The week after....

Christmas Eve....the smell of bacon and coffee.  The beautiful faces of my children along with their children come through the door in waves.  Pancakes, egg casserole (with a missing ingredient - just not the same).  Anxious faces wanting to know "When?  When?"  The answer of course always the same, "Not until everyone is here and has eaten their breakfast."  The tree is trimmed to perfection.  The decorations are whimsical and arranged just so.  The gingerbread village created only days before is now snuggled between snow white tissue paper and the centerpiece of our table.  My heart is full of love, laughter and contentment.  We pick a "Santa Claus" the one who will take the gifts from under the tree and hand them out.  C doesn't want the job so it goes to E.  But, I don't think that KS or A understood the honor that had been bestowed on E and made for quite a comical and sometimes frustrating parade of gifts handed out.  I tried valiantly to get a picture of each person while they opened each gift...failing...not miserably...but yet knowing that some of the gifts weren't captured for posterity.  The joy...the "thank yous" that ring out over and over...the noise of gifts being played with all rise to a crescendo that lets me know that this was indeed a well done Christmas.  All the hard work, time and effort made for a perfect day.

But....now as they days have come and gone...I realize that there was no reference of any kind to this being a celebration of Jesus' birth.  Yes, there are nativities, praying Santas and books out that tell the truth of this day, this event, this moment.  But did I ever even mention His name?  Did we even stop and acknowledge His blessing on our food?  Did I even whisper "Happy Birthday, Jesus!" to myself?  The answer to all of these questions is, shamefully, no. 

Jesus was born in the filth and stench of a stable.  He was wrapped in rags.  He was hunted down by the King and had to flee for His life.  He came and experienced life - real, visceral and probably sometimes unending misery.  He came to die.  I was born to live.  That is the gift.  Because before His sacrifice....we were all dead.  Because He took my place....died because of my sin....not His own, because He didn't have any....I was reborn.  I live.  I laugh.  I love.  I celebrate.

I forget.