I daresay there isn’t a one of us who hasn’t hurt, isn’t hurt, or will likely in the future hurt when Christmas rolls around. For many years I pushed aside the sadness at Christmas time, ignoring the happenings choosing to instead of focusing on the goodness. One of the best things I’ve done and continue to do. YET. No longer can I ignore the pings of pain nor can I deviate from acknowledgement of others whose sorrow mirrors my own. That being said, sorrow and joy can mingle together often so closely its hard to tell which is which at times.
Sorrow should never derail us from the wonder of Christ Child born in a manager- if anything allow, fight for it , it to point towards Him who loves you. Knowing the grief He himself carried. The hope of fully God, fully man gives strength to celebrate despite the swirling chaos of our emotions.
I’ll never forget two years ago.
The worst Christmas- even now I struggle to find the good. Yet, I find pieces of goodness anyways. We celebrated Christmas in basically a wooden box, our version of a modern manager you could say…though it was not a cave. Our house unclad from its brick and siding, heater broken, and no oven to cook in. I shared a room with my mom cluttered from luggage from our recent move and from the disaster of downstairs. Kate’s room was the “family room, kitchen, and office- it was essentially the “main room in which we did our daily activities”. There’s three levels of our home and yet only two rooms were “inhabitable”…to put very loosely. Downstairs were stripped bare, dry walls in parts of the house none existed, subfloor glaring proudly, sheets like area 51 fluttering as blasts of cold wind entered through the poorly hung new windows and in places designed to “hold” the drywall dust. Our water filter dribbled even on full blast cold of lukewarm water and the tap cold was non existent from our kitchen faucet. Black mold permeated the house as our holiday scent. It was the first Christmas without my dog and loss of a friend, the grief was still volatile and unprecitible when tears would fill what words could not . Still, we persevered , determined to celebrate. But there was one thing I longed for a taste of and that was cinnamon rolls. As strange as it was- I fell asleep Christmas eve eve asking Him, “Please isn’t there anyway to have cinnamon rolls?” The unlikeliness of cinnamon rolls was clear as day. I knew we could not move, to get an oven there was no room anywhere else. But that is a story perhaps for another time.
The Christmas Eve service was in many ways changed my life along with perspective and I praise God for it being held. I remembered tears sprung to my eyes in the darkness, grateful no one could see me. Seeing my people mill about, many choosing the same as I to celebrate with joy. My sorrow never ever topped theirs, it can’t. We all have a choice of how we carry the sorrows and weight. A choice of how we encourage each other. One I try even when I fail to do. I remember asking people starved for happy news, what their plans were for Christmas and how their Christmas decorations were coming. For me- if I can’t have it, it is far better someone to be able to.
Comparison is a thief, but one more silent, deadly is the un-acknowledgment of the blessings you already have.
Tomorrow’s dinner, I knew would be leftover Chinese. We’ll have crackers, sausages, and cheese for dinner with fruit and such for dessert. It will be a very good Christmas I decided…no matter what. As I talked with people that Christmas Eve, strengthened from the message, thanksgiving, pride of my people, and love dripping into my exhausted being I found myself surprised when someone thrusted something in my hands.
“I couldn’t let you leave without cinnamon rolls.” a new friend whose presence I’ve come to dearly love said. Tried as I might I could not keep the tears from flowing. She wrapped me in a hug. “They’re gluten- free and dairy-free. I don’t know how good they are, but I wanted to make them for you.”
I breathed thanks. Clutching the rolls I made my way to the door. We were few last remaining stragglers as usual. In the car, I displayed proudly the cinnamon rolls. Mom laughs and pulls out a second pan that contains cinnamon rolls given by a dear and familiar friend.
Christmas Cinnamon Rolls made for a Christmas to be filled with thanksgiving.
It is one of the simplest gift given, but a gift that means still a lot to this day. We feasted for breakfast that Christmas morning. I wish I could say the day passed like a fairytale. But it didn’t. There was a fight, words spoken to deaf ears, and tears shed. Extremely awkward situation broken by time and prayer. We managed to get through. I don’t remember much more after than other than charcuterie board and our stockings that came in the holder of Trader Joe bags- our stockings packed away. Ending the night worshiping, we went to our respected respites. We didn’t have a tree, nor were there decorations you see. But we did have each other…physically at least. Whispered prayers, thankful heart, and finding small ways to see His goodness.
Never the less, we found a way to celebrate. We clung to joy. Despite the chaos, we fought tooth and nail for beauty. And we found it. We remembered to celebrate the birth of Jesus. There were no baking, no decorations, no lights, aside from small presents from dollar store in trader Joe bags, no presents ( and the food), and barely sanity to be had. YET. We had and still do the most important celebration- making it about Him. The reason for the season…and the power of praying for Christmas cinnamon rolls.
If this year is hard, take as many deep breathes as you need. Find whatever beauty you can. It’s okay to cry. Put into your hands what are yours…but if I may. Don’t put expectations into your hands…simply love what is yours. Allow however you can celebrations, thanksgiving, and praise on your lips. It makes a difference what you release into the atmosphere. Find yourself a way…to celebrate Christmas.