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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It was Oct. 1, 1943, and there were nearly two years left of World War II. American G.I.s were stationed around the world, fighting tyranny...and homesickness.
Back in the United States, America’s favorite crooner, Bing Crosby, was recording what would become one of his most popular tunes, a song that reflected both the melancholy and the hopes of the age—“I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” It was a piece that channeled the feelings many Americans, both at home and abroad, were wrestling with in the midst of dark days. It also reminded servicemen of what they were sacrificing for. Yank, a magazine published for military personnel, said that Crosby, in his song, “accomplished more for military morale than anyone else of that era.” Although we are not fighting a bloody war this year, we, Americans, and the rest of our world neighbors are witnessing one of the most tumultuous years of the past decade, a year that certainly has caused our own morale to take a hit. Earlier last month, with the last of the Halloween candy gone, my thoughts turned to the holidays. My heart warmed with anticipation of my family’s trip back to Cass City for Christmas. Las Vegas, where I now live, has endless opportunities for entertainment during the holiday season, but in my mind, there is no better place to celebrate than in the little village nestled in Michigan’s Thumb. It is there that I find my family and friends, who are always up for a visit over a cup of hot chocolate. There, the peace of the town, blanketed by a late afternoon snow, refreshes me. There, the voices lifted in worship under the warm glow of the lights in the Baptist church, give new life to the old greeting, Merry Christmas. As I packed my bag, thinking about such joyful things, I hummed —I’ll be home for Christmas. But when a friend with whom we had recently been in contact notified us that they tested positive for Covid-19, everything changed. That text changed our plans entirely, not only because it meant we had to be tested (a process that took, in our case, three days), but also because it caused us to consider the severity and reality of this microscopic nemesis. It all added up to one thing — we had to cancel our plans. I would be home for Christmas, but only in my dreams. If you think about it, a change of plans is a major motif of the biblical Christmas account. The dreams of a young man and his betrothed are changed when they learn that she is carrying the Messiah of Israel. The social and political aims of Rome were disrupted by the rumors of a royal Child born in the City of David. And best of all, the status quo of the world, “in sin and error pining,” was upended when “He appeared and the soul felt its worth.” This year, my family and I will celebrate Christmas in our little apartment, not under a blanket of snow, but rather under the shade of a palm tree. It will be different, and I will, undoubtedly, dream about being home for Christmas in that most special of villages. But I will also be reminded that, no matter where we might be, no matter how white the Christmas is or is not, the event we are celebrating transcends Covid-19. The Person we are celebrating was and continues to be a major disruption to mankind’s plans. Indeed, the night His pitiful cry was first heard in Bethlehem, the future of the world — particularly that of those who put their trust in Him for salvation—was irreversibly and dramatically altered. Now that’s a change of plans I’m grateful for. |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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