Christmas Times
Charles Dickens was on to something.
The apparitions he described in his book A Christmas Carol—the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet to Come— do exist.
I’m certain, because they visit me every year.
They reside in a collection of large totes. Each time a lid is lifted, one escapes.
I pull out my Santa doll, the one who used to hold a tiny bottle of Coke in his right hand. He has shared every Christmas I can remember.
He watched Daddy fill the stockings just so, making sure to always put an orange in the toe, a banana in the top, and assorted candies and unshelled nuts in between.
From his usual spot in the living room, Santa probably smelled the fruitcake cookies rolling off Mama’s assembly line. I’m sure he heard us gasping when Aunt Hilda put a smidge too much cayenne pepper in her cheese straws.
And he was in the audience for every Christmas Eve show my sister Zita and I put on for our parents.
Rodney and Rhonda Reindeer came along a couple of years after Mr. Pettit and I married. They endured being tossed about by two active little boys—undoubtedly grateful for their floppy limbs—and watched as gifts were ripped open with glee. I wonder if their nerves ever recovered from the kid-sized pinball machine received one year, its jangle sounding from dawn to bedtime.
When our first grandchild was born, I bought a Fisher-Price nativity set to place under one of our Christmas trees. I can’t imagine how many times the star atop the stable has been pressed, causing it to light and play “Away in a Manger.” It has lasted much longer than the pinball machine, and for this I give thanks.
We were blessed to have our sons, daughters-in-law, and five grandchildren at our home for Thanksgiving this year. In accordance with family tradition, we set up our primary Christmas tree on Black Friday.
Given that my most enthusiastic decorators are not very tall, I wound up with clumps of ornaments on the lower branches. Last night, I noticed that a couple of toy car ornaments had been involved in a fender-bender, and some heavy musical decorations were barely hanging on, skimming the gifts piled under the tree.
This year Eldest Grandchild volunteered to put my assortment of Christmas toys and figures on display. She took her job seriously, arranging each animal and character in an orderly fashion, lined up like a military unit awaiting review.
Later, I slipped Santa under a tree. I thought he’d more comfortable there, away from the delightful chaos.
Our granddaughters who live nearby will visit tomorrow to bake Christmas cookies. I’ve already unearthed the cookie cutters I’ve purchased over the years and checked my supplies of sugar and flour.
Sprinkles will be slung, icing will be consumed before it can land on a cookie, and the snowmen and angels might look a bit hefty if Mimi (that’s me) doesn’t roll the dough thin enough.
Chances are our efforts won’t wind up on Pinterest.
But the sweetness of the cookies will be exceeded by that of the memories made. Even as the bowls are washed and the last of the sparkly red sugar is cleaned from the floor, Mimi and Papa (that’s Mr. Pettit) will file away another entry in the record of Christmas Past.
Christmas Past consumes Christmas Present with every breath.
The house will become quiet again. And I’ll wait for the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come to arrive.
A shadowy, menacing figure will not materialize in my kitchen and proceed to screech and point toward my future.
Thank goodness. That guy is as scary as the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz.
Instead, my imagination will do the heavy lifting. And that can lead me to places as forbidding as any slum in Victorian London.
I know I have more Christmases behind me than ahead. Am I using my time well? Am I any closer to conforming to God’s blueprint than I was last Christmas?
As I think about my family and friends, I’m struck by the fact that we’re all drawing closer to our respective expiration dates. My circle was broken a long time ago, starting with Daddy’s passing and moving on to Mama’s and finally Zita’s. Who will be the next link removed?
I spiral down, down into the dark.
Stop.
A whisper, and yet a command.
Even as I cherish the memories of Christmas Past and wrap myself in the beauty of Christmas Present, the Lord reminds me that He is the Source of it all.
Every good thing.
I love the celebration of Christmas: the decorating, the baking, the shopping, the music. I am especially joyful when we get to spend time with our family.
That’s all quite holly jolly.
But if I’m not careful I’ll focus on the sparkle to the exclusion of the Savior. I’ll forget that the holiday—the holy day—is rooted in a celebration of His birth.
Jesus left the comforts of Heaven to give me abundant life and an eternal home. He will hold my hand through whatever the future brings.
He is Emmanuel. God With Us.
I don’t have to be afraid of the dark.
Joy to the world; the Lord is come;
Let Earth receive her King;
Let ev'ry Heart prepare him room,
And Heav'n and nature sing.He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of his righteousness,
And wonders of his love.Isaac Watts (1719)
