The Surprise of Christmas

I attended a Ladies Christmas tea recently and the speaker shared memories of her family's Christmases to open her teaching. It was fun to see the pictures and hear the stories she shared. It was a catalyst of sorts for my own memories. Thinking about what stands out in my childhood memories, I was surprised by how much I do remember.

Some of those memories brought warm fuzzies; while others caught my heart in the sad moment. Still others made me laugh. Memories like lying in bed with my little sister and listening for sleigh bells, and remembering the thrill of getting that purple "maxi" coat. Pictures in my head of little plastic bells hung carefully with tinsel garland in each window pane of the big picture window in the front room, and watching my baby brother and sister with "bots" in their mouth stare in amazment and wonder at the twinkling tree that stood in the corner of the living room. One of the warm fuzzy memories are the traditional family visits to all the great-aunts and uncles and Aunt Regie's scrumptuous pizzelles and kruschiki. (I was a teenager before I learned that pizzelles were Italian fare not Polish like Aunt Regina.)

I remember sneaking out at 2am for just a peek and finding the whole tree loaded with presents. I dug through to find something unwrapped that I could enjoy without getting caught. What I found was a miniature working sewing machine with a foot pedal and all. I was so excited. I sat right down and tried it out. In my 7 year old state of delight I did not take into account the amount of noise produced by a little metal machine running in the silence of what had surely been a very late night for my parents. I was quickly sent skipping back to my bed by my not-too-happy mother.

The year my dad was in Viet Nam was a hard one for all of us. We felt his absence all the more as the holiday approached. Mom worked so hard to make sure that everything was good for us and that his absence would not steal our Christmas from us. I'm not sure if it was because I was old enough to get it or if it was part of that mercy-gift-thing, but somehow I remember being acutely aware that it was really important to Mommy that all was well come Christmas morning.

So Christmas morning came and we all tore into our gifts like we did every year. But that morning was heavy and I felt the weight of it with all of my nine years and then some. As I opened those gifts I made sure the surprise was written on my face despite the lack of care I felt toward the presents. I made sure the delight of a child was shining in my smile and eyes, even though the only gift I wanted she couldn't buy me. It would take Uncle Sam not Santa to deliver the one thing I wanted that year. But I needed to give my mom the gift of joy as much as she needed to receive it.

Then there's the year I decided to "just look" and dug through my parents' bedroom closet, discovering every single gift I was getting. I was 12 I think that year. Old enough to know better for sure. On Christmas morning I knew without touching them what each package contained. It was one of the worst Christmases I ever had! But that morning taught me something sweet; it taught me the delight of the surprise. Today I love surprises. I learned that day the anticipation of the moment is as much a part of the gift, the wonder, and joy as the present itself.

I think in some ways the gift of Christ born as a baby was a sweet surprise that was given for every generation that will embrace the delight of the Father in that moment. Even though it had been prophesied and a whole nation waited in anticipation, he came unexpected, at least in the manner he chose to come. To think anew on the incarnation can bring a fresh jolt of surprise. How could it be? Why would he? He could have entered time and space with a trumpet blast(and he will one day)! He could have come on a white horse and announced his place (and he will one day)! He could have claimed the throne of David with a shout and a legion of angels at his side (and he will one day)!

He came in abject poverty. He came through a young virgin who would be mocked and dismissed by those who knew her as just another girl who had made the wrong choice during the betrothal period. He chose to be delivered in the exposed area of a stable. (The stable could have been a cave. It could also have been the center area of a katalamati - the three sided booths encircled a center area where the animals were "stabled" in the open, yet still protected inside the confines of the "inn".) He chose to be born weak. He chose to be born helpless. He chose what worked for us, what was best for us, the way that would bring us peace, and bring his death. He chose to be become the only baby born to die, begotten not created. I don't know about you, but when I consider the incarnation, every year I am surprised and delighted; I am humbled and moved to tears at his love, his sacrifice that began long before the cross stood on the hill, his choice to put me before himself. In that surprise every year, I find the desire, no the need to make sure he knows that I am eternally grateful that I am his.