I had a lot of time to think on Christmas.
My pancreas attacked me. Again. I suppose it was the hearty Christmas Eve dinner at Grandma's that did it. Stupid pancreas.
We had plans to spend Christmas Day with my husband's family. First with his grandmother, then at his parents' house. But I was in pain. And quite sick. And I wasn't going. But my husband's grandmother is 93, so I don't want her to miss an opportunity to see our son, her only great-grandchild. I urged my husband to go to the Christmas luncheon with Grandma and we'd reschedule with his parents.
So they went. For five hours.
That's not really an unreasonable amount of time for that trip. Two hours of that is travel time (an hour each way). Add in lunch and present-opening for eight people, and it's just enough time to get everything done.
But it felt like forever.
I was OK at first. I ate some Jell-O. I caught up on some TV. But my spirit sank and sank. Christmas! All by myself! What fun is that? So lonely! So sad!
After about an hour of this mess, a thought occurred to me: It's Christmas. It's not Rachelmas. It doesn't revolve around me. It's not only Christmas if I'm having a good time. It doesn't really matter if I'm by myself or around my family. The meaning is the same. God's gift is the same. What I'm really supposed to be celebrating is the same. I can be grateful for the birth of Christ by myself. Actually, it might be better that way. I have more time to think and reflect and pray and praise. This should be the best Christmas ever!
But it wasn't.
Despite that valiant effort at being positive, I was still a Grumpy Gus when my husband got home. Perhaps it was low blood sugar from eating nothing but a little Jell-O all day, but I was cranky. No amount of Christmas cheer could replace my cranky pants with happy slacks.
Why not? Why isn't God enough? He does so much for me, but I can't even pretend to be pleased at the thought of spending Christmas alone with him? He gives me plenty of gifts—better than even the best one I got this year (an adorable set of PJs from my mind-reading husband). Yet I'm so ungrateful. So unworthy. Such a brat.
Would God have been enough for you this Christmas?