The Gifts of Bogotá by Sandi Somers

Christmas–that magic blanket that wraps itself about us, that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. It may weave a spell of nostalgia… but always it will be a day of remembrance–a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved.
~ Augusta E. Rundell ~

Christmas has come and gone with many memories of how God was with us. I related especially to LorrieOrr’s post of her Christmases in Ecuador living away from her family. I too, was away from family in nearby Colombia, and one year I had a special memory mixed with missing family. 

My visit to Bogotá coincided with the Christmas season. I was teaching missionary children in a coffee growing area in northern Colombia, and this was my first visit into the interior. I was eager to meet new friends and explore the large city of two million at that time. Travelling with me was Bessie, who in her sixties had spent years in the country as a missionary teacher.

As our jet neared the El Dorado airport that night, banking and circling Bogotá, lights up and down the mountain nearby appeared like so much gold dust spilling from a bucket. As Bessie and I stepped into the night, the cool air at 8,000 feet altitude (2,500 metres) and fresh odour of recent rains enveloped us, a contrast to the tropical Caribbean coast where our flight had originated.

The next afternoon, Christmas and Latino music blasted from stores and kiosks as Bessie and I, along with friends, wove our way around shoppers bustling in and out of stores. In the growing dusk, we stopped to linger at a gigantic outdoor tree draped in garlands, with lights twinkling from behind its leaves. I was surprised that no one had stolen the decorations, as Bogotá was known for its petty thievery.

That evening we attended a classical Christmas Cantata. As I soaked in the music as a thirsty plant soaks up rain, I couldn’t help contrasting the banks of white lilies decorating the church to the poinsettias so common in Canada at Christmas. But then poinsettia bushes grew everywhere, including the pathway on our mission station.

The next days were exciting days visiting with Bessie’s friends and acquaintances, touring sights around Bogotá and browsing through its modern, well-stocked shops. The atmosphere grew frantic as we neared Christmas, with people rushing to buy last-minute purchases. Bessie and I, too, were caught up in the activity, purchasing gifts for family back home.

We would spend Christmas Eve and Day visit with Bessie’s friends and their two children. It would be different for me; I had grown up with an extended family Christmas of over twenty people—aunts and uncles and cousins, all excited to be together, with Grandma hurrying around in her kitchen to finish dinner preparations. Now, being one of only six people with no one my age was strangely quiet. Suddenly I was lonely for a houseful of people.

But it was a restful evening, and as we prepared for bed, Bessie was given the guest bedroom, and I slept on the couch. In the glow of the Christmas tree lights, the wood softly crackling in the fireplace, I crawled under the warmth of an electric blanket—so welcomed because of Bogotá’s cold nights—and read the story of the first Christmas.

As I closed my Bible and meditated for a few minutes, the embers in the fireplace still crackled orange, and warmth beyond the fireplace and electric blanket enfolded me. That Christmas Eve became a night of music in my heart as I thanked God for bringing me to Colombia and to Bogotá, and I echoed the angels’ words: “Peace on earth, goodwill to men.” Although I missed my family, I knew that “Emmanuel” was with me.

Since that time, I have often thought fondly of that Christmas. It brought its own treasured memories that carried me into the next years and into the rest of my life. 

Christmas Memories by Lorrie Orr

 

Hand carved nativity set from San Antonio de Ibarra, Ecuador

Memories surge at Christmas. Most years meld together in a hazy cloud of joyful family gatherings, delicious food, quiet moments of meditation, old songs, and traditions all pointing to the overarching story of Immanuel, God with us. It is when something exceptional happens that Christmas memories are preserved in crystal clarity.  

1981. So many changes. It was the first Christmas away from family, with only my husband and our 7-week old daughter. In place of quiet, snowy winter scenes, raw green jungle surrounded our home. Garish plastic Santas and haphazardly strung lights adorned some homes. No Christmas carols to tire of while walking in the mall - in fact, no malls or stores to shop in unless one needed eggs or tomato paste. Worst of all, no one, of the few acquaintances we'd met during our first months in Ecuador, invited us to share Christmas with them. 

On Christmas Eve, we sat together, Tim and I, with tiny Cristal between us, looking at our small and ugly artificial tree. I had brought salt dough ornaments from home and with the high jungle humidity, they sagged off from their ribbons and fell to the floor, just like my crumbled expectations. All was bleak. We both wept, missing family desperately. We wept for all that was familiar about Christmas. We wept from loneliness. We wept from missing family. Tim read the Christmas story aloud, and we went to bed, still sad and lonely. 

