I found an entry I wrote several years ago during a Christmastime that was less than perfect. For a long time I had held to the ideal that Christmas should be special, cozy and happy. Joy should be the general consent for such a celebration.
That particular Christmas I spent with my aunt, but thanks to my work schedule had to come back Christmas night to my large, empty dorm. I called my parents, who were 3,000 miles away, and the conversation with my mom soon turned into an argument. I hung up, utterly defeated, and looked out at the gloomy, overcast that was the skyline of Boston, dripping with a depressing and droopy kind of rain. This was not how Christmas Day was supposed to be.
Sitting at my window, alone in the dark, I thought about the fact that 2,000 years ago the Savior of the world was born. The God of the universe, come to earth. It ocurred to me that the night Jesus was born, not everybody was happy and celebrating. Somebody was having a bad night, it was probably raining somewhere and, chances are, someone got into a fight with their mom. And yet Jesus was born, on a night very much like this.
That particular Christmas I spent with my aunt, but thanks to my work schedule had to come back Christmas night to my large, empty dorm. I called my parents, who were 3,000 miles away, and the conversation with my mom soon turned into an argument. I hung up, utterly defeated, and looked out at the gloomy, overcast that was the skyline of Boston, dripping with a depressing and droopy kind of rain. This was not how Christmas Day was supposed to be.
Sitting at my window, alone in the dark, I thought about the fact that 2,000 years ago the Savior of the world was born. The God of the universe, come to earth. It ocurred to me that the night Jesus was born, not everybody was happy and celebrating. Somebody was having a bad night, it was probably raining somewhere and, chances are, someone got into a fight with their mom. And yet Jesus was born, on a night very much like this.
Comments
Post a Comment