Wednesday, December 20, 2000
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Wednesday, December 20, 2000 |
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Missing something this Christmas . . . By AMY RILEY Christmas is that time of year when children seem to light up brighter than any light on any tree. They write thoughtful letters to Santa, picking their words like they were picking jewels in the sand so as not to appear greedy in the eyes of the patron of presents. They tidy their rooms, and conduct themselves as if some angel has plopped himself right on their shoulders, sprinkling goodness and sweetness that seems to ooze right out of them. Parents cast knowing glances at each other over the heads of their bustling offspring. Everyone is joyful, relaxed, and savoring the moment. Ah, sweet Christmas, the very essence of peace on Earth. Bah humbug, you say? No peace on your Earth? Are you more like a grousing Grinch or a scornful Scrooge? Are you dashing and dancing and prancing and fixin'? Are there visions of sugar plums in your head, or are your visions the result of some self-induced stupor from late, late night wrapping? Have you locked yourself in your closet to box up your gifts as little round fingers poke under the door? So, this is Christmas. For most of us, especially the women folk, peace on Earth and good will toward men settles on us sometime on Christmas day itself. It usually happens about the time the last dish goes into the dishwasher from the dinner that took hours to prepare, but minutes to eat. It happens about the time we settle down for a nap, when the sound of children bouncing Nerf missiles off of downstairs walls (and heads) is as muffled and distant as the faraway crackle of melting snow. At last, peace, if not on Earth, at least in this house. The hustle and bustle winds down to a rustle, and we finally take the time to reflect. As parents and grandparents, we have a perspective that our children do not. They are, quite simply, anticipation unbridled. They are joy with no limits. It is through their eyes that we glimpse what they see. And yet part of us longs for a simpler time, a quieter time. We secretly yearn for a homemade holiday, a totally non-commercialized Christmas. We journey back in our minds to the days when people received a gift fashioned by the loving hands of their papas, when neighbors went caroling, and friends dropped by to say hello, and there was always some fresh-baked goodie, still warm from the stove, to enjoy at the kitchen table. It's probably the hardest thing to reconcile as an adult. We relish the antics of our children as we shuffle them to and fro, and still we wish that they could have more by doing less. One day last December, our youngest child declared the three people she loved the most, God, Jesus, and Santa Claus. I had a great chuckle at her version of the Holy Trinity. Our son has raised the brows of more than a few Santas by asking for exquisite treasures like nails and wood. The older children (we have one of those) roll their eyes at the lengths that their own flesh and blood parents will go, but wisely utter not a word. It's the loot that they want, and if enduring all that parental silliness and, frankly, embarrassing behavior is what they must do, then so be it. It is precious and memorable, all of it. And still we feel that something is missing. What we realize each year, when we sense that we've nearly missed it again, is that Christmas isn't a day. It's 2000 years. It isn't a season, it's a belief system. It's parties and pageants and gift giving, sure. But it is ultimately something so much more. It is simple and humble. It is quiet and unassuming. It is the faithful obedience of a humble servant who, when harkened by an angel sent by God, accepted with dignity and reverence the most awesome destiny. Her name was Mary, and she bore us a King. In a stable that night, as gentle beasts gazed on with doe-eyed innocence, Hope was born into this world. His name was Jesus Christ, and He was the gift of all time. I'll have my homemade Christmas one day. And next year I'll try harder not to lose sight of the stable. May the peace and Hope of the world be yours this Christmas. (Your comments are welcome: ARileyFreePress@aol.com.)
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