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. 

The Last Christmas ~ Valerie Ronald

  

My mother never told me how much she would miss me when I remarried and moved to Manitoba. Some years before, she came to live near me and my family after my father died, where our relationship grew closer. She stood by me as I struggled through a divorce and serious health issues, and I gave her companionship and help as she aged.

She was happy for me when I met my “Manitoba man”. Having witnessed my years of painful struggle in my first marriage, she wanted God’s best for me, even if it meant I would be leaving. She bravely expressed only joy and encouragement as we planned a wedding in the middle of my chemotherapy treatments. Later I learned how her heart was breaking at the thought of me going.

Before our first wedding anniversary, my mother was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer. She chose not to have treatments as they would only prolong the inevitable. She maintained her independence as long as possible, with help from my older brother and her church family and friends. That winter my husband and I prayed, receiving God’s peace in our decision that I would fly west for what would most likely be her last Christmas.

I tried not to cry as I greeted her with a long hug. She was small and fragile in my arms, yet her gaunt face shone with joy at my arrival. She was still living in her beautiful seaside apartment, making do with medical home care and other helps. Though in early remission from cancer myself, I took over her care as best I could.

Words cannot describe the warm presence of God in that cozy apartment as we settled in for what seemed like one long sleep-over. We openly talked about what was coming, which intensified our pleasure in being together. We cried, we laughed, we reminisced and we talked about God. My mother became a Christian later in life, during my father’s illness. She looked to Jesus as her constant companion through many lonely days. She had a hunger to learn about Him in His Word, as if she were making up for lost time. What a difference it made for her to face death knowing she would soon be with her Savior.

 That Christmas there were a few cards on the mantelpiece but that was it for holiday decorations, so one evening I dug out Mom’s beloved nativity set. She sat in her favourite rocker wrapped in a warm pink robe with a blanket over her knees, watching me carefully unpack the porcelain figures. A friend had built her a rustic creche some years ago, which she wanted set on a table close by her chair. She asked me to hand her the figures in a certain order. Tenderly cradling each piece, she told me how every Christmas she liked to imagine what it was like for those who were there when Jesus was born.

The animals in the stable watching curiously as this small, naked creature slept in their hay. The shepherds still dazed by their angel visitation, coming to see if there really was a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger, as they had been told. And solemn Joseph, weary yet vigilant as he watched over Mary and her newborn son ˗˗ what responsibility he must have felt.

My mother held the figure of a kneeling Mary for a long time, turning it over in her trembling hands before she spoke.

“I think I know some of what Mary felt ˗˗ relief, wonder and fierce love for her baby. Maybe she checked that he had all his fingers and toes, like I did when you were born.” She held me long in her loving gaze.

“Even though Mary knew who her baby boy was meant to be, she probably loved him first as most mothers love their babies, with all her heart.”

I rested my head against her knees.

“Just like you loved me,” I whispered as I felt her hand on my head.

That Christmas was filled with bittersweet moments ˗˗ memories of my mother to treasure, whose beautiful brown eyes spoke volumes when she could not speak. A few months later the family was called to come and say our final goodbyes to her in the hospital. By then she hardly knew we were there, yet I knew I had already said my goodbyes during our precious last Christmas together. Though my heart grieved, I knew it was not really goodbye, rather it was until we meet again, when I would join her in heaven.

Her nativity set resides with me now. It is the first thing I put up each Christmas season. In keeping with tradition, I think about what the first Christmas was like for each character as I place their figure in the creche. And I remember how God gifted me with a precious last Christmas with my mother.

More of Valerie's work can be read on her blog:

https://scriptordeus.wordpress.com/

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. 

Home For the Holidays - Tracy Krauss

I've always loved Christmas and everything the season brings. Once I became a Christian, the holiday became even better as I focused more on the miracle of Jesus' birth. However, Christmas was also a very busy time. My husband and I are both the babies of large families, so for many years we never spent Christmas at home, even once we were married and had children. We always stayed at my husband's sister's house from Christmas Eve through Boxing day and went to one of my siblings for New Year. We were the ones who had "moved away", so it was always up to us to travel to be with family. It was usually a two-week extravaganza of living out of suitcases and carting gifts from place to place. Fun but exhausting.

That changed in 1995 when we moved to B.C. from Saskatchewan. We had lived far away before and had made the trip, but this time it was different. A two-day journey in the dead of winter with four children just didn't seem feasible, especially when my husband didn't get that many days off and we couldn't afford to fly.

As it turns out, that first Christmas "alone" became a pivotal point in our lives. Even though we loved and missed our extended family, it was so wonderful to wake up on Christmas morning and be able to revel in our children's delight without all the rest of the frenzy that normally went with it. It was cozy and intimate. Reverent, almost. We could focus on the faith aspect of the season and start our own traditions. It was also the year my husband bought a puppy for Christmas - a beautiful malamute/wolf cross that grew to be a beloved member of the family. (And grew and GREW!)

That was more than twenty-seven years ago. In that time I only traveled back to Saskatchewan once for Christmas when my husband was working away and all my children but one were elsewhere. (That's what happens when they grow up and get married.) That year, in 2008, we had just moved to Tumbler Ridge, so my son and I flew to Regina. For several years after that, various children came to our house in TR for the holidays, bringing their little ones.

And then... the cycle continued. 

My daughters expressed how they wanted to start their own family traditions in their own homes, especially on Christmas morning. So, after twenty-odd years of hosting my immediate family for Christmas, I relinquished the reins, (graciously, I hope!) and now get invited to one of their homes for the holidays. We had come full circle. 

I remembered how my own mom had done this same thing way back when I was still a teen. My older siblings had started their own families by then and so we usually went to one of their homes for Christmas. My mom was very gracious like that. She didn't fuss or expect people should come to her. She realized, for a variety of reasons, it was easier and better if we went to them. 

And so it goes. I am grateful to live fairly close to all my children. (Within a two-hour radius.) Depending on the year, we've driven somewhere either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, but mostly I enjoy staying close to home and visiting after the frenzy has taken place. 

Since that pivotal Christmas in 1995, Jesus has been and remains the centerpiece of our holiday, not just an add-on. I look back at the days of "hoopla" with fond memories, but wouldn't change our stay-at-home Christmases for anything. 

Tracy Krauss enjoys Christmas and writing in beautiful Tumbler Ridge, BC, where she lives with her sweetheart of forty years.