From childhood, I have come to view it as not just a day, but a season. A season complete with sights, sounds, smells, sensations. I cherish traditions familiar to many and traditions unique to my family. Admiring the lavish gold and emerald and scarlet displays in department store windows. The harsh wind biting my cheeks that somehow relents when the first snow begins to fall. Dipping white chocolate pretzels and the walk to an abandoned barn with friends. The candles in my window that tempt me to read a little bit later into the night. Sitting on the fireplace hearth until my back is almost burned. The comforting chaos of opening presents at my grandmother's house where the youngest cousin could get lost in a sea of wrapping paper.
But this December, in Zambia, that familiarity was yanked off like a warm blanket. It was replaced by a series of experiences and situations that my mind doesn't associate with Christmas.
Sleeping with frozen water bottles instead of a quilted comforter. Reading by candlelight, not for the ambience, but because of a 37-hour power outage. Waking up to earsplitting thunder and a leaking roof instead of gently falling snow. Eating melted chocolate with five Zambian friends under a single strand of Christmas lights instead of hosting an extravagant party for old friends. Sharing Christmas Eve dinner with my Korean parents and Texan brother and sister instead of my immediate family.
And as much as I miss my family, and as much as I love tradition, it's okay. I am still celebrating, and perhaps in a different and more profound way than I have in the past.
The president of our company recently shared something that is too good not to pass along:
"A look at the nativity scene serves to remind us that EVERYONE in it... has a good reason to be homesick. Not one of them was at home. But neither is anyone among them depicted as being sad! I think that is because each of them was serving a larger purpose in the Father's great plan…"
Mary and Joseph, travelers to Bethlehem for a census. The shepherds traipsing through the countryside to see this tiny baby. The wise men from the East following a star for years just to find the promised one.
And I, standing in church singing "Joy to the World" with a Zambian twist, a cool breeze drying the sweat on my brow. So far from home, family, familiarity. Not by my own plans or design, but by his will and his purpose for my life. Far away but not alone, because he is Emmanuel, God with us.
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