I was 11. It was Christmas Eve. And I came close to ruining it.
Each year after the Candlelight Christmas Eve Service at our church, our family friends would come over to our house for dinner and gift exchange. Neither of our two families had close relatives nearby, and our gathering around bowls of chili and grated cheese enabled us to be one another’s surrogate next-of-kin.
As I recall, it was my family’s turn that year to host the Christmas Eve event. Earlier that evening, my father and I had arranged our homemade luminaries on the fence posts and driveway. A Carpenter’s Christmas would have been playing on the HiFi in the living room, and my mom would have been placing baked goods in Christmas tins lined with festive wax paper.
A fire would have blazed in the den when my parents called us to the table after the church service. Warmed by the glow of candlelight and 1970s-inspired earth tones in the kitchen, we would have tucked into our suppers while sipping something we called ‘Russian Tea.’
After retiring to the couch, love seat, and shag carpet, we’d nibble on a bourbon ball confection my father had made and then turn our attention to the gifts beneath the tree.
Looking back, I can see that the gifts were modest. They were, however, given in a spirit of kindness and thoughtfulness. That year, I received a toy car kit from our family friends. I was particularly delighted to see it emerge from the wrapping as it would not have been the kind of gift my parents would have given me.
I was thrilled. Throwing myself into my toy-building project, I emptied the contents on the carpet and began to assemble the battery-powered, hill-climbing toy jeep.
There was just one problem. A vital piece of the toy was missing.
Horror-struck, I looked through the plastic wrapping, the box, and yes, the shag carpet for the missing piece. Nothing.
I implored my family to help me look. Few were interested.
Growing more irritated by the minute, I began to simmer and fuss. Obsessed with finding the missing piece, I evolved into a sour, rude-thing-of-a-child who wanted to share his misery with everyone around him.
It was a special kind of solidarity I was after. If I were to be disappointed and angry, so would everyone else.
I remember how the others looked at me. I didn’t care. I remember how they tried to encourage me. I wasn’t having any of it. I remember how some of the dinner party tried to distract me. Nope, that wasn’t happening either.
“’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house…” Jeffrey was making life miserable for everyone.
I cringe at the memory of that Christmas Eve. I wince at how I spoke sharply to the kind family friends who had given me the toy. To this day, I’m still embarrassed for souring the mood that evening with my terrible attitude (and for kicking the toy across the room at one point).
I wish I could report that this episode of bad behavior is an isolated moment in my life. Alas, there have been other occurrences of bad behavior. They tend to spike when I’m disappointed or when calamitous forces thwart my good intentions.
Sadly, the holidays tend to provide multiple opportunities for bad behavior and acting out. The crush of obligations and the heightened anxiety accompanying it all conspire to bring out the worst in us. Our Christmas gatherings tiptoe on the summit of toxic eruptions when one throws in extended family drama and tension into the mix.
We know, of course, that measuring out moments of sabbath in advance, owning up to our bad behavior, and apologizing for our misdeeds are all good practices to avoid holiday meltdowns.
When I consider the Christmas story, I have to believe that the nativity events were fraught with moments that could have gone either way.
Mary must have been all kinds of exhausted and worried about giving birth to the Christ-child.
Joseph must have felt discouraged and disappointed that he couldn’t provide a comfortable space for his wife in his own hometown.
The sleep-deprived parents with the crying infant received unannounced, drop-in guests who probably stayed too long recounting their ecstatic experiences with Divine messengers.
We remember that Joseph was having a run of bad dreams, and strangers would act as know-it-alls to the new parents at their private engagement at the Temple.
Did they melt town and kick their toys when pieces were found missing? Did they engage in road rage, screaming and yelling at those who wouldn’t give them lodging? How many would-be guests were chased away by a bleary-eyed Joseph?
We don’t know.
However, the story that we’ve been told paints a picture of the Holy Family as non-anxious, non-reactive, and even poised amidst a set of circumstances that we would have found unsettling at best and disastrous at worst.
Mary and Joseph trusted God through the hiccups, the change of plans, the letdowns, and the surprises along the way. Their posture of peace amid chaos enabled their story to be a blessing to each of us.
Imagine what stories we could share if we did the same?