We had invited a family (co-workers) to share dinner with us the next day. They came, and to my utter shock, left soon after eating. Our family traditions were a long dinner that stretched into the afternoon and evening, playing games, nibbling on goodies, doing puzzles, and finally, finishing up with leftovers before packing up tired children and heading home. Another nail hammered hard into the coffin of unmet expectations. 

Later that week I vowed that I would never experience such a Christmas again. I could, and would do something about it. One of the first things was my realization that I had relied on others to prepare Christmas and evoke the sentiments of the season. The music, the beautiful church services, the lights. Instead, I must prepare my heart before I prepared my home. I did not grow up with Advent traditions, and the next year began practicing the quiet preparations of waiting to celebrate Christ's birth.

Then I began examining my expectations. Family - impossible. Friends - definitely. Each year we invited others to share Christmas with us - and were blessed by the numerous people who sat around our table - Canadians, Americans, Germans, British, Swedish, Australians, Ecuadorians, and New Zealanders. We developed our own family traditions as our family grew to three, and some of those are carried on now into our grandchildren's lives. 

For all of our years in Ecuador Christmas was hard. In the mornings, as I dressed for the day, my mind flew to Canada and to beloved family gathered together. There were always a few tears, but then I would walk out to prepare breakfast for my family, knowing that the truth of Immanuel - God with us, God with me - would not only sustain me, but give me great joy in the celebration of his birth. 

A New World in the Morning by Wendy L. Macdonald

 Sandi’s Writing Prompt for December: 

An important prophecy is that Jesus was called Immanuel, which means “God is with us”.

Write about an experience when you sensed the Lord was (especially) with you at Christmas.

What was important about that occasion? How did you feel? What did you sense? 

How has it had a lasting impact on your life, and perhaps your writing?

Wendy’s Post:

I’ve written about this somewhere before; hopefully, this isn’t a story you’ve already read. But it’s the first one that came to mind when Sandi asked us about a Christmas when God seemed to be especially near to us.

My dad died suddenly in November 1998. It was the year my second son was born and two years before my daughter was born. Grieving in the middle of the busy season of mothering was particularly challenging. Adding Christmas to the puddles of tears I cried made for a mucky December. 

Since I didn’t come from a close-knit family, I mostly grieved alone. My husband hadn’t experienced the death of a parent yet, so he didn’t understand the depth of my grief. He did his best. But I know he’d do better now—now that he understands from personal experience. However, I didn’t judge his shortcomings in not shoring me up as much as I needed him to, because God stepped down to earth and held me within the arms of His Presence. 

One day, during a dark hour of grief, a CD I bought for my dad arrived in the mailbox. I forgot I had ordered it for him. It was a Christmas album I planned to send as a gift. It featured songs sung by one of his favorite singers: Roger Whittaker. 

My brothers and I had chosen a regular song by this artist and played it at the funeral. A New World in the Morning seemed appropriate as Dad had died late at night and been ushered into a new day in Heaven. 

Instead of feeling worse because I received something I couldn’t give him, I felt encouraged. It was as if God handed me a present. He hugged me with the gift of His Presence. Listening to a singer whom a loved one loved can’t help but make you think of all the good memories death can’t take away.

No shovelfuls of earth can bury the beauty of treasured moments. 

And although my dad’s life was tumultuous, I knew it was his gentleness towards me that motivated me to seek that in a life partner too. That is a gift I still appreciate after nearly 40 years of marriage to my gentle giant of a husband.  

Often at Christmas, I listen to the music I meant to give to Dad. Somewhere inside me still resides the little girl who appreciated the books he read to me and the piggyback rides he gave me at bedtime. And when my husband and I read to our children, we passed those gifts on too. And when my grandson visits me, I pass them on to him as well. (And I know his dad also does.) 

I don’t doubt God smiles when He sees parents reading bedtime books to their children. He knows those precious moments will be treasured for a lifetime.  

Are you celebrating good memories of Christmases past?

I hope treasured moments comfort you if you’re grieving. May you feel the Presence of God’s arms surrounding you with His love.

Blessings for a beautiful Christmas and a joyous New Year ~ Wendy Mac 

P.S. When your cat photo-bombs a picture, it's best to go with the flow of the fur. I love this little lady. 

