The King in the Stable

It’s Christmas day, and all seven members of my family are packed into the minivan. We’re driving to my grandparents’ house.

Our drive takes us along the Mississippi River. Crowded trees obscure my view, but I can still see patches of dark water through bare branches.

Then the tree line ends, and the river is laid bare.

“Boys, look at the water,” my mom says. “Still as glass.”

She’s right. The river looks like a lake. The small town across the river is perfectly reflected in the water at the shoreline.

I grew up on the Mississippi, so I know how to read the river’s mood from its color and texture. I’ve seen peaceful ripples and angry whitecaps. There are days when the water is gray and days when the water churns until it’s a rich brown. I’ve learned to respect the river, because even when it looks subdued, it is powerful.

“How peaceful that even the water is still on Christmas,” my mom says.

The stillness of the water reminds me of the child born in Bethlehem. I think of the peaceful baby who slept in a stable--the subject of songs like “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Silent Night.”

But there’s another aspect of the Christ Child that I don’t often think about this time of year. Mary’s tiny baby had all the power and awesomeness of the omnipotent God. The infant in the manger was the One who spoke the world into existence. And He is the warrior who would later defeat death through His sacrifice on the cross.  

When I isolate Christ’s humble birth from the rest of His story, I miss the depth of Christmas. I lose sight of God's humility in taking the form of a helpless baby.

The glassy surface of the Mississippi doesn’t trick me into forgetting the power that the river wields. Neither should Christ’s birth as a helpless child lull me into forgetting His mightiness.

The road diverges from the river. We’re nearing our destination, but I take this moment to say a prayer.

“Jesus, thank you for choosing to descend from everything to nothing. And thank you for doing that for me.”

Disposable Days

I’m on the phone with my friend David. When we were roommates in college, I used to see him every day. Now we mostly keep in touch over the phone. But the great thing about David is that he can make me laugh, even when he’s five hours away.

“Do you remember when we built that miniature snowman in Derek’s dorm room?” David asks.

“Yes!” I say. “And by the time Derek got back, it had melted. All that was left was a baby carrot and a wet spot.”

“We never explained it to him. He had no clue.” David says.

We laugh.

“Remember when you dumped a whole tube of glitter onto my bed sheets? I ask.

“You couldn’t wash it out. That glitter stuck around for weeks.” David says.

“Every time I thought it was finally gone, I’d wake up with glitter stuck all over my face,” I say

The memories make me smile.

“I miss those times,” I say. “Back when we had more freedom and fewer obligations. I miss having disposable days.”

David pauses on the other end of the line.

“We had a lot of fun,” he says. “But maybe it’s a good thing that our days aren’t disposable anymore. It gives us an incentive to make the most of them. We have to be intentional about how we use our time.”

I think about what David said. He’s right. When my time seems endless, it’s easy for me to slip into complacency. It’s easy for me to procrastinate. But when my time is limited, I treat it like a valuable commodity.

Every day that God has given me is a gift. It’s a day I can use to pour into others. A day I can use to grow closer to God. A day I can use to help build His kingdom.

Or it’s a day that can slip through my hands. I don’t want that to be the case.

“When did you get so wise?” I ask David. “Weren’t you the kid who dumped glitter all over my bedsheets?”

David chuckles. “Yeah. I’m just trying to use my time more constructively these days.”

A Tree and Trust

I just received a package in the mail. The bright eBay logo on the side tells me it’s the one I’ve been waiting for.

Last week, I won an auction for a retro aluminum Christmas tree. They’re hard to find because companies stopped making them in the sixties.

I set the box on my counter and slice it open with my pocket knife. Inside the box is a stand, a trunk, and bundles of branches. The stand and the trunk fit together easily enough. But I pause when I start unwrapping the branches.

They’re all exactly the same length. Every branch.

If I put these on the trunk, this is not going to look like a tree. It’s going to look like an aluminum can.

I’m frustrated. Somebody ripped me off. The seller must have cobbled together this tree from a bunch of different ones. I probably have the bottom branches of about five aluminum trees. 

Great, now I’m going to have to email the seller and try to return this thing. That also means a trip to the post office during December.

I decide I should take a picture just in case the seller disputes the return. The best way for me to do that is to actually put the “tree” together, so I begin to place the bottom circle of branches into the trunk. Tiny strips of aluminum shake as I slip each branch into its spot.

I start the second row. Oddly, each branch is at a slightly higher angle than the branches on the bottom row were.

By the time I reach the third row, I’ve figured out this pattern. Because the angles of the holes increase with each rung up the tree, the branches look shorter the higher they go.

This is going to look like a tree after all.

As I insert the rest of the branches, I think about how I often struggle to understand God’s plans for me. I see all the pieces of my life, and I wonder how things will work out.

What job will I have in five years? Where will I live? Will I be married?

But instead of wondering—instead of worrying—I need to trust God. Trust that he can see the patterns that I can’t yet. Trust that he is in control and that he is shaping my life in minute but definite ways.

I’m done with the branches now. I stand back and stare at what most definitely looks like a tree.

It’s everything I hoped. And now, it will remind me to trust the One who is guiding my life step by step.

Holding On to Hope

I’m playing old-school Christmas music in my apartment. Frank Sinatra. Bing Crosby. Judy Garland. Some of the songs are bouncy and light. Others have a heaviness to them.

The Holidays are weird like that. Full of emotional juxtaposition. Celebration and sadness commingled.

I’ve been reflecting on this past year. I’ve accomplished a lot. I graduated law school and passed the bar exam. I’ve had new experiences. I’ve made new friends.  

But I’ve also lost old friends. I’ve had struggles. I’ve made mistakes.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve grown over the last year. If I’ve stepped forward or backward. I want to be wiser and stronger. Closer to God and closer to others. But life has hills and valleys. Sometimes, I’m afraid my valleys outnumber my hills.

I reach out to turn up my music. I’m hoping to drown out some of these thoughts. As I crank up the volume, my hand brushes against the plant next to the stereo.

My Christmas cactus.

It’s been a hard year for that guy. Back in June, I left him outside for a few days. I thought he’d appreciate the summer sun.

He didn’t. He baked to a crisp.

Parts of him turned shriveled and brown. Then segments dropped. Dense branches became sparse and spindly. I’ve been nursing him back to health since.

But something is different about him today. He still looks like he’s limping back to health. But each arm now holds something. Some arms hold tightly bound buds. Others hold unfurled red flowers.

They all hold hope.

Hope that there are victories amidst the struggles. Hope for redemption and new life. Hope that the hills outnumber the valleys.

So, instead of letting my doubts weigh me down, I hold on to hope.

The kind of hope that can only come from a baby who was born in a stable.