But I had an active imagination and could play independently for hours, so my enjoyment of the holidays went beyond the usual. I dug my mom's old Christmas records out of the closet---three I especially remember: one by Perry Como, one by the Oak Ridge Boys, and one of instrumental music called "Holiday Strings"---and began listening to them long before the holiday season was near. I would line my Barbie Dolls up on my pink bedroom carpet and stand each one up to take her turn singing when the song on the record changed. I would read Christmas stories, then choose my favorite character and reenact the story quietly in my room. Lying on my bed with a notebook and pen, I would pretend I was a playwright before I ever knew the word "playwright," and would write out scripts for Christmas plays, including specific cues beside each character's name. I felt fascinated by silent Christmas Eve nights that transformed into joyous Christmas mornings with gifts under the tree, an emptied milk glass, and only cookie crumbs left on a plate. And my young heart was lured by the mystery of a divine baby in a manger who was somehow God's son, whose birth was so significant that angels burst into the sleepy shepherds' night and a sudden star caused wise men to embark on a lengthy journey.
Christmas placed a longing in me---
a longing for all that my young mind considered good in the world:
twinkly lights and shiny wrapped gifts,
the delightful wonder of Santa circling the globe in one night
to bring happiness to so many children,
days of celebration with family and friends instead of school,
special songs that we only sang once a year....
and Jesus.
On those December nights when my family's nativity of Mary, Joseph, and the Baby sat on display in the front yard, I would peek through the blinds in my bedroom window to see its soothing glow, and somehow yearn for Him.
Then the day after Christmas---
our house sat quietly.
The tree skirt sat empty, except for a few leftover boxes that hadn't been put away yet.
No rushing off to grandparents' homes to play with cousins
amid the laughter of chattering grown-ups.
December 26 seemed like a stark contrast to the merry days awaiting its arrival.
Then one New Year's Eve, my brother and I sat up late while the TV ticked off the time until midnight. Deciding to create our own countdown, we pulled a chair from the kitchen table into the living room and realized its cushion was about the same height as the piano bench. We placed a yardstick across the chair and piano bench, then threw over it a piece of yarn tied to an apple (since the television countdown was taking place in the "Big Apple"). As the clock slowly ticked by that last hour, we occassionally lowered that string, letting the apple drop a little closer to the floor, until we finally counted down "5-4-3-2-1-Happy New Year!" The following year, some family members dropped by as my brother and I were setting up our countdown apple again, and they ended up staying at our house until midnight. So a new tradition began. Soon each family was taking turns hosting the New Year's Eve celebration, and that helped soften my holiday blues a bit.
Some years, as the calendar crosses the days between late December and January, I feel those blues again---the disappointment of cheery decorations coming down, the end of meaningful candlelit services, the happy-yet-sad memories of relatives who played huge parts in my childhood Christmases.
And I try to comfort myself with the truth that Jesus is still as real and near to me
on gray January days as He was during those long ago holiday nights when
I peeked out my bedroom window to see His small figurine lit up outside.
He doesn't leave when the decorations come down
or slip into silence as we rip another year off the calendar.
When the earth around us appears dry and devoid of life---
He isn't.
As we bid farewell to the past year and watch the clock tick towards the next,
He waits with us---
eager to help heal the hurts of the past twelve months,
rejoice over the happy times,
and walk beside us into the next year.
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