Wendy L. Macdonald is an inspirational blogger and podcaster who loves to photograph nature on Vancouver Island. Her byline is: “My faith is not shallow because I’ve been rescued from the deep.” Her main website is wendylmacdonald.com where she enjoys interacting with readers.

Christmas Memories - Tandy Balson

My daughter recently told me that some of her fondest Christmas memories involve her grandma. When our children were young, the whole family would gather at my mom’s for Christmas day.  She had been widowed for many years before she was ready to give up this tradition.

When we moved the celebration to my house it didn’t take long before she discovered the joy of having no responsibilities and been spoiled for a few days.  We wanted her to feel special and would pick her up on Christmas Eve so she didn’t have to drive.

Our tradition became an early dinner, Christmas Eve service and then driving around town looking at all the Christmas lights.  Once home again, it would be time for hot chocolate and cookies.  A board game completed the evening.  It was a relaxed and loving atmosphere.

Years later, I heard the other part of the kid’s memories with grandma.  One year they got up very early and tiptoed into the living room with a flashlight in hand to peek at their Christmas stockings.  They were startled to hear a sound behind them and turned to see grandma.  The fear of getting caught didn’t last when she said, “SHHH, give me the flashlight.” Then she started looking in her own stocking!

From what I have since learned, the three of them continued this early morning viewing for many years.  It was apparently grandma who would encourage them to wake us up early.  She was as excited as they were.

Other family members would arrive later in the day, but those early morning times with grandma were what formed precious memories for my kids.

This year our daughter has asked my husband and me to spend the night at her house on Christmas Eve.  She wants her children to experience Christmas morning with grandparents.  We are looking forward to love and laugher and creating new memories.  We even have a new board game for the family to play. Don’t tell my daughter, but we just might be setting our alarm to get up before the grandkids do!

May you experience Peace, Love and Joy this Christmas.

Christmas Contrasts by Ruth L. Snyder

The Christmas memories I have from my childhood are very different from most of the ones my friends have. My parents introduced me and my siblings to many North American traditions like decorating a Christmas tree, writing Christmas letters, exchanging gifts, and reading the Christmas story, but because we lived in southern Africa, Christmas also used to mean celebrating the end of another school year, Summer holidays, going swimming outdoors, having a barbeque, eating watermelon and popsicles, having beggars show up at the door asking for "Christmas" (a gift of some kind), and all night services at our local church.

 I'm richer for these experiences, because I understand that Christmas means different things to people. I also learned to focus on the true meaning of Christmas instead of decorations, snow, or turkey. Relatives were introduced to me by way of pictures and letters. (I was five years old before we returned to North America for our first furlough.)

While many parents in North America fret about their children receiving too many gifts, my parents worried about not having any gifts for us at all. We depended on monthly support cheques arriving via the infamous mail system. Sometimes an envelope made the journey from North America to southern Africa in two weeks. Other times it took a more circuitous route that lasted up to two months. In the early 1970's we didn't have the luxury of e-mail and phone calls were only made if there was an emergency.

One December our support cheque did not arrive. My mother became even more creative than usual with our meager food supply. When Christmas day arrived, our parents gave each of us a new Bible (The Living Bible, paraphrased by Kenneth Taylor), the only gifts they had purchased ahead of time. I don't remember feeling deprived. We still had food to eat and we were together as a family.

The next year my parents received extra funds, so they decided to make up for the previous year and ensure our Christmas was extra special. We were treated to an abundance of food, and there was a huge pile of presents under the tree. As children we picked up on the excitement demonstrated by our parents. On Christmas morning we laughed and shrieked as we ripped paper and uncovered gift after amazing gift. However, half an hour later, all four of us children had left our treasure trove of gifts and we were outside making up our own fun with the barrels in which our possessions had been shipped to Africa. One of us would get inside a barrel and the others would roll it down a hill. After we tired of the dizzy spells this created, we stood on the barrels and had races with each other. The barrels were played with many more hours than any of the fancy gifts.

Most Christmases from my childhood were filled with laughter, food, and family. One Christmas stands in stark contrast to the rest. Early in December that year, my dad came down with influenza. My father was usually strong and healthy. (His African nickname was "Big Bull Elephant.")

