White Christmas

When we stepped out of church on Christmas Eve, it was snowing.  I don't remember the last time we had snow for Christmas.  This time, there was just enough snow to be beautiful, but not so much that driving was impeded for Christmas travelers--a perfect white Christmas!

I wonder why a white Christmas seems so special, and almost expected, to make Christmas everything it should be here in America.  It's kind of like the icing on a cake--it's the final touch to make an already special occasion seem nearly perfect.

Just the thought of a white Christmas makes many of us feel nostalgic about Christmases in the past.  When I think of a white Christmas, my mind travels back to that snowy Christmas Eve in Norfolk when I was about six years old.  When we came home after the children's Christmas service, the crisp air had that unique smell of snow as the gently falling flakes tickled my cheeks. Or, I think back even further, when we still lived on the farm near Bloomfield.  I remember driving after dark, through the falling snow, to Grandma and Grandpa Vawser's farm ten miles away, and starting the treacherous drive up their mile-long lane.  When we reached the highest point just before the lane dipped down into the farmyard, Dad stopped the car and honked the horn.  That was the signal for Grandpa to drive the tractor up to get us.  I don't remember if some of us rode with him on the tractor, or if he pulled the car on down the lane but, one way or the other, we made it to Grandma's and Grandpa's house for Christmas.

I remember one Christmas when we lived in Fairbury, when there was too much snow for safe travel.  That was the year that Grandpa Wegner packed up all of our family's presents in a huge toilet paper box and mailed it to us from Bloomfield.  It arrived safely a few days after Christmas, but we missed spending Christmas in Bloomfield that year.  To make up for that disappointment, Mom and Dad undoubtedly packed up all of us kids and some of our friends, our sleds and toboggan (and a giant, metal salad bowl), and took us to Crystal Springs to go sledding.

I think it's rather ironic that we consider Christmas to be a winter holiday, because December in Bethlehem is not really winter at all, and winter in Bethlehem is never snowy, anyway.  Besides, scholars are quite certain that Jesus was not born in the winter, since the shepherds were watching their sheep in the fields instead of keeping them safe in their sheepfolds, as they would have during cold weather.  Additionally, we rarely consider the fact that no one knows the actual date of Jesus' birth; December 25 was chosen centuries ago as an arbitrary date to celebrate, perhaps as a way to "Christianize" the raucous, pagan celebration of the winter solstice.

But, the date of Jesus' birth is totally inconsequential--it doesn't really matter at all when we celebrate, any more than it matters whether we have snow for Christmas.  Only one thing matters, that God loved us so much that He sent Jesus as a tiny baby, to become one of us, to live in the world and die in our place, so we can live with Him forever.  That's so much better than a white Christmas, isn't it?