It has been a rough week. Last Thursday should have been the day I called my uncle to wish him happy birthday. Instead, I was in the capital assisting with surgical screening, away from the ship with no way to call home. In reality, it doesn't matter where I was; he died in May, so calling him was out of the question regardless. I listened to stories of people who had spent days traveling to the screening to see if there was any hope for healing, all the while remembering a man whose own brokenness kept him from making a single phone call that would have saved his life. I had no one to call because he chose not to call anyone - sometimes, irony can be a real slap in the face.
On Christmas Eve, we place shoes out in front of our doors - it's a bit like hanging a stocking from a mantle. Friends leave cards, gifts and goodies in and near our shoes, and we wake Christmas morning to see what has been left behind. Last night I worked on the gifts I would leave, and used the last of the goodies from the last care package I received from the woman I have called "mom" since I was nine. She passed away about 10 weeks ago. I prepared my gifts last night as tears rolled down my cheeks, the finality of it all slapping me in the face. I found myself thinking that I should call Grandma Helen, her mom, to see how she is doing...until I remembered that she is gone, too.
So far, this Christmas has been one of the hardest I have ever had...and yet, it is also the most meaningful Christmas. For Christians, Christmas is a big deal because we celebrate Christ being born to a virgin in a smelly, noisy stable, beginning a life that would be lived to save smelly, noisy humanity. You know what's crazy, though? It is 25 December, and yet the holiday I am celebrating in my heart isn't Christmas - it's Easter. My heart isn't full of hope just because my Savior was born - my heart is full of hope because my Savior also died. My heart is full of hope because what began in a manger ended on a cross, and that death means that not all goodbyes are final. Death will always hurt. Grief and loss are present regardless of whether or not you have the hope of heaven to comfort you. Here's the amazing part, though: the start of the life we celebrate today means that one day we will celebrate the end of death. We sing "O Come Emmanuel" partly to celebrate the first time He came, but also to remind ourselves that He is going to come again. The manger brought the first arrival - the cross promises a second.
I know there will be more tears today, but I will smile through the tears because a day will come when He, the little guy born into a place prepared for animals, will wipe away my tears as I stand in a place He prepared for me...and that's the best Christmas present anyone could ever hope for.
O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
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