When the Magic Dies

The magic of Christmas has inspired and wow-ed me ever since I was a little girl.

Anticipating Santa.
Singing Christmas carols.
Counting the days until we would fly from our balmy island home to the chilly winter winds, where our Maryland family would be waiting with open arms.


And then of course, the picking out, cutting down, & trimming of our REAL, live tree, the playing of the newest gifted board game with our cousins on Christmas day, exchanging gifts like socks & underwear, which you had to show to all, aunts, uncles, and grandparents alike because, well, it's tradition; and so much more.

The wonder.
The awe.
The beauty.
It never seemed to wane for me, year after year, and while it changed as I grew into adulthood, my eyes still sparkled with this -- my favorite time of the year.

Until last year.
Last year, when I found myself childless {for another year}; on an indefinite sabbatical from 10 years of full time ministry; dealing with over 3 years of increasing chronic pain with no end or solution in sight; in the wake of recovering from the fear of almost losing my parents in the Haiti earthquake; and isolated from friends and family because of distance in miles, in some cases, and because of distance in hearts with others.

My parents returned back from Haiti for the holidays, and my mom and I traveled to our traditional shopping haunts, and all of the feelings that I had been holding at bay, like a dam on the brink of bursting, slammed through my carefully guarded walls and I sobbed to my mother.


I told her that I did not feel needed.
I spoke about how I felt insignificant and how I had no purpose.
I shared how empty my arms and heart felt with no little one to share my usual, boundless, IMMEASURABLE joy of Christmas with and how I wondered if I could ever feel the same again.

I cried, "I want to WANT to give up!! Why is God so cruel to give me this strong will to fight in spite of myself, but with no answers, no solutions, no change, no tangible appearance of His precious promises."

To say that I was undone would have been an understatement.

My mother grieved along with me as tears ran down her face, lined with worry and stress at seeing her sensitive little girl all grown up and struggling through these real life heart breaks.

I hated hurting her with my emotional outburst.

I wanted to protect her. She wanted to protect me.

I could only imagine what she felt as a mother seeing her child suffer with nothing she could do...and as hard and difficult as this may sound, I felt even angry at being denied the opportunity to sit and to cry and to love and to lift up in prayer, my own children.

I truly felt dead inside, like I had found the bottom of my heart -- the deep, dark, hidden place that no one likes to go because the pain there is lonely and without tangible words.

Gradually, the Lord lifted me.

Like He does.

And carried me through Christmas.

Like only He could.

And now it is Christmas again.

Just a few days away, in fact.

My longing mother heart is still longing.

My arms still feel the weight of emptiness with a palpable strain.

And yet, something is different.

This year has been a year of healing, a year of soothing broken places,

A year of the REDEEMED.

Do not get me wrong.

The ache never goes away.

Not quite.

Moments that others take for granted.

Words spoken without a thought.

Memories made simply as part of tradition.

Hearing and seeing them still sting....

Yet, this year, as I unwrap Jesus, and His heart for me and Arno, for our parents, for the world, I ask Him to help me see with His eyes, to be gracious like His heart, to give generously from my own need.

There is a strange sense of hope that I have

In spite of the reality

In spite of the circumstances in front of me

In spite of the voice of fear inside of me -- "What if you get hurt again?"

In spite of ME...

I see Him.

And maybe, just maybe...seeing Him is the real magic of Christmas for me this year.