Finding Christmas in the Hard

In the spirit of spreading joy and kindness at Christmas, I always try and brainstorm a number of activities that will involve the kids and show them that Christmas is about more than presents, their elf, and the magical experiences I try and create for them.  Last year, we did lots of fun little activities together.  We taped a Wal-Mart gift card to a windshield, left a care package to our UPS and Postal Service friends, passed out treats to college students on finals' week, and shared cocoa kits with our neighbors.  This year, I specifically wanted to expose our kids to some places in our community of people who maybe feel a little unseen, especially during the holidays.  I signed up to deliver Salvation Army calendars and treats to a local nursing home and had a rather glossy picture in my head of what it might look like.  I pictured our kids giving hugs and high fives to lots of older people, pictured lots of warm smiles and fuzzy feelings, and even wondered if there would be a piano for Cruz to play some of the Christmas music he's been practicing.  I just pictured we would leave feeling full of that warm, fuzzy feeling of "Christmas."   

The night of, I felt tense.  My first tendency is to want to retreat in my comfortable little bubble, especially when things feel uncomfortable.  I made the kids wash their hands for the entirety of "Happy Birthday to Jesus" and worried about what kind of germs we were all going to pick up a week before Christmas.  I started to question the entire thing, and even asked Beau if we could not go fifteen minutes before we left.  

If you think this is the part where I’m going to write about how special it all was, this isn't the blog post I'm writing.  It was hard.  The nursing home we visited was lower-income and they specialized in providing hospital-type care for pretty severe situations, including nineteen "vent beds" for people hooked up to ventilators.  Most of the people we visited couldn't speak much and were either confined to beds or wheelchairs.  Half of them weren't "elderly," the word we practiced with the kids prior to going, but were 50 and younger, many of whom had brain-related injuries.  And of the sixty residents we visited, only one had another family member there visiting them.  We didn't see looks of happiness and gratitude, but instead were confronted with lots of images of suffering and pain.

We were led up and down the hallways by a sweet woman who was in charge of directing activities for residents.  We were so grateful for her presence with us, introducing us to the names and stories behind each of the faces we encountered.  I wish I could tell you I felt good about doing God's work in that particular place, but my first reaction wasn't that.  My first reaction, I think so often the one we have as parents, was to shield my kids from what they were seeing.  I felt bad I had signed them up for this and immediately wanted to plop them right back in the comfortable little bubble I'm so good at creating for them. 
 
But the kids, they felt anything but the feelings I was carrying as we made our way through those halls.  They were brave and amazing.  They marched a bit guardedly into each room, surveyed the machines and smells and unfamiliar surroundings with big trusting eyes, and carried out their mission with sweet love.  Mila's high-pitched "Merry Christmas" resonated in each room.  A few times, I tried to go in first, thinking they would welcome it, but they moved passed me, eager and determined to share their calendars to each precious recipient.  

We left under a dark December sky and I drew a sigh of relief.  I asked the kids what sounded good for dinner and laughed when Cruz thought the sloppy joes and jello they were eating sounded really good to him.  I was quiet, though, one part of me wondering if it was all too much for Cruz and Mila, and a part of me feeling less "Christmas" than when we started. 

I hear a call in my heart lately - Go to the broken.  Go to the broken.  But places like this make me uncomfortable because it feels so hopeless.  I can’t go and visit and leave feeling good.  I can't write about it in some perfectly manicured blog post tied up with a bow.  The fact is, my faith is tested when I have a hard time reconciling why so many people have to live in such hard places on this earth.  And why I don’t.  I look at the suffering of people and Heaven just feels so far away.


This morning, I was reading about Abraham in Genesis 12 when he looks up at the stars and God promises his plan of redemption through him.  A plan that at the time seemed so far-reaching.  Abraham was one hundred years old and hadn't any children, yet God promised him He had a plan in store to bless the whole world through his lineage.  And all He asked of Abraham was simply to believe. 

“He (Abraham) did not waver in unbelief at God’s promises but was strengthened in his faith and gave glory to God because he was fully convinced that what God had promised He was able to do.” (Romans 4:20-21) 

It’s easy to look around at the suffering and wonder where God is in it all.  But God wants us to be like Abraham, to look at the sky and be convinced that He is a God who promises to redeem it all.   All we have to do is believe and fully trust that His plan is better than ours.  

And in the meantime, we have this perfect example of what our job looks like.  Jesus.  God in human form, who came to live in it all – the good, the mundane, the broken, and the uncomfortable places no one else wanted to touch.  As I watched my two innocent kids walk in and out of those rooms last night, I saw Jesus’ hands and feet.  One of the last rooms we went to was a man no older than Beau or I.  His speech therapist was there with him and greeted us with a smile.  She said this man had kids about the same age as Cruz and Mila.  He was awake and alert, but could not speak in sentences and couldn’t move much of his body.  We learned later he was hit by a moving train and lost nearly half of his brain and skull in the accident.  And as my heavy heart struggled to comprehend the magnitude of loss for his life, his family's, and his kids', I watched my sweet girl’s hand try to reach out and grab his.  He had little control of it and it was shaking with a pretty good force, but she went for it anyways, looked at him with her sparkly blue eyes, and told him Merry Christmas.  And I’m pretty sure Jesus smiled and whispered “well done” in that small and sweet interaction.  

The world is hard, but we have Jesus.  And each and every night, we can look up at that sky and be reminded of everything we need.  His promise of unwavering love, new mercy, sufficient grace, and goodness.  And that promise is Christmas.