Christmas Correspondence

I received my first two Christmas cards in the mail yesterday. My first response was, “Oh, how nice!” This was immediately followed by a sinking feeling of guilt. I may cave in the next two weeks, but as of this moment, I have decided not to do the whole mass mailing of Christmas cards this year. I have been somewhat apathetic and ambivalent about the whole Christmas season in general this year, which is rather unlike me, but which is perhaps understandable given some of the things going on in my life in recent months. I was still waffling about the Christmas card issue this past week, but when I woke up feeling wretchedly ill on Friday, it was decided—definitely no Christmas cards. As I’ve spent the weekend blowing my nose, drinking hot tea, and trying to sleep despite that fact that it is practically impossible for me to breathe, I’ve been reflecting on the emotions my decision has stirred up in me.

Guilt is the biggest one. How dare I just be a receiver and not a giver? All those other people are taking their time to go buy, write, address, and mail Christmas cards—what makes me think I am exempt? And I truly do appreciate the time and effort that goes into those cards, and I enjoy receiving them and seeing the pictures and reading the little updates that accompany many of them. But really, if you were to put things in a different context (which is what I’ve been doing in my hours on my sickbed), a lot of our expectations are a bit insane. For example, if I were to tell you that in the month of, say, March you needed to change the décor in your house, shop and buy gifts for every member of your family and all of your close friends (and then wrap and package them all), attend at least two or three social events every weekend, bake lots of goodies, and correspond with every person you know (including the ones you haven’t spoken with directly for years), wouldn’t you think that was ridiculous? The kind of Herculean accomplishment that only a squirrel on speed could accomplish? And yet, amazingly, people do it. I have done it. But I’m not going to this year. Not even with all the pseudophed decongestant in the world coursing through my system (which is the equivalent of speed).

So I apologize to all of you who will suffer a grave and bitter disappointment upon not receiving a Christmas card from me this year. I know it will be a struggle for most of you, but try not to let it ruin your holiday or your life in general.

Instead of sending you my own Christmas card/letter, I will leave you instead with a different (and un-ironic) set of letters. Last year, I was asked by the staff at my church to write something for the Christmas Eve service, and what I came up with was an imagined series of letters written by a trio of figures who were direct witnesses to the original Christmas event—God’s physical entrance into our own time, space, and history in the form of an infant. I will start with Mary’s letter, and follow up with the other two in subsequent postings. Merry Christmas…

Mary’s Letter:

Dear Elizabeth,

It is many months now since I last saw you, and so much has happened that I hardly know where to begin. As you may have heard, Joseph and I had to travel to Bethlehem for Caesar’s census. The journey was so long and difficult. By the end of it, I felt as if I’d spent half of my life on the back of a donkey. Joseph was very kind and patient with me, but I could tell that our slowness was difficult for him as well. Bethlehem itself was chaos. You can’t imagine the people, how they crushed together in the streets. By the time we arrived, every lodging in the city was packed full to the brim. We spent the first two nights out on the street. On the third day, my contractions began. Joseph was beside himself, running from house to house, begging for a room. He finally found a landowner at the edge of town who was willing to have us in his stable.
I can picture your horror as you read this. As Joseph led me into the stable and settled me onto the straw, I thought of how my mother would have wept and raged to see her daughter in such conditions. I missed her terribly that night, and you also, Elizabeth. How I longed for you both to be with me! Instead, I had dear Joseph, and the landowner’s servant girl, and the animals all around me. It seems quite comical now that I write about it. The oxen and cows would bellow out in response to my cries of labor. It probably sounded as if the whole stable were giving birth. At the time, it just seemed like waves of pain to me. Until he was born—my baby son. I do not have to tell you the joy of that, as I know you must have had your own son by now. When Joseph put him in my arms, we began to weep and laugh at the same time. We were delirious with joy.
I think back often to our time together and what has occurred in both our lives. At times, those events seem like a dream to me, a beautiful, awesome fantasy. He is so tiny, Elizabeth. He has these little shudders every once in awhile while he is sleeping, and he likes to hold my finger while he nurses. When I blow on the fine hair at the back of his neck, he blinks and smiles. I know all mothers marvel at their babies. All think them miracles, all precious. But mine is the Son of God! I marvel even as I write this. I repeat it to myself throughout the day, and still I cannot grasp hold of it. I could not grasp it even when an angel of God stood before me and told me. Would you believe that I even forget, sometimes? But at other times, it is so real that I feel like it will split me wide open. I sing him lullabies and I wonder—is it my voice he hears, or is God whispering in his ear?
Sometimes I will wake in the middle of the night and see Joseph holding him in his arms and pacing back and forth, his mouth moving in silent prayers over him. We are shy in talking about it, but I wonder. Does he ask himself the same things I do? How is it that this has happened to me? Who am I to be a parent to God’s own son? Everything is so uncertain. Word of danger has reached us, and we are on the move again. Back on the donkey.
I long for home and to see the faces of my family once again. I hope it will be safe for us to return someday soon. I would like our sons to know each other and be friends. Do you think it will be so? So many hopes for my baby rise up in my heart, and with each comes a question. What do I hope for him? What is it God wills for him? Right now, it seems his life is a life of troubles. But I think about what the angel told me that day—that my son will have the throne of David. He will be called Son of the Highest. So surely this time of trial is only temporary. Surely Jesus will return to the land of his fathers with a crown of glory. It has been promised, and so I must believe, though the circumstances around me and my very eyes tell me otherwise. When he is a grown man, my baby son will be a king. How proud of him I will be on that day!

Copyright 2006 by Katherine Lo. Not for public use, reproduction, or distribution without express permission of the author.