However, this time Daddy was sick for weeks. He couldn't keep any food down. My mother spent most of her time at his bedside, but she still made an effort to prepare for Christmas as usual. Visits to the doctor didn't yield any answers. He progressively became weaker and weaker. I remember wondering if my daddy was going to die. None of us felt like eating. The mood was dark. I'm not sure when things turned around, but my dad eventually recovered fully.

My family returned to Canada to stay when I was eleven years old. It was then that I began to recognize how different my Christmases in Africa were from the way most North Americans celebrate the event. However, our family did have many traditions that remained constant, no matter where we lived. We still put up a Christmas tree, but in Canada we enjoyed the experience of going hunting for a real evergreen tree. We still read the Christmas story before we opened our presents, but in Canada we were able to enjoy Christmas programs complete with drama and music. Instead of listening to The Messiah on cassette tape, goosebumps broke out on my arms as I stood and sang The Hallelujah Chorus with hundreds of people. We still enjoyed our usual treat of pecan pie, but we also enjoyed a multitude of other candies and desserts.

As a parent, I have enjoyed passing on many of the traditions I grew up with, while also making a conscious effort to share how different Christmas can be in other parts of the world. Although my children have never celebrated Christmas in Africa, they have cousins who have given them personal glimpses into other cultures. My children have also learned to reach out to others at Christmas through caroling, serving in a soup kitchen, visiting retirement homes, sending gifts in shoe boxes to children who may not have any toys otherwise, and sending cards to missionaries and others serving overseas.

I'm thankful for my Christmas memories and the way they still impact me, my family, and those around us. What Christmas memories are you thankful for?

Ruth L. Snyder was privileged to spend her early years in southern Africa where her parents served as missionaries. Ruth used Botswana as the setting for her novella, Cecile's Christmas Miracle. She now resides in northeastern Alberta with her husband Kendall, and their five children. Learn more about Ruth, her writing and photography, and her life adventures at http://ruthlsnyder.com

Family Memories by Tandy Balson

When I ask my now grown children about favourite Christmas memories they will talk about two things.  One of those is the fact that we always got new board games and jigsaw puzzles for the family and would spend many happy hours around the table playing together.  

More importantly, though, was the time spent with my mom.  In their early years, we would join other family members at Grandma’s home for Christmas dinner.  As she aged, our traditions changed.  She had been widowed for many years and we didn’t like the thought of her waking up alone on Christmas morning.  

On the afternoon of December 24^th, we would drive the 20 minutes to her house and pick her up.  She was perfectly capable of driving herself, but this was an extra touch of care that we wanted to provide.  Our evening held a familiar comfort for all of us.  We would have an early dinner and then attend a candle light Christmas Eve service at our local church.  With the strains of Silent Night still in our hearts, we headed out for our next adventure.  

Armed with the local newspaper’s  list of the best light displays, we drove around the city enjoying the elaborate displays in people’s yards.  The best ones always had the manger scene.  Then it was home for hot chocolate and cookies.

My son would give up his room for Grandma and sleep on the floor of his sister’s room.  Together they would wake up early and sneak out with flashlight in hand, to look through their Christmas stockings.  They vividly recall the time they heard Grandma’s voice behind them and thought they were going to get into trouble.  Instead, she asked for the flashlight and went through the contents of her Christmas stocking!  This was a secret the three of them shared for many years.

My mother has been spending Christmas with Jesus for fifteen years now.  We still talk about the fun we had with her sleepovers and her childlike enthusiasm.  The gift we gave her was the freedom to relax and have fun as she had no other responsibilities.  The gift she gave us is the countless precious memories that we recall.  

Southern Gospel singer Guy Penrod sings a song with the following line: “I miss you most at Christmas, you were like a little child.”  It took many years before I could listen to the song without tears.  I thought I could do it now, but I am shedding a few tears just thinking about it.

The true blessings of Christmas are not the physical gifts we receive.  My children have no memories of special gifts.  Our fondest family memories are the love, laughter and time spent together. 

My husband and I have been invited to our daughter’s house for a sleepover on Christmas Eve.  I think I’ll find a board game and jigsaw puzzle to take along with us.  

Merry Christmas.

blog: www.timewithtandy.com

website: www.tandyb.com

What Christmas Story Will You Write? by Sandi Somers

Prompt: Think of all the inspirational Christmas stories you’ve read over your lifetime, maybe the ones you read in a Chicken Soup book. Now write one of your own. Share your special stories about the holiday season, from inspirational and joyous, to heartwarming and humorous, from childhood or adulthood, from family times or alone times. Your story can be fiction or non-fiction, with a word count up to 950 words.

