Hi everyone.  Happy Tuesday.  Today’s “What Christmas means to me” is from Jamie Simmerman of Blue Duck Copy. Enjoy!

Christmas Hope

When I was a child, Christmas Eve meant traveling to my dad’s hometown to celebrate with my entire dysfunctional family.  My grandparents’ house was nestled at the center of a community of less than 100 people. The highlight of the town was the nearby lake and the General Store’s handmade ice cream. The town wasn’t even big enough to qualify for a stoplight.

My family is more than a little unusual.

My grandfather was big and boisterous; my grandmother was petite with hair that stood straight off her head. Grandma purposely burnt everything she served to my grandfather, and he turned his hearing aids off every time she began to speak.

Fistfights in the kitchen broke out often, where my grandmother would inevitably jump on grandpa’s back and pull his hair. They would cuss like sailors and wish horrible diseases on each other at will- an odd couple if one ever existed. Together, they had 5 children, yet they both claimed neither ever wanted any kids. Still, the whole family gathered every year to make each other miserable for the holidays.

“Merry Christmas you worthless piece of dung.”

So off to grandma’s house we go.

We would cram in whatever junker car my dad was driving and rumble over the back roads, the trunk loaded with presents and food. Most years, it would rain giant fluffy snowflakes that glittered in the headlights and smacked into the windshield like tiny shooting stars. A beautiful yet beguiling prelude to what awaited.

As we unloaded the loot from the trunk, you could hear the uproar inside through the thick old front door. Grandma’s house was far from clean on the best of days, but add an extra 10 adults and 9 grandkids, and the clutter and chaos grew to overwhelming proportions.

Let the chaos begin.

Stepping inside the door, you would find nine different arguments happening in the same room, kids playing tag in the gigantic old rooms of the house, and my grandfather pushing his latest batch of fudge like a drug dealer with a fresh group of junkies.  Curse words and insults could be heard every couple of seconds, and nothing was considered sacred or off-limits. If we’d had any close neighbors, or even a local police station, the cops surely would have been called.

Can I get a get out of jail free pass, please?

As the midnight hour drew near, a few brave souls would seek solace in the peace and quiet outside the house. The single streetlight cast a yellow glow as fluttering snowflakes drifted silently from the heavens, and the accumulated fresh snow muffled both footsteps and voices as we climbed the hill to the old church perched at the edge of town.

The parishioners provided a candlelight service every Christmas Eve and the warmth and quiet of the church was irresistible after the cold trek through the bitter blowing wind and the deafening roar of the party below.

Years later, the words spoken during those late night services would be presented again with the same promise, peace, and warmth, yet I would finally understand their meaning.

Christmas Present

Now, Christmas no longer means dreaded family get-togethers, humiliating conversations, and sporadic bouts of violence.

With the birth of a single baby boy, I now have hope. There is healing for my scars, rest when I need it, and an unconditional love that erases the dysfunction that has plagued my family for generations. That baby has taken the splintered ugly shards of my soul and left something beautiful in its place that I could never have created.

For me, Christmas means hope.  2000 years ago, in the basement of an old watchtower situated in a field near Bethlehem, a tiny baby boy was born in a sheep pen and placed in a feeding trough. That seemingly insignificant event brought the hope of the Messiah to the local shepherds, and it brings hope to all who seek Him today.

Merry Christmas,

Jamie