I might have already confessed here that I don't actually like Christmas very much. It's over the top, every part of it. Too much spending, too much eating, too much cleaning, too much planning, too much driving, too many events in too short a time.
So, as my family knows, I try to play my role and then, when it's all over and the smoke has cleared, I grin like a cheshire cat.
It is what it is, and I am what I am.
However, after the debris has settled, I have time to really consider why we celebrate Christmas, albeit employing many pointless pagan rituals all the while.
This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.
-1 John 4:9-10
So. The magnificence of this act is disguised in an infant, born in the most rough and humble way. One of us, in a body much like any of ours. Into a world where evil leaders were killing people who threatened them, and inns were overcrowded, and the poor people still had to work/herd on Christmas Day.
But—He was born. He lived among us. He lives among us yet. It's miraculous, and awe-inspiring, and wonderful.
It matters not what season the Savior was born; the day, the exact location needn't concern us. What matters is that He was, and He is.
I'm breathing in that truth this morning, reveling in it, resting in it. I survived Christmas, but most importantly? I have an eternity with Jesus to anticipate.
