The Twelve Bargains of Christmas

When I was a child, everyone had a real Christmas tree, either one they chopped down idyllically in the woods or bought from the Boy Scouts in the A & P grocery parking lot. Houses were filled with the intoxicating fragrance of freshly cut evergreens.  All the houses in the world, it seemed, except ours. 

My mother loved Christmas, but she was deathly afraid of fire, among her other favorite fears. The very thought of a dead tree inside the house with glowing electric lights and probably-frayed wires sounded like a nightmare to her. And so, we owned what I always thought was the only artificial Christmas tree in America -- a continually rotating silver aluminum tree with two large pink spotlights shining on rows of matching pink balls. From the street, our living room looked like a store window on Fifth Avenue in New York City.  But in my mom's eyes, this blazingly beautiful display contained nothing that would burn down the house.

The hopes and fears of all the years....

 

 

 

But fire was not her only cause of alarm. No wrapped presents ever appeared under the tree, in case bands of ever-present roaming robbers would somehow see past the shimmering tree, break in, and rob us blind.  (Please, kind sir, take the tree!) 

 

Indeed, no gifts existed in the house at all until Christmas Eve afternoon when our family would pile in the station wagon for our annual drive to Bargain Town USA (precursor to Toys R Us). Mom and Dad would boldly leave the four of us alone in the parked car (gasp!) and dash into the store to indiscriminately snatch up any last minute toys put on clearance. 

 

We believed in Santa, but only because Mom said if we didn't, he would not bring us anything. We never took her up on that promise. The wonder of Christmas had more to do with wondering what was hidden under an old wool blanket in the back of the station wagon. Woe to anyone who peeked at the twelve bargains of Christmas. Our own hopes and fears abided in those big paper sacks.

Christmas Eve services in those days were scheduled late at night to ring in Christmas Day at midnight. I remember it vividly as a child, crammed together in our heavy wool coats on the hard wooden pews. The choir did not appear in its usual loft in the front of the church, but situated in the balcony, the sound of their voices covering us with familiar carols. When they sang their glorias, resounding throughout that cold stone church, I felt like God Himself was singing His glory over us.  Those moments in church marked Christmas to me.  This is real. It was a sacred moment in the midst of all the chaos, crowds, and tinsel.

 

Mom and Dad hoped that keeping us up so late might make us sleep later in the morning. Dad would be up most of the night trying to assemble one toy or another, without reading instructions and often with parts left over. (Those were just extras, he always explained). Mom just went to bed, and presents were left unwrapped. We were once told, when Santa got to our house, he ran out of time to wrap anything.  

Being amazed by what Santa brought (or bought) was the understatement of the year, because we never knew what absurd contraptions to expect, purchased from those last minute special bargain bins.  One Christmas, each of us received plastic toy skis with roller skates attached to the bottom, despite the everlasting four feet of snow in our Chicago yard. The biggest surprise was that no one ended up in the emergency room after careening out of control down our icy driveway. The larger the present the better, Mom and Dad believed, whether we wanted it or not, and well, didn't all toys break within 24 hours anyway? By noon each year with perfect timing, they settled down for a long winter's nap.

 

Within a few days after Christmas --season over-- all the neighbors gathered for their yearly bonfire of Christmas trees in someone's backyard, an event my mom banned us from attending.  Instead, boxes were pulled back out, and decorations were stowed back in the attic, ready for the next year when we would repeat that crazy dance again.  

 

But something lingered.

 

Because we cannot help but be changed by Christmas. The angels with all their heavenly spectacular display declared, "He is here." 

 

 ...and they will call him Immanuel, which means God with us. (Matthew 1. 23), a promise not just etched in glittery letters on boxed Christmas cards.  

 

Baby Jesus was not intended to just be pulled out of a taped-up box once a year.  Jesus didn't stay as a baby in a manger. He grew into a man on a cross that He might save us.  And that assurance of His love is engraved in incredible light in our lives, radiating even on the darkest nights.  

 

God is still with us through all the years. Even then. Even now through all our fears.

 

O little town of Bethlehem

How still we see thee lie

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

The silent stars go by

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting light

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in Thee tonight