My parents still roll their eyes when they talk about those Christmases past, when their young boy, who should have been having visions of sugar-plums dancing in his head, was, instead, very much awake.
Clad in footie pajamas, yours truly would pad into his parents’ room at four o’clock on Christmas morning, begging them to get up to open presents. He would then be promptly warned that if he did not return to his bed, his father would spring from his, and all would not go well for the little boy. Although I eventually learned the boundaries of acceptable Christmas morning start times, getting myself to sleep on Christmas Eve remained a great struggle for much of my boyhood. I would lay awake wondering which of the toys I had so carefully circled in the JC Penney Christmas catalog might be sitting beneath the tree, just waiting for me to remove the colored paper. Maybe the G.I. Joe or the Legos or the art set or even the coveted metal detector. The anticipation of it all was almost too much for a boy to take! Until it wasn’t. I trace it back to the first year my younger sister had to wake me up to open presents on Christmas morning. I was a teenager then, and my desire to sleep rather than open presents signaled the fizzling of Christmas morning’s magic in my life. This is not to say, however, that my appreciation for Christmas itself dwindled. On the contrary, as the importance of the materialistic aspect of Christmas Day lessened, my appreciation for the actual significance of the holiday increased. At this time of year, we often hear the question, ‘What does Christmas mean to you?’ It’s the stuff of middle school writing prompts and soft news stories—the kind of question only a generation steeped in existentialism would ask. Frankly, what Christmas means to me is irrelevant. It’s like asking what I think the sum of three and six ought to be, or in what year I feel Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Facts, to borrow one commentator’s famous mantra, do not care about my feelings. The inherent meaning of Christmas, rooted in historical fact, is as settled as settled gets. But does this mean that Christmas is merely the impersonal commemoration of an ancient historical event? Not at all. In fact, it means that Christmas is one of the most personal events of world history. For me, Christmas became more personal at the same time the gifts under the tree began to lose their magnetic powers. It was my awareness of personal sin, specifically, that made the celebration of the coming of the sinless One a much weightier matter. He was no longer simply the Baby Jesus of the church Christmas play— He was the incarnate Son of God, the Messiah of Israel, the One who died in my stead. Now that I am an adult, with children of my own, Christmas morning is, again, a time of expectation. In just a couple of weeks, my children will soon be tugging at my pajamas, begging me to rise early so they can unwrap their presents. I don’t begrudge them that joy. But as I contemplate the event that Day celebrates, I am challenged by the fact that the reality of Christ’s birth, death, and resurrection warrant my eager anticipation each day of the year. The hymn writer put it best: From His throne Jesus came Laid aside Heaven's fame In exchange for the cross of Calv'ry For my gain suffered loss For my sin He bore the cross He was wounded and I was set free. Now, that’s a gift worth getting up for. Merry Christmas.
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AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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