What Christmas Really Is

It was the evening after Christmas.  The house was bustling with the sounds and scurry of little people, my own and my sister’s.  Seth was applying toppings to his homemade pizzas, his new pizza stone warming in the oven.  I was enjoying long anticipated conversation with my sister and basking in this glow of post Christmas revelry, caring little for the tiny scraps of wrapping paper and ribbon, random gifts, and partially played games still adorning the floors of our home.  I almost didn’t respond to the screaming that suddenly disrupted the peace.  I heard it coming from my 10 year old son from downstairs, thinking this was simply another moment of brotherly “love” taking an ugly turn. But something inside me instructed a swift response when I noticed my oldest child, the regular culprit of such situations, very much upstairs, and not a part of the basement noise.

Ten very intense minutes later (that might be the year’s largest understatement), I found myself in the back of our van comforting a still screaming, very scared boy as my husband drove to the Emergency Room.  And I was just as terrified.  I had seen white beneath the gaping flesh below his left knee. White.  In my almost 14 years of mothering, I had never seen a cut that massive.  I had never had to hold a child in that much pain.

It was a long drive.

When we finally arrived, we were asked to sit in the waiting area by someone behind a window.

Um…no.

Things happen to a mama when her child is hurting like that.

We got in.

Now up to this point I had said about ten thousand prayers, but I was still imagining the worst possible scenario.  Because that’s what I do. (It’s kind of a problem.  Husband is late coming home from work by 20 minutes? He’s lying on the side of the road with paramedics surrounding him.  What? I’m hearing sirens on a Tuesday afternoon? There’s been an accident at the church and my scout has burns all over his body.)  What I didn’t anticipate was the wave of peace that came over me once we were settled in our curtained room.  Seth had taken us to the ER that our next door neighbor and friend works at as a doctor.  He was there that night.  And about 90 seconds after Seth sent Dr. Micah Smith a text, he walked in.  Experience, calm, and a perfect measure of humor gave us quick assurance that all would be well.  It was indeed a significant laceration that required 6 internal and 17 external stitches.  But amazingly, the cut did not puncture the muscle wall but stopped just before it.  This meant Ashton would not have to sit out his upcoming basketball season as was feared.   And major surgery was indeed not required as was also feared by the less rational in the room (the muscle lining was the white I had seen).

Just two hours after the accident occurred, we were driving home.  Ashton’s pain was alleviated, his mind and body were calm, and he was smiling as we talked about what had just happened.  And as we walked in the house moments later we were greeted by a whole lot of family love and delicious pizza.

That night as I said my prayers and then drifted contentedly to sleep, I felt such a tremendous amount of gratitude.  Gratitude for a strong husband who could lift our boy easily in and out of the car, a kind and competent doctor who attended to us so expeditiously, a loving sister and brother-in-law who took care of everything  and everyone while we were gone, wonderful boys who were worried and concerned and who prayed sincerely for their brother.  But more than anything I was grateful to a loving God for orchestrating such a beautiful story for us to cherish, recapitulating in a way the true meaning of the Holiday we just celebrated.  Indeed this experience was a terrifying, tangible, and tender reminder that the birth of Jesus Christ, witnessed by so few, meant one very significant, life changing thing for all mankind.

Healing.

Healing from sin, sickness, and sorrow.  Healing from pain, anguish of heart, and agony of soul.  Healing from hurt, envy, habit, discouragement, despair, addiction, hopelessness, loneliness, and fear.

Ashton’s wound wasn’t the first healing experienced this Christmas Season.  I felt it after a bedside prayer filled with regret and guilt from a day of frenetic busyness spent in stores, in the kitchen, and consumed in marking items off of my list of things to do instead of taking time to sit and read books or play a game with my all day whining, wandering toddler:(.  I felt it after seeing forgiveness in my husband’s eyes during a moment of apology for pushing and rushing our Christmas Eve activities along in order to “fit” everything in only to leave a trail of tense, ugly stress in my wake.  I felt it a dozen other times, it seems, as I awkwardly bumbled my way through the holiday season attempting to create just the right memories for my family to store up for years to come.  (Being mommy is really, really hard.  Especially in December.)

I love Christmas.

I love the way my house looks with our December decor up.

I love the joy in my childrens’ faces as we reintroduce each cherished tradition.

 

I love the scents my oven produces when we bake the annual treasured treats.

I love the music, the lights, the smell of cold in the air, the school programs and parties, the mailbox updates on friends and family.

I love selecting gifts with my husband for our family and watching our boys give generously to each other.

I love the feeling of receiving a gift that is truly meaningful.

I love even more giving such a gift.

But nothing brings more joy to me than healing.

The healing that comes because of Jesus Christ.

 

For me, that is Christmas.