a Christmas to Live in Infamy

I can no longer ignore it. Christmas demands a blogging reflection. And well, *sigh* it was a hell of a Christmas.

Calm down.

Not in that John Wayne "helluva" expletive sense. But more of that "hell and damnation" sense. Stay with me here. I will sermonize momentarily and than return to my running commentary on more pressing things like Downton Abbey's season premiere and the merits of leggings for women over 30.

Right before Christmas, we all (save for Jason the genetic marvel) contracted the flu, as in the nose-swabbed-CDC reported influenza. That was great fun. Then, on Christmas day, my sister underwent an emergency appendectomy which gave her holidays that certain je ne sais quoi- Garland on your gurney! Later that week, our gracious hosts, my parents succumbed to the stomach bug, successively, like dying dominoes.  Awaiting our turn, we preemptively sipped ginger-ale and considered suing them for negligence. (I hear that's all the rage these days.) *wink* 

Finally, a tragic denouement- the sudden death of a family friend. Sickness. Sadness. Death. Not equal in their gravity. But indisputably hints of hell.

And that was just us.

Meanwhile, throughout the world, Pastor Saeed languished for another Christmas in an Iranian cell. ISIS continued to exercise their evil aims while racial violence bloodied our nation's streets. To many-not such a wonderful life. 

Admittedly, there was a tentative reluctance to celebrate- even Bing Crosby's baritone seemed a bit cheeky and almost irreverent. Which is ironic: 

In the first century Judea- the advent of Christ's birth was shrouded in violence, oppression, destitution, and despair.  God had been silent for 400 hundred years. The echoes of hell, the curse of sin and death gripped a weary world. And then, into the silent dark of night, He speaks. The Word became flesh.

The advent of the God Man was at the applause of angels but not because of Rockwellian hearths graced with garland and flanked by trimmed trees or the chorus of rosy-cheeked carolers.  We (okay, I) have heard this a bazillion times.  Then, I saw it. This Christmas. For the first time in forever. (You're welcome, Frozen fans). . . 

It is the wretched, waiting, rotting world that most longs for a Savior.  As my "man-crush theologian" (just wait, that's gonna be a thing) C.S. Lewis describes, Narnia would not be "always winter."  Jesus was the ransomed promise of a "deeper magic" - through Whom, "death itself will begin to work backwards."

Apparently, it takes 7 days in your pajamas, sandwiched by your feverish kids, and within arms reach of a "vomit bucket" to bring some clarity on this whole Christmas thing.

I should stop here. But "Debbie Downer's" don't get invited to the parties.  And there were a a few perfect holiday moments- idyllic and full of health and worthy of scrambling for my camera and screaming for everyone to just "stay right there."

Perhaps most memorable though was the memorial service I attended. Lengthy and lovely tributes were offered for this much adored matriarch. Most compelling were the countless testimonies to her vibrant faith.  And so, it is because of the first Christmas, a deeper magic has prevailed and grieving is not without hope.

That is the merry in Christmas.