Dumbstruck

As some of you know, I’m an only child.  If Ginger were contributing to this reflection, this is where she would add, “And that explains everything.”  It’s worse than that really.  On one side of my family, I’m also an only grandchild.  You can imagine what that meant.  Not only did I have my parents undivided attention, I had two grandparents for whom my wish was their command, particularly at this time of the year.  More about that some other time perhaps.

But for now, the point is more about my son Andrew, who had me beat.  Until his brother Matthew arrived, Andrew was the only grand child on both sides of our family.  This, combined with the fact that both my parents and Ginger’s parents felt like they had waited inordinately long for grandchildren, created the perfect storm of indulgence on Andrew’s first Christmas with us.  (He was still in Korea on his very first Christmas.  Not to worry; it got made up for the next year.)

As has become our custom, Ginger got Andrew his Christmas pajamas.  Best to do the truly humiliating while they can’t resist.  The first year night wear was a red and white striped night shirt with a matching night cap.  Very cute.  Pictures exist, which I plan to use in case of an emergency.

The first Christmas morning arrived, and Andrew toddled out of his room in his nightshirt and cap to see what Santa had brought.  Santa, that year, had been assisted by his four grandparents.  In addition to setting out to completely spoil him, there was no small amount of competition for his affection going on.  Ginger and I, at least, stayed out of the Santa event that year.  We knew there was no need, and so we contented ourselves with the embarrassing pajamas.

As Andrew entered the living room where Santa’s bounty was laid out, he stopped dead in his tracks.  There were toys everywhere.  They were on the floor and under the tree and stacked on the sofa.  So much stuff for one very little guy.  We were somewhat overwhelmed.  He was completely overwhelmed.  He was stunned.  It was just too much.  He was quite literally dumbstruck, unable to utter a sound.

The Christmas story, indeed the entire Gospel, begins in a very similar way, although it is a part of the story we usually forget to tell.  Before the Nativity, before the Annunciation, there is the story of another miraculous birth bringing great joy.  It is the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth.  The first chapter of Luke tells us that “[b]oth of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord.  But they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years” (vv. 6-7).

And then Gabriel, the same angel who would shortly announce a second miraculous birth, this time to Mary, appears to Zechariah with some most unexpected good news.  “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayers has been heard.  Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you will name him John.  You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord” (vv. 13-15).

The news is completely overwhelming to Zechariah.  He is not inclined to believe it for, as he says, both he and Elizabeth are getting up in years.  And Zechariah, too, is dumbstruck.  Gabriel assures him of the veracity of all that has been said, and adds, “But now, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time, you will become mute, unable to speak, until the day these things occur” (v. 20).

The child to be born, of course, was John the Baptist, announcing the coming of the Messiah.  And with that, the story is set in motion.  One miraculous birth after another.  Grace upon grace.  And so it goes on.  It is all just overwhelming.  It leaves us, or maybe it ought to leave us, dumbstruck. There really is just nothing to be said.  It is just too much.

Now, in future years as parents, we learned to give specific instructions to the grandparents as to who bought what.  No more of the competition. We divided things out quite equally. And there was an overall limit.  Never again more than was possible to take in.  No more toddlers paralyzed by how overwhelming it was.

I sometimes wonder, though, if we missed the point.  God does not act in such a limiting way.  It just keeps coming.  The sun every morning.  The stars at night.  In truth, plenty for all of the creation to thrive, if only we would recognize it and stop living in fear of want.  Work to do and take satisfaction in.  People to love.  Dogs (OK, this is my personal prejudice about things to be grateful for, especially since Annie is at the office with me this morning).

And, above all of it, the most overwhelming statement of all.  God’s overwhelming love for creation, and particularly for humanity, in the Incarnation of God’s only Son, Christ our Savior.  It ought to leave us dumbstruck.

