Christmas has always been my favorite season. But this year, all around the world, people are struggling to rebound from scenes of terror and tragedy. Part of me doesn't feel in the mood for celebrating. But another, probably wiser, perspective I have is that this year is the perfect setting to seek and find a deeper meaning for Christmas.
Actually, I was already in the process of rethinking my holiday activities. I usually start buying gifts in March, gathering pine cones in August, and filling the freezer with cookies in October. Last year, these efforts combined to produce the perfect holiday scene. I had twinkly lights, abundant goodies, and the prettiest packages ever, presided over by a tree decked out with handmade bows and silk flowers.
There was just one problem. For the third time in four years, I was so ill by the time Christmas Day arrived, I could scarcely drag myself through it. I knew the spiritual significance of the holiday, of course, and I'd tried to keep it in mind. I'd read the Gospel accounts of Jesus' birth, and Mary Baker Eddy's deep spiritual insights about the nativity. (There's a wonderful little collection of her pieces about Christmas, published under the title What Christmas Means to Me.) But just reading wasn't enough. I saw that my preoccupation with objects, with traditions, with conformity to all sorts of demands and expectations, was a distraction that kept the Christ from coming to my heart.
