This post gently touches on themes of abuse. Take your time, and be kind to yourself as you read.
It was Christmas Eve in 1983. My father had left suddenly the summer before. My destitute mother molded biscuits at Hardees each morning to make enough money to pay rent and buy food to feed four, hungry children. Our run-down, shotgun house in Southern Indiana was the only housing she could afford.
Winter winds threatened to rip through the heavy plastic my mother had duck-taped over the drafty, cracked windows, but my mother’s determination had thwarted the cold, at least partly. We had no money for heat. A simple gas stove would be lit throughout the day, in intervals, so as to warm the downtown stairs to a bearable temperature, but not too much as to run up the gas bill.
My mother had written to her relatives for a place to go or for some money to help. The reply had been a scathing rebuke from one of them. “How could a pastor’s wife get a divorce. So, no, you aren’t welcome here.” My father’s child support checks never showed either. No money. No support.
We were alone.
I had become an emotional wreck, unable to go to high school, because of undiagnosed illness. Sadly, I knew Christmas would come and go with no gifts, though I held in my heart a secret hope of one gift – a boom box. I told no one. I knew my mother would not be able to afford anything, even though she tried to force smiles and decorated a tree as she had always done.
Christmas Eve had come – along with hard, cold darkness which filled the night. My mom gathered my siblings and wrapped them in the warmest clothing we had. She looked back to offer me one last chance to join them, but I waved them on, as they hurried out the door. The firemen in the neighborhood were throwing a Christmas party for all the children on the block, and so my mother had taken my siblings to celebrate.
A little while later, my family hustled back in the house, with unwrapped gifts shoved under their arms and grins from ear to ear. “For you,” my mother said, as she handed me a rectangular, wrapped box. As I took it, the weight caught me off guard. Hurriedly, I unwrapped it, to uncover just what I had wished for – a new, shining (at least that’s how I remember it) boom box!
How did anyone know?
Tears welled in my eyes, as the realization hit me. In the middle of our dire circumstances, God loved me and cared for that simple heart’s desire.
For years, I’ve held that memory close to my heart, as I’ve seen God’s loving faithfulness again and again and again throughout my life.
As you face this Christmas, maybe you are facing loses of family or friendships. We are. May you are processing through unmet expectations or strained relationships. We are too. Maybe you have survived horrific abuse at this time of the year. Me too. I’m a childhood survivor of just about every abuse imaginable. I get the depression and trauma holidays can bring. Maybe there is sickness or disease or even death that has afflicted you or your loved ones this year. We have walked that road as well, especially in recent years.
Christ didn’t come as a King to fix the world. He didn’t come to make our worlds tidy and clean and neat. He didn’t come to fill our trees with presents, though sometimes He chooses to give us that special present to show us how much He cares.
He came to give.
To give Himself.
Lowly. Humbly. Freely.
And He gave us all He had – everything. Vulnerably. Tenderly. Knowing that He would lay down His very life for the sake of love, so that we can live in and through Him forever.
He came to comfort those who are mourning – to give beauty for ashes, a crown of glory, instead of Spirit of despair. He came to deliver us from darkness and bring us into His glorious LIGHT.
Wherever you are this Christmas, whatever you are going through, I want you to know that God sees you. He loves you. He came for YOU. And there is HOPE. For He is our HOPE. And maybe I needed to hear that too.
Much Love. And Merry Christmas.
