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In those days a degree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. Luke 2:1
“Why is Christmas so much work?” I’d dragged fourteen tubs of decorations down two flights of stairs to the first floor and paused to catch my breath. Glancing heavenward (perhaps for an answer), I couldn’t help but notice the bright-white patch in the ceiling that marked where I’d nearly fallen through the attic floor a year ago when my foot slipped off a rafter and punched a hole through the sheetrock. One leg dangled as I straddled the rafter visualizing what could have happened.
“Why do I risk my life to decorate for Christmas?” Because Advent begins Sunday! Because it’ll be dark by the time my husband gets home from work! Because I’m running out of time!
I opened a tub containing the family creche, cradled the figure of Mary and reimagined her story: A heavily pregnant very young woman — riding a donkey on a punishing journey to pay taxes, of all things. Mary, destined to give birth to her first child in a barn, of all places. No familiar women-folk around to support her. Joseph was a hero in his own right, but I imagine he couldn’t be expected to take on much of a role assisting in childbirth. Probably the innkeeper’s wife helped, or knew someone who could. But that poor woman — the innkeeper’s wife — was also busy with an inn full of paying customers to attend to.
I wonder if Mary remembered that she was giving birth to a holy child? Was she annoyed that this trip was all about a census and taxes?
That first Christmas was more dangerous, more painful, and more fearful than anything I’ve ever known. Compared to Mary’s plight, my job was nothing.
My mind flooded with images of our happy children in Christmases past: the fun they had playing with this well-worn nativity scene, how they delighted in the festive decorations, Christmas music, the special foods, parties and activities shared with friends and family. Christmas was the most anticipated season of the year, and I wanted to keep it that way.
The self-pity passed and never returned. That year, decorating became a private worship ritual for me. My job was to prepare, yet again, my family and those who passed by or entered our home to heed, or at least to be curious about, the most important story the world could imagine.
Dear Lord, help us acknowledge and be grateful for both the labor and joys of Christmas.
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