For unto us a Child is born,

Unto us a Son is given;

And the government will be upon His shoulder.

And His name will be called

Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God,

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

—Isaiah 9:6

During the Advent and Christmas seasons, one of my favorite things to do is sneak downstairs after my family is fast asleep. I plug in the Christmas tree lights, curl up with a fluffy blanket on the couch—joined by my cat, Phobe, if she deigns to grace me with her presence—and bask in the soft glow of the brightly colored bulbs. Sometimes I simply sit and relish the silence. Other times I pray or journal.

These moments fill me with peace and joy, as I meditate on the wonder and miracle of Jesus Christ’s incarnation.

For me, the Christmas season wasn’t always so serene and magical.

***

“It’s Ma—she came home drunk again!” I could barely choke out the words between my sobs and gulping breaths.

My older sister remained silent on the other end of the phone. Without her saying a word, I knew her heart was aching for me, and I’m sure she was crying too. She was at work, so even if she wanted to come home and comfort me, that wasn’t an option.

“It’s Christmas Eve!” I wailed. “Couldn’t she stay sober for just one night?”

My anger, sadness, and resentment swirled into a tsunami that threatened to capsize the tiny shred of sanity I desperately clung to. Part of me wanted to let it happen—for a change, to give myself permission to be the one who lost control.

But deep down, I knew I needed to calm myself. I’d seen what could happen when I let my emotions dominate my behavior when Ma came home drunk. Memories of burnt cigarettes almost burning down the house, her falling down the stairs, and other near disasters erected an impenetrable barrier between me and my impulse to let my feelings run their course.

I inhaled a few more times to steady my breath, finally releasing a long, ragged sigh.

“Are you going to be okay?” my sister barely whispered into the phone.

A wave of guilt washed over me. This was why I’d debated calling her in the first place. Why force her to share the burden of my agony of having yet another holiday ruined by our mother’s alcoholism? Now my sister would spend the rest of her shift worried about me, instead of laughing and sharing holiday cheer with her coworkers.

“Yeah—yeah, I’ll be fine.” My flat tone didn’t convince either of us that was true.

After we hung up, I pressed my palms against my closed eyes, took one last deep breath, and prepared to keep an eye on Ma until she’d finally wander up to bed and pass out for the night.

***

On another Christmas Eve, about twenty years later, I shuffled to church for the evening candlelight service. My son, barely a month old, slept soundly in his ring sling, strapped to my chest and tucked into my thick, zippered sweater. I traversed the icy sidewalks, admiring the neighbors’ Christmas decorations as I passed by.

My husband was assisting with the worship service, so I was flying solo. When I entered the church, I realized I should’ve arrived much earlier if I actually wanted to sit down. I scanned the sanctuary and saw a couple of open spots in the upper level. After climbing the stairs and settling into my seat, I unzipped my sweater and anticipated one of my favorite worship experiences of the year.

At one point during the service, I peeked down at my sweet baby, who was still blissfully snoozing.

Suddenly, I was surprised to find tears stinging my eyes.

As I stared at my son, I couldn’t imagine my life without him. I’d never truly known a mother’s love, yet I now knew the acute pleasure-pain of being a mother who bore boundless love for her child.

I lightly ran my fingers across his cheek, compelled to touch him but not wanting to disturb him. The sounds of the worship service faded into the background as my mind wandered.

My thoughts drifted to Mary, the mother of Jesus. I couldn’t help but wonder what it must have been like for her to give birth to Jesus. What did she think the first time she laid eyes on Him, God in the flesh? Did she scan His face, seeking some sign of His divinity?

With the benefit of hindsight, I knew what Mary couldn’t have known: the horrific manner in which her precious Son would die, on a cross for the sins of the world.

If she had known, would she still have proclaimed to the angel, “Behold the maidservant of the Lord! Let it be to me according to your word”? (Luke 1:38). Or would she have submitted regardless, trusting that the blessing and joy of bearing the Messiah would far outweigh the pain and agony she’d one day endure?

My tears began anew as I pondered what Mary must have suffered when her Son and Lord was crucified. I couldn’t fathom how I’d ever endure something like that ever happening to my child.

These thoughts heightened my appreciation not only for my Savior but also for the mother who sacrificed to bring Him into the world.

And because of the sacrifice of that Son, every one of my Christmas Eves—past, present, and future—has been redeemed.

As Job confessed, “For I know that my Redeemer lives, and He shall stand at last on the earth; and after my skin is destroyed, this I know, that in my flesh I shall see God, whom I shall see for myself, and my eyes shall behold, and not another. How my heart yearns within me!” (Job 19:25–27).

When I reflect on Jesus Christ’s First Advent, how I long for His Second Advent! But until that day comes, may He keep all who call on His holy name faithful. Amen!

With love in Christ,

Amanda

xoxo

Scripture taken from the New King James Version^®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.