As soon as the Christmas wrappings are wrinkled (and in our house that is a faded array of funny papers), the list makers turn our attention to the historic events of the past 365 days. Then we're spun around to face a newer year with resolve, usually heavy laden with weight related guilt. At this point into the first week of January, I have only an inkling of what my resolution is, and if I squint through my fingers, I think I can see it involves gluttony and miserliness.

I have such mixed feelings about the Christmas season. As a child, it was the culminating day when all the family good cheer I could possibly dream of was lavished luxuriously on and around me. Christmas was even better than my birthday, not only because it was a bigger draw for family assembly, but everybody got gifts, followed by Food.
Christmas was the exclamation point in a year of commas and questions. The biggest challenge I faced then was "being good" (ya know, Santa's watchin') and surprisingly, no matter how grievous my transgressions, the big guy never disappointed.

As the responsibilities of adulthood increased, the Christmas holiday has become for me a mountain on the horizon. Every year, I see it looming on the calendar, reminding me of the provisions I must get in order to make the climb. No matter how I whine, neglect, or delegate the preparations for our trip, the mountain doesn't move. Oh, I've set explosives around it to chisel it down to a big hill, but then I have to hike over the blistering gravel of unconventionality.

I'm still unwrapping the great lesson God has been teaching me this year.
A judgmental attitude is an obstacle to communion and a forgiving one is the key to friendly fellowship.

Somewhere along the elevated ridge of Christmas Mountain, I stood for a moment at the Pool of Resentment. Like Jesus’ friend, Martha, I began to grumble about the lack of support on the journey. My back was aching from the load of expectations I was carrying. I could hear the laughter of the others in my party; some were skipping along barefoot, while my own feet, in sensible, steel toed boots for clearing the path, were feeling cramped and uncomfortable.

As I gazed into the shallow pool, I could see the reflected figures of Abel and Cain, Eve's boys. Abel was gently grooming a curly coated lamb, his favorite of the flock, contemplating the sacrifice of its life he would soon offer on the rock altar he had painstakingly built on a rise in the pasture. Cain was pushing away from his latest meal, a bountiful veggie plate. He tossed his leftovers into the compost, and then wrapped uncooked stems, tubers, and flowers into a large dried leaf to lie on the embers of the wood fire where he had already fixed his meal.

When God made the rules of relationship, he knew that when the heart genuinely gives, it truly costs something.

As the days progress to Christmas, the evening I most anticipate is Christmas Eve. It was when my dad and mom gathered us around the tree to receive our gifts. In my own growing up years, our church was ambiguous in its celebration. No word, song, or sign of the season was evident within the building or the assembly, but many of the members still decorated their homes and gathered for gaiety.
For a few weeks in 50's December, I played with a wooden and plaster nativity set instead of my metal dollhouse with its plastic furniture. At the end of the year, I carefully wrapped the figures of Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, angels, shepherds, and miniature livestock, all tucked inside the stable, and it was put away with the Christmas decorations.

Since those years of observing one thing and doing another, I have realized just how much I have tried to accomplish on my own, with or without divine sanction. As I strain to see Jesus in Christmas, however, I grow restless with trying to fit him into a season of secular holiday traditions. We did a new thing when Jesse and I went to a midnight Christmas Eve service a few years ago; we saw people we knew from the community and even some members from our church. Another time, we visited a Taize service in midtown Atlanta. No familiar faces, but it was inspiring to hear the voices of men and women mingled in worship within stained glass and old wood beams while traffic tied up at the mall.

I'm thankful for the simple ways our church has come to celebrate Jesus at Christmas. To gather its family on Christmas Eve lights a candle of new faith in me that reminds me of child-like anticipation. A memorable part of the Campus Christmas Eve is the solo. Lela Elliott's offering in a previous year recalled the rare joy of hearing a songbird in December and her voice lifted me to worship. A few weeks ago, when Leah Manley smiled at us and sang "O, Holy Night,” I wept and I prayed, "Whatever my gift, I want to give it to You."

So, here at the Pool, as I gazed at the altars of two ancient men, I also glimpse my own mother. With an apron around her good clothes, her hair coifed, the faint scent of her perfume in my memory, she stands in her pretty slippers at the kitchen sink, with her hands in sudsy dishwater. Candles are lit in the large dark window in front of her. She has already planned the menu, shopped supplies, prepared food, cleaned house, scrubbed bathrooms, made beds, fed pets, hung Christmas tree lights, wrapped gifts, and greeted visitors. Everything we might need, she has thought to provide. In the glow of the candlelight, I see her smile and I hear her softly singing, "there's within my heart a melody, Jesus whispers sweet and low."

Service is a sacrifice. It costs physical time, emotional and spiritual energy, expectation and preparation, economic resources, and especially, it requires the fee of forgiveness. When I approach the mountains in my life obediently, with a willing heart, prepared for sacrifice, Jesus clasps my hand in communion and whispers to me in fellowship.