I was only five, maybe six, that Christmas Eve, circa 1960. My brother, Dougie, a year and a half older than me, was beside me. We were in our twin beds, squirming, fidgeting, futility, trying to fall asleep: quite the impossible order for two little brothers waiting on Santa and his reindeer to land on our rooftop. But that’s what Mom and Dad told us we had to do: go to sleep. The command assured us that we wouldn’t. So, our oldest brother, Lowell, tip-toed into our room with instructions, he said, from Mom and Dad, whom I’m sure were busy helping Santa wrap our presents.
“Mom and Dad gave me this ‘sleepy sand,'” Lowell told us, “and if you don’t go to sleep, I’ll have to throw it in your eyes.”
I’ll always wonder if Mom and Dad told Lowell to do that or if he, the budding teenager he was, had a juvenile inspiration. But it must have worked, for my next memory is Christmas morning.
Isn’t that just like Christmas? The next thing we know, it’s here.
“We’re never going to make it,” we tell ourselves. We toss and turn, wring our hands, zoom from store to store, and surf the internet for the latest deal of the day.
“What to get for Aunt Nelda and Cousin Jake?” “How will we afford something for all the kids this year?” “Where will all the aunts, uncles, and their dogs and cats sleep in our two-bedroom house?” “I sure could use a Christmas bonus this year.” “Our kitchen is too small for all these people.”
And then it happens. Christmas arrives. We make it. Somehow. Someway. Not everybody is as satisfied as we had hoped. But some are. And it’s okay.
Somewhere in the hustle and bustle, or when it all settles, we realize the lead-up is never easy.
It never was.
We have this idyllic picture of a tranquil night before Christmas morning. And few people have that. Well, maybe Clement C. Moore did.
“Twas the night before Christmas,
When all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung
By the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas
Soon would be there.”
According to Moore, in that famous poem, that’s what was happening on the night before Christmas. Our lives rarely echo that silence on Christmas Eve. And the Bible gives us a different version, another message.
After all, Jesus was born in a barn; the shepherds were in the field; Bethlehem was overcrowded. The only person who had it easy was King Herod, the drum major for the Missing Christmas Parade.
God came to us in Jesus Christ. He arrived in our mess, in our filthy barns with their smell of bovine excrement, in our offbeat homes and families, and on our earth, filled as it seems, with everything harsh and harmful but without a smidgin’ of peace.
But then, it’s Christmas, if we will only let it. If we will rest in its truth. Let the sleepy sand sink into our worried eyes. And let God be God. In Jesus Christ.
“The stockings were hung
by the chimney with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas,
soon would be there.”
No, that’s not what Christmas is all about. Not really. Christmas is about God coming to us in Jesus Christ, the Hope of the world.
If that’s true, it’s time to wake up.
It’s Christmas!
You can contact Dr. David Whitlock @drdavid@davidwhitlock.org