Even if you don’t write for our InScribe blog, you can prepare a true story for Chicken Soup (some InScribe members have already had a Chicken Soup Christmas story accepted or published).

Chicken Soup compiles a Christmas edition every other year, and here below is the invitation and next call for submissions from their “Possible Book Topics.”

Chicken Soup Stories about the Christmas Season

“Our holiday books are very popular. We do a new edition every other year and so we are now collecting stories for our Christmas 2015 book. Share your special stories about the holiday season… from inspirational and joyous, to heartwarming and humorous… The deadline for story and poem submissions is January 31, 2015.”

Meanwhile, a Story about my Treasured Moments

Last Christmas as my friend Jeanie and I walked her dog, she told me how she remembers each Christmas. She buys bought an ornament each year and writes a note about that Christmas. For example, the year she was lonely and walked into a fabric store and was mesmerized by giant snowflakes suspended from the ceiling, gently swaying in the breezes as people entered and left the store. The year Christmas was +15 degrees in Calgary. The Christmas of the Great Tsunami. The year she married Victor.

Her tradition began during a lonely year before she and Victor met and before she became a Christian. To compensate for receiving no presents, she wrapped up a small empty box, put an ornament inside and wrote out a memory of that year.

Now each Christmas as Jeanie decorates her tree and adds a festive air to her house, she adds a new box and ornament and reflects on those past Christmases.

What a great idea! I thought. A memorial. Why don’t I write my memories from Christmases past?

It’s an idea that had crossed my mind before, and so I began.  I listed highlights from a number of past Christmases, and began adding treasured stories.

I decided to make this project long-term; each year I would gradually fill in anecdotes and comments from past years, in addition to writing the memories from the current year.

I realized that in reviewing past years, God had given me the gift of His presence in many of those experiences.

Now over to you. What Christmas memories come to mind for you? What Christmas story will you write? What meaning does it have for you?

Song Of The Bells ~ by Marcia Janson

Childhood memories tend to come to me in vignettes, often with very little context in which to interpret them.  They are like small ice chunks that have broken away from a glacier, bobbing along on the surface of a spring thaw river.

Sometimes when I catch sight of them, I pluck them out and have a look-see. The Christmas bits are particularly compelling. Nostalgia gives them a crystalline sparkle and I enjoy caressing the smooth, time-eroded surfaces. I catch a glimpse of my siblings and me decorating the tree with miniature carousel ornaments that twirl round at the slightest breath of air. Snow ball-shaped lights frame the picture window and crackling wood radiates warmth from the fireplace.

I remember the thrill of anticipation over the special gift “Santa” would bring and the soft, buttery taste of Mom’s shortbread. And there was the excitement of staying up very late to go to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. I loved being in the children’s chorus, singing carols from our perch up in the choir loft. We had a grandstand view of the magical, life-size manger scene at the front of the sanctuary.

 When I was ten years old, we moved to the other side of town. There was no midnight service in the church there, so we stayed home. How we spent the evening is not part of my memory flow, but one vignette from that Christmas Eve has stayed with me all my life. 

It was quite late and I was lying snugly in bed, my little sister sleeping peacefully nearby. All was quiet in the house and my mind, over-stimulated by holiday activity, was trying to process everything. All the anxieties and excitements of the day clamoured for attention and I was trying to tuck them away so I could settle down and fall sleep.

And then I heard the church bells.  A waterfall of notes cascaded through the darkness and settled into a tune I recognized.

Silent night, holy night.

All is calm, all is bright….

 I sang the words quietly to myself as carol after carol pealed out and something hidden way down inside me started to let go and relax.

Oh holy night! The stars are brightly shining.

It is the night of the dear Saviour’s birth.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining

Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth...

I don’t think that my ten-year old self had any astounding theological revelations that night. But I do believe that God rejoiced and sang over me in the music of the bells. And, as the carol proclaims, my “soul felt its worth”. 

Isn't that what we all need? May the Lord sing over you as you celebrate the advent of His Son into our world.

Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace.

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Photo credits
Icy river: http://www.flickr.com/photos/nicmcphee/916741349/
Nativity scene: http://www.flickr.com/photos/16502322@N03/6568703575/
Star: http://www.flickr.com/photos/the-maestros/352417169/