I’ve already made about twenty lists to organize myself and my thoughts for the Christmas season: people to see and gifts to buy and cookies to bake and ornaments to make and menus to plan and blog posts to compose and cards to send, etc. I’ve already gone to the craft store far more times than one should and have spent far more time than I’d like perusing Amazon for the perfect toddler gifts. There’s been very little quiet and stillness and it actually has nothing to do with the fact that we have a two year old in our midst. My mind just grows exceptionally chaotic this time of year. And every year I need to remind myself that I don’t need to create Christmas.
I’ve always loved Christmas, but as I’ve gotten older sometimes the celebrations in the name of love have grown to overshadow love itself. Rather than the celebrations coming from a place of overflow, they’re desperate attempts to contrive a certain feeling.
This year I wanted to carry a verse with me in my heart and on my lips to remember to tie all of our celebrating back to this core of love. Because that’s where we find fullness of life. And that strikes me as the sort of thing that we’re all after this time of year, even if we haven’t articulated it. We want to feel alive and unburdened and we tend to feel the opposite.
I think most of us know that Christmas isn’t about material things or the traditions we have or don’t have. There are certainly sufficient stories and songs to teach us that. And yet there’s a sort of disconnect between knowing that truth cognitively and believing it with our heart and soul.
As we plan for celebrations of love come down, of God with us, what if we began with a reflection on love to guide our preparations. What if instead of thinking of what we should do to make it feel like Christmas we simply asked, “What makes me feel loved?” and then made space for experiencing those things and doing them for other people?
Maybe it is baking homemade treats and drinking warm drinks.
Maybe it is giving gifts to those you love to spread some cheer.
Maybe it is singing familiar carols around the piano with others. Maybe it’s singing familiar carols at the piano by yourself.
Maybe it’s decorating your home with imperfect toddler crafts, recognizing that this season of life is a short one.
Maybe it’s decorating your home with exceptional beauty and magic.
Maybe it’s looking someone in the eye.
Maybe it’s enthusiastic embraces.
Maybe it’s inviting friends over for a living room picnic.
Maybe it’s phone free walks with hot cocoa and a friend.
Maybe it’s choosing to listen wholeheartedly to someone at a family gathering instead of giving your attention to bits of pieces of all the conversations.
Maybe it’s taking time to write the encouraging words you think of others, but forget to say out loud.
Maybe it’s patiently making space for another car to merge or offering a genuine smile to the cashier.
Maybe it’s snuggling that little one with extra love, comfort, and attention.
Maybe it’s admiring the sunrises and sunsets.
Maybe it’s resting daily in quiet candle light with truth.
Maybe it’s taking a deep breath.
It may sound selfish or like this centering in love belongs in February instead, but what if we made this season one about making space to dwell in the truth that we are loved. Because when we start there, we become capable, thoughtful, powerful lovers of others as well.
May you, dear friends, be captivated by the mysterious love of God this season and always. May you revel in what you can comprehend and may you wonder at what you cannot. May you find yourself transformed as you receive this glorious gift of God With Us and experience the fullness of life that God has desired for you all along.
