December 25, 2008
I found an entry I wrote several years ago during a Christmastime that
was less than perfect. For a long time I had held to the ideal that
Christmas should be special, cozy and happy. Joy should be the general
consent for such a celebration...
That particular Christmas I spent
with my aunt, but thanks to my work schedule had to come back Christmas
night to my large, empty dorm. I called my parents, who were 3,000 miles
away, and the conversation with my mom soon turned into an argument. I
hung up, utterly defeated, and looked out at the gloomy, overcast that
was the skyline of Boston, dripping with a depressing and droopy kind of
rain. This was not how Christmas Day was supposed to be.
Sitting at
my window, alone in the dark, I thought about the fact that 2,000 years
ago the Savior of the world was born. The God of the universe, come to
earth. It occurred to me that the night Jesus was born was probably not the glittering stillness we picture. Disappointed people probably sat, lonely and watching the rain. Chances are someone was fighting with their
mom and swearing that life wasn't supposed to be this way. And yet Jesus was born, on a night very much like this.
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