Not Feeling "Christmas-y"?
Not Feeling "Christmas-y"?
Yeah, me neither.
Mary.
Those two big plastic boxes of Christmas decorations had been sitting by our back door for nearly two weeks … like an accusation. So finally, this morning, in a fit of defeat, I put them back in the garage on their metal shelf where they cannot talk shit to me anymore.
I mean, I did trim the tree.
And I aspired to decorate the house.
But . . . meh.
I just keep thinking, I don’t feel very Christmas-y.
It’s like something is missing, or maybe just not fully snapping into place.
I know I am not alone. A couple days ago, during my Q and O with subscribers here, several of you mentioned feeling the same.
But then yesterday afternoon, sitting in the common area of a unit at Denver Women’s Prison with 10 or so residents, all fellow members of New Beginnings Lutheran Church, we read part of the Magnificat, Mary’s song, from the first chapter of Luke’s Gospel.
My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor on the lowly state of his servant.
Surely from now on all generations will call me blessed,
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name;
indeed, his mercy is for those who fear him
from generation to generation.
Then, in turn, each of these women spoke of their own experiences with mercy: the unfathomable forgiveness given by those who they have harmed, and what can feel like the impossibility of forgiving themselves, and the mercy they fear might never come, and the difficulty of remembering that they are forgiven, and their desperate prayers offered at two in the morning when they seem to struggle most with all of it.
So many tears came, and without anyone making a fuss about it, tissue-thin prison toilet paper passed from one to the other, quiety, reverently, like a sacrament.
Mercy.
Feelings of good will, sentimentality, coziness, and peace may or may not show up for me this year, and that’s ok. Because there is such mercy all around me. Streams of mercy never ceasing.
I’ve never thought of the contemplation of mercy as a “holiday” thing until yesterday. But maybe instead of thinking about what seems to be missing, I can:
… think about how many times I (an unconvicted felon) drove drunk and never got arrested or worse, killed someone.
I can recall the nearly 32 years of sobriety that I have somehow been given while others have not,
I can give thanks for all the people who have forgiven me who, in all fairness, had every right to withhold it.
I can forgive some jackass who also doesn’t “deserve” it.
I can stop treating my life as a reward, when it is really a gift.
Maybe finally just putting that damn box of decorations back in the garage was an act of mercy and not defeat after all.
Perhaps you yourself are all goodness and light this season. And if so, that is a blessing.
For the rest of us, a gentle reminder that Christ will be born on Christmas with or without us "feeling" Christmas-y. Because this pattern of time, this story, these rituals and practices and songs have gone on long before us and will continue long after us. Sometimes we are floating in that river of faith, just swimming in it and feeling the transcendent warmth of the season. And other times we seem to be standing in just a half inch of the stuff; not even enough to cover our feet. But the power of the river, its source and its destination changes not at all. And both things: submerged in and barely having our feet in are the same. There’s no ranking system at work here. One is not "better" than the other. One does not "count more". That's just not how this thing works. Thank God.
So, my sweet friends, eat a cookie and receive this blessing:
If you find yourself in this familiar time of year, but are seeing and experiencing it with what feel like unfamiliar eyes, may your vision be sharpened to take in what you missed during all those years you saw what you expected to see and felt what you expected to feel. May you experience the unfamiliar as an unfolding and not as an undoing. And may you not take any of it, or yourself, even a tiny bit more seriously than absolutely necessary.
I’ll try and do the same.
With gentleness and grit,
Nadia
So I just had two cookies and a coffee for breakfast. I wrote a bit ago about my wife of 40+ years having died and the holidays are not so merry by myself. I continue to sort and donate stuff and earlier this week it was the same as I took some of the now "extra" Christmas decorations to a charity resale shop. But, the "turn of thought" that helped me was to imagine that those things I donated were the "just in time" items needed by a young family/person who otherwise would not have the money to buy them new. Having been that poor college student at one point who shopped all the thrift stores for my young family - it was easy to imagine. So though it is 'different' to make Christmas for myself these days - I can help to make Christmas for others, and if - through that - I can bring a little Joy to the World... then that is enough.
As a person who is in desperate need of mercy, when I went looking for God, I found and met a God with an endless capacity for mercy. There is a lavish generosity baked into mercy. There is a soft yielding, a gentle giving way that happens in the presence of true mercy that, while I desperately long for it, I find it almost unbearable. I have to make space for it. I have to surrender to mercy, allow it to be true in the moment to receive it, whether it comes from God, from another person, or even when you try to give it to yourself….like putting away the box of decorations.
In this season of my life, where I am hour by hour trying to live “the unfamiliar as unfolding and not undoing” (thank you for that blessing) it’s the mercy of God flowing through the people in my life, generously offering me softness when everything else seems harsh, that is what is keeping me from coming undone. It is the soft yielding of another’s heart towards me that, in the most gentle (and sometimes painful way), makes space in my heart to receive it.
It’s like this: When a new mother holding her baby looks at me and says, “Do you want to hold my baby?” I panic. No not me, I’m a mess, I’m clumsy, I’m gonna drop it or hurt it some way. Pick someone else. It’s too precious for my arms to hold. The baby gets handed to me anyway and suddenly in my arms I have the yet unblemished image of God, and without any effort on my part, my heart immediately softens and yields to that Divine experience.
That’s the Christmas I need this year. I need to envision Mary looking at me and saying, “Do you want to hold my baby?”