I wish you a dumbstruck Christmas this year.  Ginger, Andrew, Matthew, and the dogs, Annie and Abby, wish you such an overwhelming awareness of your belovedness that you are left completely speechless

Peace,

+Stacy

The Christmas Tree Angel

Star or angel?  That was the big question the first year Ginger and I were married as we prepared to celebrate our first Christmas.  With what should the Christmas tree be topped?  My family tradition was an angel; Ginger’s, a star.  The tradition did not run terribly deep on either side.

Growing up, my family’s tree had been topped with an angel.  It had not always been so, though.  The tradition was not inviolable.  After all, the Christmas tree in my earliest memories was aluminum with a color wheel.  Very modern.  Ginger, whose family always had a real tree, albeit the ugliest cedar tree that could be found, was appalled.  And the tradition at my grandparents’ houses differed.  One had a very fancy angel with a gold dress.  I think it lit up.  The other had a homemade star cut from cardboard and covered with aluminum foil.  Perhaps my mother, or aunt, or one of my uncles had made it in childhood.  I never really knew.  I suspect my grandmother was behind it.

Ginger’s family had a star.  It wasn’t a big deal to them, however.  No one can even remember now what it looked like.

That is a good thing.  Because I had my heart set on an angel.  Ginger was perfectly fine with that.  But no cheesy angels.  Nothing aluminum.  Unlighted was preferred.

So off we set that first December of our married lives in search of an angel.  There was not as big a selection in those days as I suspect there would be now.  We went to many stores in search of the perfect angel for the top of our first Christmas tree.  Nothing met the test.

Finally, we went to a little store we knew to have lots of interesting things, many of them imported, off the main street in Charlottesville, where we lived.  There we found a selection of beautiful angels.  I think they had been made in Germany.  That suited Ginger, who had been collecting ornaments from Germany since a trip there before we were married.  They had velvet dresses and hand-crafted faces.  Each had a candle in her hand.  Real wax.  They would do.

There was one problem, which was the price.  I was a student that year and money was definitely an issue.  We didn’t even look at the larger angels.  A smaller one would be fine.  The one we liked was $14.

Now, $14 doesn’t sound like a lot now, but to a student and his new wife in 1979 it was a fortune.  We debated a long time.  We knew we shouldn’t, but we bought it anyway.  Somehow, setting the Christmas traditions for a brand new family seemed like a very important thing to us.  I suppose it was an investment in Christmas.

That first Christmas together, we may not have been able to afford much to go under the tree, but we had a $14 angel with a red velvet dress and a real wax candle, and just as importantly without lights or anything aluminum, to go on top of it.  This year, that angel will be on top of its 33rd tree, which will go up this weekend by tradition.  (Don’t tell the Advent police.)

Christmas has always required an investment, quite often a very heavy one.  Mary and Joseph made a massive investment in the first Christmas.  Luke tells us that they left their home in Nazareth and traveled to Joseph’s ancestral home many miles away at a time when Mary was about to deliver her child.  It was an extravagant investment.

The angels announced the birth to the shepherds.  Though they were afraid, they left and went to see the child.  Extravagant investment.

The Magi set out from some distant place in the East in search of the child born to be king of the Jews.  They brought expensive gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  They would have made the $14 angels look, justifiably, like nothing.  Extravagant investment.

What I suspect is that making the investment itself made a great difference to the importance of that first Christmas to Mary and Joseph, to the shepherds, and to the Magi.  The $14 investment in the angel has obviously meant a great deal to Ginger and me.  The level of investment we make in something, including Christmas, always determines a great deal of what it will mean to us.  The more extravagant, the more it means.

Christmas now rolls around again.  What it will mean to us depends a great deal on the investment we decide to make.  It always has and it always will.  I think I’m of the opinion that an extravagant investment is well worth it.

As the days leading up to Christmas begin to pass us by, I’m hoping for extravagant investment of myself, something much more important than $14.  My wish for you is the same.

Peace,

+Stacy

(Alas, there is no picture of the actual $14 angel, so we'll have to make do with pictures of other tree-topper angels.)