For The Love of Family

            I had great expectations that Christmas, despite the warning to my sisters and I Christmas would be very sparse.  For a nine-year-old, a Christmas without gifts isn’t comprehensible.  My parents relentlessly told us, “No gifts this year.  We’re going on a trip to Mississippi.  We can’t afford both.”  The meager Christmas was even evident in the tiny tree in our small trailer.   It was only lightly decorated for the holidays. The snow outside, and Christmas spirit in my childish heart, however, compensated for the lack of ornaments inside.

            But Christmas morning, when our family gathered around the little tree, I felt a huge lump in my chest.  It weighed heavy as I tried to look pleased with the single object I held in my hand.  One gift?  My heart was crying.  I know you told us, but I didn’t think you meant we really weren’t getting “Christmas”!  I don’t want to go on a trip.  I want gifts.  That’s Christmas, I shouted silently.  I fought back the tears forming on the inside, while forcing a smile on the outside.  My hands were cold as I fidgeted.  It’s a trick.  There must be more, I thought desperately, while I watched my sisters each open their single gift.  But it wasn’t a trick.  It was reality.  This was it. One gift; no more.  

            The long ride from Indiana to Mississippi is barely a vague memory.  My parents traveled at night, as we children slept.  When we arrived, there were a few more surprises in store.  Since I had never met this part of my father’s family, it was a unique experience since they were one step removed from the Mennonite faith.  My parents tried to prepare us for the difference, but until you experience it, it seems very foreign.

            These people drove cars like we did, although theirs were much plainer, and predominately black.  They dressed much differently than us; all the ladies wore their hair the same: on top of their heads, (literally, even the little girls wore it in this fashion); the men all looked the same too, and they didn’t believe in celebrating Christmas!  I was appalled!  All the families were large and often joined others for meals or fellowship.  Their church services included no music with the singing, and cousins could marry cousins!

            When I met my great grandmother, I immediately loved her.  She gently hugged each of us girls in turn.  It was awesome to look at the elderly lady and know she was my father’s grandmother.  She loved us, even before she knew us, just because we were family, and in spite of our differences.

            Christmas in its former meaning soon vanished from my mind.  I forgot about the “gifts” I didn’t receive, and the disappointment, as each of those special people invited us into their homes, shared of themselves and all they had.  They taught me the love of family. When it was time to leave for the return trip home, I held back.  I truly didn’t want to leave such a haven of love and tranquility; a place where I felt I belonged.  Our differences weren’t apparent any longer and I only knew I felt welcomed and a part of their family; not an outsider.

As I look back on so many memories of that special time, I think of an even greater love that happened at Christmas. The gift of God’s Son enables our families to join His heavenly family for eternity.  Because of God’s special gift, we are no longer separated from God.

            I learned during my experience of our trip that the love of family is so much more important than the love of gifts to unwrap on Christmas morning.  The gifts I could have unwrapped that year instead of meeting my extended family would soon have been forgotten.  The memories of that time shall always remain a part of me.  I never saw my great grandmother again, but she’s still alive in my heart.

            Jesus, as the gift at Christmas, has the power to live in our hearts, if we allow Him.  God’s gift of Jesus is the greatest kind of love.  Through Him, we can know the true meaning of Christmas, and the love of family will be real for us.