I can remember one happy Christmas that stands out from the many sad ones. I was in elementary school and my father was home for a few days from his out-of-state job. Several years prior, after a heart-wrenching court hearing, my parents had been legally separated (the near equivalent of a divorce in those days complete with custody arrangements, support quota, etc). I still remember the courtroom and what I wore that day. After a few years, my parents had come to a mostly peaceful treaty and my father sometimes visited for short periods of time. One of those times was a Christmas in a year I can’t quite recall. So it was that the three of us were together as a family, at least for a few days. We went to the tiny home of my father’s sister in a city a short distance away. What I still remember well from that Christmas visit was their family tradition. It began by lining up by age in the little, dark entry hall. My aunt and uncle had three children, two of whom were many years older than I. But their youngest was only four years my elder and I especially loved this quiet, even-tempered cousin. I was put at the head of the line supplanting my favored cousin while my parents followed my older cousins and my aunt and uncle brought up the rear. Then a cookie tin was opened. The contents weren’t cookies, but small candles. I can still remember the sweet smell of those beeswax candles with the special paper ruffles at the bottom to protect our hands from dripping wax. The first candle was lit by my uncle at the back of the line and then each of us lit our candle from the person next to us in line. Then it was time to sing Silent Night. My musical father with a strong tenor voice started the first note. We all joined in and sang together in the dark by the candle glow. “Silent night, holy night. Round yon Virgin mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly peace.” Then the little procession turned the corner and stood in front of a pair of closed double doors. Behind the doors was the Christmas tree that no one except my aunt and uncle had yet seen. . . and the gifts beneath it. I vaguely remember the beautiful tree, but interestingly, I don’t remember a thing about my presents. My special memories are the togetherness of family in that tiny hallway lining up, lighting our candles, and singing the Christmas story together.
So what’s the point? Just that we are powerful memory-makers for the children in our lives. But we don’t get to pick what they’ll remember. We can only be aware that they will remember something and they will take it with them the rest of their lives. So let’s guard our words and examine our attitudes in order to give them happy, wholesome memories that point them to God.
It’s hard enough to be loving and kind during all our interactions with children and then figuring out how to point them to God, too, is a tall order for parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and family friends. It starts with our own walk with God. In order to be loving and kind consistently, we’ll need a Resource beyond ourselves. I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to always be loving and kind while slogging through life.
Then there’s the added responsibility of helping them find God. How can we point the children in our lives to Jesus if we go through our days without giving him a thought? I know that my heart wanders away when distracted by any number of mundane things. Actually, when worry or fear barge into my thoughts, I know enough to run to the Lord. Even when I’m frustrated, (isn’t technology great?) I remember to send up desperate prayers. But when I’m engrossed in a new endeavor in my work, I forget to give him thanks for new ideas or new skills. Hours rush by and suddenly I realize that I haven’t given a thought to the Lord. I realize how true are the words of the song, “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing”*: “Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love.” I do know that habits help to anchor our wanderings. I’m grateful for my soul mate who keeps our days safely anchored in Bible reading and prayer to start our mornings. And he’s always willing to talk over my endless questions about spiritual things. I know, too, that receiving regular teaching is necessary to staying in the right headspace. I need to be stimulated to love and good works.
Corporate worship music tenderizes my heart to seek God and put aside distractions. Talking with friends about what God is doing in their lives encourages me and sets an example for me. Another helpful component to directing our thoughts to God is the Arts. Most of us are visual learners. Getting visual input that points us to God is vital. Can I mention that the opposite of godly input is powerful for evil? What we feed our souls via our eyeballs will determine the direction our souls move. This week we watched a short Christmas video put out by The Chosen* that grips my imagination every time I view it. A lifetime friend sent us a Christmas card that really spoke to dear Husband and me via the illustrative painting on the card. It pictures the nativity scene with Mary resting on the straw and Joseph holding the Babe in his arms gazing lovingly into his face. Music performed with heart and excellence lifts our spirits whether we’re observers or participants. Dance can lead us into a beautiful imaginary place. The American mantra that I can do it myself doesn’t work in the spiritual realm. We are meant to seek God together.
What happy childhood Christmas memories do you have? Can you replicate or adapt any of them for the children in your life? Keep in mind that the feelings children have while with you will be what they remember most.
*The hymn “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing” was written by a 22-year-old in 1757.
*The Chosen also produces video series on the life of Jesus. One season is complete with more to come. They can be viewed for free on Vimeo. Disclaimer: Wait until the 3rd episode before passing judgment. We couldn’t follow the storyline in the first two, but after that, we have enjoyed the first year series immensely.
More Christmas reading: