And so this is Christmas...

Coming into the holiday season, we knew this Christmas would probably be different. If for no other reason, just dealing with cancer puts a bit of a cloud over everything. Once we started treatment, it also became obvious that Christmas would fall on one of the low points in my treatment cycle, and so I would probably not have much energy and not be able to be around people - including going to one of my favorite services at Park Street each year, the Christmas Eve service.

Then the hits started coming. Just as my counts started dropping, I finally picked up the RSV that seems to have been circling our house for the past month (all three kids had really bad respiratory bugs that eventually required antibiotics). I was admitted to the hospital on the 22nd, and we hoped upon hope that this wouldn't last through Christmas. But like clockwork, my white blood cell counts made their imminent decline and, while RSV isn't typically a major threat, it can get worse and the doctors couldn't recommend me going home with both low counts and a brewing virus.

As if that wasn't enough, Kristen came down with a stomach bug, which Elijah then also caught. I'm sure the others will be spared though, right? Add to that the emotional stress of wondering whether Kristen would be too sick to take care of the kids and frantically trying to find someone to take our kids in on Christmas Eve or morning. (Thankfully, I think we're OK in that front.)

So here we are - as Kevin McAllister says in Home Alone 2, "another Christmas in the trenches."

Let me pause here and recognize two groups of people. First, I can't say enough how humbling it has been seeing so many people love us so well, particularly in the last few days. Christmas is already a stressful time. But so many of friends have put that aside to care for us, despite the disruption to your own holiday plans. You've taken our kids in, brought us Christmas dinner, picked up stuff for us, and checked in on us in the midst of your own craziness.

Second, I've never been more grateful for the women and men who sacrifice their own holiday to serve others. Nurses, doctors, paramedic, police, fire fighters, military, even utility workers - you fight for life while we go on with our lives. In the only two jobs I remember my dad having - military and emergency management (managing a 911 call center) - there were always people who had to work holidays. One of my favorite holiday memories growing up was baking extra pies and cheesecakes for them to say thank you. This year, I have a renewed perspective of the sacrifice and service these people make.

And so this is Christmas. We didn't get to watch White Christmas, or A Christmas Carol. We didn't get to go to the Christmas Eve service. We didn't have our traditional German sausage dinner last night (but thank you Annie and Dan for swinging by Karl's to get us sausages for later!). There's no tree in my room. No twinkling lights. Our kids will either have to open presents without me or else wait to open presents.

So what is Christmas without all our favorite traditions? What is Christmas when you're lying in a hospital bed? What is Christmas when you're alone?

Well, as I've witnessed since being here, in one way, Christmas is a time of charity - charity that I have been on the receiving end of. I've been brought to tears multiple times today by the kindness of others. Santa came and brought me a present, thanks to the sweet folks at Santa's Magic. And then there was the nurse who came in on her off day (despite the ice and snow) to bring presents for the patients on her floor.

Charity comes from the same word as grace. These acts of common grace from complete strangers - and those from you, dear friends - are a reminder to me that today we celebrate the dawn of redeeming grace. The thrill of hope that makes a weary world rejoice.

I've been reading a book by one of our Eastie neighbors called Jesus Journey: Shattering the Stained Glass Superhero and Discovering the Humanity of God . Trent reflects on how these days, Christians have an easier time with the divinity of Jesus, but we struggle to see him as fully human - the exact opposite problem Jesus faced during his life. At one point Trent writes:

"It turns out the glory of God has a face: Jesus (2 Cor. 4:6).

This way way of seeing God—finally, and most accurately, through the person of Jesus—reshapes our theology in the deepest and most meaningful of ways:

Because it means God is close: close enough to be touched in Jesus.

Because it means God, while remaining all-powerful, is somehow vulnerable: vulnerable enough to bleed and die in Jesus.

And, perhaps most moving (especially when it comes to our hurting humanity and the confusion, fear, and yearning that so often come with it), because it means that God, the maker of heaven and earth, really does understand what it means to be human."

As Linus so wisely recalls, "That's what Christmas is all about Charlie Brown." God became flesh and dwelt among us. And in this season of my life - on this day in particular - I have no greater comfort than knowing God, the maker of heaven and earth, really knows what it means to be human. He has suffered. He knows loneliness. He got sick. He got scared. He is God with us - Emmanuel - and he is close to the brokenhearted.

Ironically, the song that is refreshing me today isn't a Christmas song, but it's on the same theme:

Bound to come some trouble to your life,

That ain't nothing to be afraid of.

I know there's bound to come some tears up in your eyes,

That ain't no reason to fear.

I know there's bound to come some trouble to your life,

Reach out to Jesus,

Hold on tight.

He's been there before

And he knows what it's like,

And you'll find he's there.

And so this is Christmas. I know it sounds paradoxical, but I'm profoundly grateful for this Christmas, despite everything that's going on and, oddly, because of everything that's going on. Who wouldn't rather be with their family on Christmas? But there's a nearness to Emmanuel which I would not have felt were I not here today and which we all might miss, were it not for times of hardship. As Bob Cratchett from A Christmas Carol declares in the midst of his own pain, "I am a truly happy man."

Merry Christmas, dear friends!