Christmas Eve. Generally one of my favorite nights of the year. The part of the Christmas season I generally find is the easiest to focus on the real meaning of Christmas. A night of family and reflection. A night of tradition, camaraderie and inner peace. My family usually spends some time in the afternoon building a snow sculpture, the scent of potpourri permeates the house and the wassail is as fragrant as it is delicious. The extended family gathers and enjoys company and a reenactment of the nativity with cute cousins as the biblical characters being directed from just "offstage" by Grandma while my dad reads the timeless words from Luke 2.
I'm gone, away from family and home, almost year-round; making my way independently, being my own man and "living the dream"...but for this one night I always return to the familiar and heartwarming. Christmas at home is almost Norman Rockwell-ian in my mind. The last time I missed Christmas Eve was 10 years ago and I was in Australia. I was dedicated full-time to Christian service and it just felt right. This year is different and I find myself having a hard time. My family is cognizant and thoughtful and has been tireless at trying to make this Christmas as painless as possible. I received several packages in the mail which have included a mini Christmas tree (complete with lights and decorations) and beautifully wrapped packages. I have presents to open and reminders of Christmas at home. Above all I have the assurance that the meaning of Christmas, the reason to celebrate, has not and will not change…
…Still, I find myself struggling this year. I feel a dichotomy of emotions. On one end I feel loved. I know my family is there. I know they love me. I have proof and reminders all around my apartment and not more than 3 feet away at this very moment. On the other end I feel very far away from where I want to be. Instead of a snow sculpture in the front yard, I got a light sprinkling of lukewarm rain on my windshield while I drove home from work. I'm drawing to the end of a particularly unpleasant month at work, and have an even more difficult one to face in January. I'm 30 and I'm watching television reruns in an otherwise quiet apartment. I feel the weight of my countless imperfections and worst, I feel like I've been hurtful to someone I care about. It wasn't intended. It wasn't malicious. But I caused this person hurt none-the-less and I can't shake the weight of that shortcoming either…
I write all this, because for me writing is cathartic. I find it helps me direct my thoughts and focus on the larger picture. Even as I write these few short paragraphs I find my heart lifting. In the grand scheme my momentary woes are "small potatoes". I have a family who loves me and whom I love. I have a calm assurance that God and His Son love all their children -- me included…I have been trying to understand the concept of hope better, and while I am still struggling to find an adequate and concise definition of the idea, I know the feeling. I'm feeling it right now. I feel the weight of this mortal experience. I feel the loneliness and frustrations common to mankind. I've had moments where hope felt lost and those moments are dark (and in those dark moments is when I find myself manifesting my many shortcomings most prominently). However, that darkness can't stand against the light of Christ and His truth. Just like I know my family is there. Just like I know they love me. Just like I have proof and reminders all around that tell me these things are true even when I'm feeling most discouraged; I know I have a Savior who is there and who loves me. I have proofs and reminders (Elder Bednar would call them "tender mercies") all round me. My life is full of them when I take a minute and allow myself to see them. My mistakes are many and wish as I might, they have had an effect on others. However, I feel hope. Hope that not all Christmases will be this lonely. Hope that even though I've been hurtful, that someday the person involved will understand that it wasn't intended. Hope that not all moths at work will be this dreary. Hope that I'll be able to build snow sculptures again with family members, and drink wassail and watch my cute cousins put on oversize bathrobes and pretend to be wise men from the east. That, I think, is what hope means…and isn't that the real spirit of Christmas?
