We went to a Christmas party yesterday.
It was in a very beautiful townhome, in a very affluent neighborhood, and everything was gorgeous.
Greeting us at the door were my favorite pinecones: three great, huge ones from the West Coast, hung with sprigs of mistletoe.
And inside were ornaments and candles and stars on the stairs, crystal bowls of glass balls tied with red silk, gumdrop trees alternating with red and green m&m’s in striped cups on the kitchen counter.
Next to the fireplace were Tiffany boxes, dozens of them in their tell-tale robin’s egg blue and white satin ribbon. Nestled amongst the boxes were the contents of what must have arrived in Christmases past: silver baubles and trinkets artfully arranged to cover the table.
“Oh!” exclaimed the women. “Everything is so beautiful! Oh, your house is so lovely!”
And it was.
Except when I got home and thought about it, I realized that Baby Jesus wasn’t anywhere in that house. There was no ornament for Him, like the one my brother gave me years ago…
There was no creche, no place for Him to lay His head. There was no room for Him anywhere among all the things occupying space on every available surface and in every crowded corner.
To me, having Christmas without Jesus is like having a book without pages. There is no purpose for one without the other.
Yesterday my Advent reading had this portion of the Psalm:
The LORD is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. ~Psalm 34:17
I can attest to this promise. I can verify that anytime my spirit has been crushed, it has consequently been saved by Him. In a fallen and imperfect world, full of broken-hearted people, I pray that their sorrows are healed by Him, too.
Because what we’re looking for cannot possibly come in a box.
