Christmas Letter Excerpt

December 21, 2006

It’s seven a.m. on the last day of school before Christmas break, and I’m huddled in a quilt on the couch, writing to you. I can hear the rain outside—I poked out my head, then shuffled my slippers around on the ice. So much for homeroom parties, classroom activities, and taking the entire middle school to a movie. I’m not sure if I’m smiling because I’ve got extra time to work on my Christmas letter and various household responsibilities, because I don’t have to help chaperone 130 kids laced with caffeine and sugar, or because I’ve finally gotten the meaning of the season. Since there’s a joy bubbling deep inside, I’m leaning toward that last one.

A week ago, I went to church in a town an hour and forty minutes away. Not sure if I wanted to make the drive, I started out late. Along the way, and realizing the drive would somehow be worth it, I began praying that God would delay the service. “Just 10-15 minutes,” I pleaded. When I got there, I found that the website information had been incorrect, and I was actually a half hour early.

During my wait, congregants and praise team members greeted me warmly. Perhaps it was obvious that I was a newcomer—the church was a Hispanic one that had recently been affected by an immigration raid within the community (which was the reason for my visit—my interest was piqued, as both a Spanish teacher and a Christian). I learned there were four children who had been taken in by two families in the congregation. Often, immigration officials will release the mother to care for her children if both parents are taken. In these cases, no.

When the pastor began the service, I glanced at my watch. It seemed I had been reading my Bible, smiling, and focusing on not sounding South Dakotan in my Spanish greetings for quite some time. 11:13 a.m.: God has a funny way about answering prayer…

The music was good, the drama was thought-provoking, and when I didn’t catch the words leading to prayer times, I followed the posture of those around me. The choir of 6-year-old angels with tinsel halos was adorable…once I got over how close they stood to my seat, since I was right next to their take-off point. Did you know that a kindergartener’s hands are remarkably close to the level of my head when sitting? You take note of that when each one is holding a lit candle.

I’d been suffering through a dried-out Christmas season—no snow, political correctness, and wondering what the significance of the 25th was, anyway. It probably wasn’t when Jesus was born. And salvation came through Jesus’s dying on the cross and His resurrection—Easter, not Christmas.

Larger than the people’s warmth toward me and the empathy I felt toward them was the word of God presented through a sermon in a language that is not my own. The pastor kept using a verb I knew I knew…but couldn’t recall. Then at once I caught the meaning of the word—and the meaning of Christmas.

In context, I realized it was “gave.” Jesus gave His rights, His life, His body, His everything. Christmas celebrates the day He came to do that. Without Easter, Christmas wouldn’t have a point. Without Christmas, Easter wouldn’t be possible. With that clutched in my head and my heart, the rest of the season makes sense: the light and hope of salvation.

So that, my friends, family and cyberspace strangers, is my Christmas letter.