Project 52 #50: Christmas Present

If you had told me as little as three years ago that this Christmas we’d have an electric train that puffs real smoke running around our tree, be going on family outings to pick up seashells along an Alaska beach, or learning to make baklava—I would have been surprised (delightfully so).

Interspersed with the unexpected things, are the old familiar traditions we carry with us to a new place, teaching the next generation of my family how to successfully roll out lefse without it sticking to the board or hanging up the favorite ornaments we’ve collected over the years while remembering the beloved people and places they represent for us.

Then there are the old mixed with new, like going caroling, as we have many times over the years, but with new people in new places. Little kids acting out the same old story with brand new energy. Listening to the favorite old carols and festive songs on repeat, but also learning a new one or two. A new Christmas sweater for a growing little boy; favorite hand-me-down Christmas dresses pulled out of totes to pass down to the next girl in line.

I have not yet spoken about the “wished for”, but there is always a little of that, too, like wishing that family was coming to visit, or that eggnog would go down in price.

This is the Christmas of the present (not to be confused with the Christmas of the presents), full of an assortment of new experiences and old traditions, hopes filled and wishes ungranted. The old, the new, the not-yet—every year it is thus. Sometimes, we miss the present living too longingly in the future; sometimes, we miss the present by living too wistfully in the past. Hopefully, though, more often we are living fully in the present, fully embracing the imperfect yet unique gift of NOW, that will never come again.

Thankfully, there is One thing about Christmas that is never old, new or yet-to-come, but always present—and His constancy is the real reason we celebrate the same thing every year, our perfectly enacted cherished traditions, our humble and fumbled attempts at festivity, even our highest and frequently dashed expectations of the season, all mere and (if we’re being honest) unworthy gestures of awe at the wonder that the great I AM wittingly entered time and space and flesh—for us.

“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, who are small among the clans of Judah, out of you will come forth for Me One to be ruler over Israel—One whose origins are of old, from the days of eternity.” (Micah 5:2)

“In the beginning, O Lord, You laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of Your hands. They will perish, but You remain; they will all wear out like a garment. You will roll them up like a robe; like a garment they will be changed; but You remain the same, and Your years will never end.” (Hebrews 1:10-12)

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” (Hebrews 13:8)

Looking for the Light

The longest darkest nights of winter are here.

Growing up in Minnesota, I’ve always known the contrast of short days of winter to the long ones of summer, but here in southeast Alaska the difference is even greater. While we certainly didn’t move up to the Arctic circle where the days dwindle down to almost nothing, we have indeed moved north, and this is the time of year when we realize it most. The arc of the sun across the sky is shallow, a big blazing ball always in your eyes, rolling in a low arc over the mountains across the bay. This week, on winter solstice, the sun rose at 8:17 AM and set at 3:18 PM. An all-day snowstorm obscured the light even further.

Mankind’s yearning for light is especially distinct at this time of the year.

I was thinking about this as we walked out onto the marina on Sunday night, a group of Christmas carolers with clouds of breath hovering about us in the frosty air. My eyes instinctively sought the points of light as we peered down the docks, looking for the houseboat windows that glowed, signaling that their occupants were home. Around the bay, festive lights twinkled, outlining roof edges and trees in windows. Far above us, pinpricks of starlight formed constellations, and a gentle glow in the east signaled the impending rise of the moon. Someone answered our knock, and headlamps shone down on song sheets. We sang about light:

“Son of God, love’s pure light

Radiant beams from Thy holy face,

With the dawn of redeeming grace,

Jesus, Lord at Thy birth, Jesus Lord at Thy birth.”

Light posts glowed periodically along the marina as we walked back to shore, guiding us safely down the solid boards of the dock and away from the dark icy ocean at its edges. The church was waiting down the street, the cross a lighted beacon and the windows glowing with the promise of hot drinks and cookies awaiting us inside. The door opened and light flooded warmly across the street, beckoning us in.

We were created to love light, and it is at this time of year that I understand the most clearly why Isaiah, Zechariah and John described the coming of Christ this way:

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD rises upon you. For behold, darkness covers the earth, and thick darkness is over the peoples; but the LORD will rise upon you, and His glory will appear over you. Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.” (Isaiah 60:1-3)

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone.” (Isaiah 9:2)

“…because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the Dawn will visit us from on high, to shine on those who live in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace.” (Luke 1:78-79)

“In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:4-5)

The figurative darkness of our souls was once deeper than the darkest Arctic night, yet Jesus came into this world as LIGHT,

brighter than the floodlights down at the barge docks when they’re unloading at night,

brighter than the three story LED cross down the bay on our neighbor’s house,

yes, brighter even than the noonday sun fully unleashed—

and the darkness fled. There is no more reason to walk fearful in the shadows of sin and impending death, blindly groping, peering, stumbling…

because He came.

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” (John 8:12)

Best of Both Worlds

IMG_6148.JPGIs it Christmas lights?  Is it snow?

Yes.

Inside the house, our Christmas tree with the big white origami star brushing the ceiling is twinkling bright; outside the snow lies “deep and crisp and even”*.  In the reflection of the cold windowpane, I can see both at once.  It’s the best of both of my December worlds: all the warmth of a joyful holiday celebration mingled with the wide white expanse of winter’s best accessory, now richly blue in the falling dusk.

It’s also an appropriately symbolic picture of Christmas, considering that the One whose birth we celebrate this week was also the very best of both worlds.  Not of indoors and outdoors, but of heaven and earth.

If I could show you a picture of Him, you might ask:

Is He God?  Is He man?

Yes.

May the marvel of this mystery fill you with thoughtful joy and wonder this Christmas!

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14)

 

*From the carol “Good King Wenceslas” by John Mason Neale.