’Tis The Season Of My Ridiculousness
Hey Y’all! Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, A Joyful Yuletide, Feliz Navidad, and Happy New Year to you and yours!
While this Season is my all-time favorite, number one, ridiculously giddy time of year, I do recognize that for some, the holidays can be heavily burdened with emotional consequences. For this reason, when I am in public, I do try to be mindful of the people around me. Not everyone wants to hear the delighted squeals of a grown woman karaoke-ing to EVERY. SINGLE. CAROL. [with or without harmony]. I am my own Hallmark (post homophobe, present “woke” version of Hallmark) Christmas movie. I’m a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, middle class cis-hetero white woman who grew up in the Christian faith and is even an ordained minister in said faith. And I’m in love with my husband, we have a darling rescue pup, my family is delightful, and I even have a Christmas sweater. If you hate Christmas, I am your nightmare. Sorry not sorry.
But….
If you’ve ever watched It’s A Wonderful Life, you can see the full extent of pressure and depression in the frustrated journey of our hero, George Bailey. The title gives some comfort that there will be (I mean, there has to be, right?) a “wonderful” ending. But George doesn’t know that. He’s even in the company of an angel, but he doesn’t trust that wonderful news might be around the corner.
I get George Bailey, desperately wanting to let go. I get his angel, Clarence, desperately wanting George to hang on.
Real talk: have you ever been depressed? Like for real?
I’m visiting with a woman today who I’ll call Monica. She said that when her Mother died, the first five Christmases without her were the worst. Her depression ultimately made her very ill and it was only then that she found a way to reimagine and reorganize her thoughts surrounding the grieving for her mother and the joy of her own children. It took five years and a traumatic illness. For George Bailey, it took whatever length of time Clarence needed to show George a life without him in it.
On January 9, 2017 I had a spinal stroke that left me partially paralyzed. I handled it remarkably well. I was a champ. A real live “Wonder Woman,” or so I’ve been told.
Until I wasn’t.
And then I was depressed. Legit, full-blown depressed. Not suicidal, exactly, but very much not interested in being the burden I believed myself to be. Much like George Bailey, I could only imagine how much better it would be for all the people who loved me if they weren’t burdened by my daily needs and struggles. I had no Clarence to show me some good news.
What I did have, eventually, after searching high and low, was counseling. And a husband who loves me. And a family who adores me. And the most loyal friends in the world. And extraordinary couples who ask me to officiate their weddings. And oodles of kindness around me. And goodwill. And compassionate doctors. And the best dogs in the world.
And also, Christmas was coming. CHRISTMAS. WAS. COMING. I can certainly appreciate how this isn’t everyone’s gig; not the spiritual fulfillment that it is for me. For my husband, spiritual fulfillment is the ocean. For me, it’s Christmas. A time full of the stories of miracles and the promise of love and justice. A reminder of unconditional love and extravagant hospitality from God. (This is stuff that I actually believe. You don’t have to. But I do. Call me crazy, but I buy into it and love it. It feeds me. Sorry not sorry.)
I never thought about it before actually writing these words, in this moment, but like George Bailey, Christmas seems to save me. Every year. So I can’t help becoming ridiculously giddy about it. For me, it’s a chance to pause and recognize the love offered to me from our family and friends. And yes, from God. A chance to pause and celebrate the idea of crazy stories about travel and pregnancy and birth and shepherds and angels and muddy barns. A chance to think about what extravagant hospitality really means. A chance to think about what unconditional love really means. A chance for music and choirs and eggnog and lights. A chance for kindness among strangers.
A chance for a sad and stingy old man to tend to a poor and sick child.
Sometimes I’m George. Sometimes I’m Clarence. Sometimes I’m Scrooge and sometimes I’m Tiny Tim. Sometimes I’m weary and burdened and desperate for any smelly old barn in sight just so I can rest my head. Sometimes I’m an inn keeper, pretty certain there’s no more room. Sometimes I’m a stable hand and sometimes I’m a frightened shepherd.
Oddly, I’m never Mary.
I don’t have kids. Never been pregnant. Have no idea about being a mother or a mother-to-be. I’ve eaten too much at lunch, and bloated my stomach with too much pizza, but I suspect pregnancy is a very different in the tummy.
There’s a woman in the world who wrote a poem about the Mary situation. At this moment, her poem has caught the attention of over 19K people.
I adore Christmas, but not everyone does. I suspect Mary didn’t love every moment of it either, whatever the Magnificat tells us.
If you find yourself feeling a bit blue, I cannot offer you Clarence or Tiny Tim or my husband or family. But I can offer this perspective from the insightful and brilliant Kaitlin Hardy Shetler:
sometimes I wonder
if Mary breastfed Jesus.
if she cried out when he bit her
or if she sobbed when he would not latch.and sometimes I wonder
if this is all too vulgar
to ask in a church
full of men
without milk stains on their shirts
or coconut oil on their breasts
preaching from pulpits off limits to the Mother of God.but then i think of feeding Jesus,
birthing Jesus,
the expulsion of blood
and smell of sweat,
the salt of a mother’s tears
onto the soft head of the Salt of the Earth,
feeling lonely
and tired
hungry
annoyed
overwhelmed
lovingand i think,
if the vulgarity of birth is not
honestly preached
by men who carry power but not burden,
who carry privilege but not labor,
who carry authority but not submission,
then it should not be preached at all.because the real scandal of the Birth of God
lies in the cracked nipples of a
14 year old
and not in the sermons of ministers
who say women
are too delicate
to lead.
Wherever you find yourself this Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Yuletide, Navidad, and New Year, geographically and emotionally, please know that I see you. I hear you. You matter. You matter so damn much. If you ever doubt that and you don’t have your own Clarence or Tiny Tim, call me. I got you.
Because I believe in all of this: from me to you, I do wish you a Merry Christmas and a Joy-filled Holiday, whatever you celebrate in your heart.