conversation, I asked how John was doing, and she said, “John died.” He had kidney cancer, just like my Dad, and passed away quite quickly after he was diagnosed. I was heartbroken. I was always appreciative of John, and always quick to praise his good work. But I never really told him how he brightened my life, how he made me feel loved and seen and worthy. And here, once again, Christmas saved me.
Now is the holy season to live the stable story. Now is the day to bring our gifts to the vulnerable and become so ourselves. Now is the moment to take down the walls, to remove all the covering from our eyes and ears and hearts, and embrace fully the journey beneath the star filled skies. Holiness is here. Let it save you, too.
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