It was Christmas 2000 in the little town of Angwin in which I had been raised and had now returned to live with my family and go to college. The cold, pine-scented air of the early darkness was filled with that unshakable holiday feeling. Houses were surrounded by twinkling lights, and the college campus lay still and quiet since most of the students had left on vacation.
Normally I loved the Christmas season, but on this evening as we joined others on their way to a concert at the large college church, I felt disgruntled. I was 19 years old and had returned just a few months before from a year of student missionary service in Albania. The small crime-torn country had been so different from this. There we had rang in the fateful year 2000 under a sky spangled with tracer bullets from overzealous partyers. There I watched anxious young men stand on the shore waiting for night to fall when they could board illegal immigration boats. There I had laughed and cried and sang in a new language, and there I had learned to passionately love cultural diversity and people who’s world was smaller and in some ways much bigger than the one I had always known.
But back in the country of the golden promise I was having difficulty appreciating stores filled with sparkling decorations long before the day arrived. After the poverty I had seen, the materialism was unsettling to me. The stress of trying to figure out what to buy people who already had too much was aggravating, and I hated it. There were the predictable nativity scenes and carols, but was there really anything worthwhile in it?
As I settled into the pew of the church, my mind drifted back to the year before. The greatest excitement to me that Christmas was the fact that my family was coming to see me. Never had being with them meant so much to me, and I spent days cleaning my little flat and decorating with fruit and candles. I was too excited even to eat. I stayed up into the wee hours making gifts for them.
Despite the fear and poverty of the Albanians, there was much to be enjoyed. In Albania the holidays are marked with visits between friends and family, and each visit must be returned, just like in the good old days. It was delightful to take my family to visit all my new friends. One rarely knocks at the door in these cases, but calls out from the yard to announce their arrival. Kisses are exchanged, two on each cheek, and then the guests are ushered in and served candy and soda and home-baked pastries such as baklava. Then follows the usual hearty conversation, in which my family was told again and again by people I was close to and those I hardly knew: “She is our daughter, she is a part of our family!”
When friends back home had asked what they could send me for Christmas, I asked for things I could give away, like notebooks and pencils for the children, pretty candles for the frequent power-outages. These simple things from America brought overwhelming delight to the Albanians, and I was doubly blessed. In turn, I was given gifts of mandarins, silk flowers, and most precious of all, colorful socks, hand knit from rough woolen yarn. They had apologized for giving me hand-made things, not realizing what priceless treasures they were to me.
Strains of “Oh, Holy Night” brought me back to the present as Jaime Jorge drew his bow skillfully over his violin strings. He played “Silent Night” and “Oh Come, Oh Come, Emanuel” and many other favorites. I can’t remember which song touched me the most, but somewhere in the middle of that concert, listening to those reminders of the wonderful gift from God, a revelation came to me. The celebration of the Christ-child was packed with meaning for me!
Jesus left all the comforts He knew, in a sense “throwing away His passport” and living among the people He longed to save. He had been born the poorest of the poor, a status that we would expect to be detrimental to His influence. He took on our customs, eating with us and speaking our language. He didn’t depend on a paycheck from home but took on Himself all the limitations of the slaves He would free. And when things got rough, He stayed to face death rather than catching a flight home. My heart nearly burst as I realized that Jesus and I shared the passion for different cultures and people in need.
I love Christmas as much as ever. I still get a bit stressed over exchanging gifts. The sparkly decorations and collectibles hold little interest for me. The Christmas season reminds me what matters most: the amazing gift that was meant to be the hope of every kindred, nation, tongue, and people. Every year my heart beats with the same sense of responsibility to those who don't know that hope. The sacrifice made, that life given to the world on that holy night, has yet to reach it's complete fulfillment, and it's up to us to bring it about. Merry Christmas to all....
But back in the country of the golden promise I was having difficulty appreciating stores filled with sparkling decorations long before the day arrived. After the poverty I had seen, the materialism was unsettling to me. The stress of trying to figure out what to buy people who already had too much was aggravating, and I hated it. There were the predictable nativity scenes and carols, but was there really anything worthwhile in it?
As I settled into the pew of the church, my mind drifted back to the year before. The greatest excitement to me that Christmas was the fact that my family was coming to see me. Never had being with them meant so much to me, and I spent days cleaning my little flat and decorating with fruit and candles. I was too excited even to eat. I stayed up into the wee hours making gifts for them.
Despite the fear and poverty of the Albanians, there was much to be enjoyed. In Albania the holidays are marked with visits between friends and family, and each visit must be returned, just like in the good old days. It was delightful to take my family to visit all my new friends. One rarely knocks at the door in these cases, but calls out from the yard to announce their arrival. Kisses are exchanged, two on each cheek, and then the guests are ushered in and served candy and soda and home-baked pastries such as baklava. Then follows the usual hearty conversation, in which my family was told again and again by people I was close to and those I hardly knew: “She is our daughter, she is a part of our family!”
When friends back home had asked what they could send me for Christmas, I asked for things I could give away, like notebooks and pencils for the children, pretty candles for the frequent power-outages. These simple things from America brought overwhelming delight to the Albanians, and I was doubly blessed. In turn, I was given gifts of mandarins, silk flowers, and most precious of all, colorful socks, hand knit from rough woolen yarn. They had apologized for giving me hand-made things, not realizing what priceless treasures they were to me.
Strains of “Oh, Holy Night” brought me back to the present as Jaime Jorge drew his bow skillfully over his violin strings. He played “Silent Night” and “Oh Come, Oh Come, Emanuel” and many other favorites. I can’t remember which song touched me the most, but somewhere in the middle of that concert, listening to those reminders of the wonderful gift from God, a revelation came to me. The celebration of the Christ-child was packed with meaning for me!
Jesus left all the comforts He knew, in a sense “throwing away His passport” and living among the people He longed to save. He had been born the poorest of the poor, a status that we would expect to be detrimental to His influence. He took on our customs, eating with us and speaking our language. He didn’t depend on a paycheck from home but took on Himself all the limitations of the slaves He would free. And when things got rough, He stayed to face death rather than catching a flight home. My heart nearly burst as I realized that Jesus and I shared the passion for different cultures and people in need.
I love Christmas as much as ever. I still get a bit stressed over exchanging gifts. The sparkly decorations and collectibles hold little interest for me. The Christmas season reminds me what matters most: the amazing gift that was meant to be the hope of every kindred, nation, tongue, and people. Every year my heart beats with the same sense of responsibility to those who don't know that hope. The sacrifice made, that life given to the world on that holy night, has yet to reach it's complete fulfillment, and it's up to us to bring it about. Merry Christmas to all....