How I learned to stop worrying and love Christmas

By Reece Murphy

Look, I'm going to confess right upfront that this is one of those feel-good Christmas story blog things.
But, you see, this year I finally got it — true, unadulterated, down-home fa, la, la, la, la Christmas spirit and I've got to testify.
Before I tell the story, though, a little background based on a confession: I am a Grinch. Not the I'm-going-to-steal-your-presents-and-ruin-Christmas kind, but more of a too-much-Christmas-joy-gives-me-hives variety.
And I'm newly married to a Jewish woman whose love, love, LOVE of Christmas makes a Baptist preacher's Christmas spirit seem like an agnostic's.
So pretty much since mid-November I've been itching like a mangy dog.
As the son of a Southern Pentecostal preacher, Christmas was a big deal growing up. Our family tradition included Christmas Eve snacks in the glow of the tree as Dad read the Christmas story (no, not that one) from Luke, the opening of one or two small gifts, followed the next morning by Santa Claus, Christmas dinner and caroling featuring Mom on piano.
Somewhere along the way, though, the magic disappeared, replaced by an overwhelming consternation between my consumeristic duty as a good ol' commercialized American and my traditional understanding of the supposed true meaning of the season, which, I was always assured, was not about the presents (try selling that point to a loved one who didn't get a present, but bought you one).
"Jingle Bells" and "White Christmas" became harbingers of a dread I could not shake — especially while listening to my wife's piercing — and dang-near unending — Frankie Valli-inspired version of the latter this Christmas while waiting for snow.
The closer Christmas loomed, the more ill-tailed I got: Christmas decorations? What a pain in the ... ! Shopping? Sigh ... Merry Christmas? Pffttthh! Empty sentiment if I ever heard one!!
I even found myself aggravated by the sight and sound of Salvation Army bell-ringers outside Walmart.
Ridiculous, I know.
Over the years, I'd often felt guilty about my grinchiness and this year was no exception, so Christmas morning I woke up early determined, by God's grace or force of will, to have a happy Christmas.
The first thing I did was head downstairs, start a pot of coffee and turn on the Christmas tree. Not sure if it was the coffee or the tree, but oddly enough, I felt a little better sitting there looking at my wife's bright handiwork. She's so good at those kinds of things, I thought.
Don't get me wrong, though, I still felt crummy.
"You should read the Christmas story for old time's sake," I thought. "That might make you feel better."
I could almost quote it by heart, but I got down my Bible and read it anyway. It made me feel a little better.
Then I stood up for a refill and was promptly waylaid by Megan Fox — or rather my stepson Trey's new Megan Fox poster rolled up in a cardboard tube and sticking strategically out from under the tree.  
The tree tottered, I stumbled across the floor and let out a stream of words that would've made Mr. Parker in "A Christmas Story" (yeah, that one) proud.
My epiphany came unexpectedly in the kitchen a little later that morning amid the sweet cinnamon smell of French toast casserole in the oven.
As I stood there cooking sausage for the hashbrown casserole to accompany our French toast casserole, my wife singing "I yi, yi, yiii I'm dreamiiing of a whiiiiiiite Christmaaasss ..." in the background, I began to think about the Christmas story. Specifically, Luke 2:13-14 where the angels begin to sing to the shepherds.
"Suddenly a great company of heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying 'Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.'"
The last part of the passage began to sink in as I thought about it, "... peace to those on whom his favor rests."
"Peace. To THOSE on whom his FAVOR rests..."
Then it hit me, and it hit me hard. Christmas wasn't about the trimmings, the carols, stress over buying gifts, the bell-ringing jerks at Walmart who make you feel bad for not dropping in a dime — it was about Christ. Or, in other words, the gift that God gave us in Christ.
And, in even more words, it dawned on me, Christmas is a celebration of God's blessings for those "on whom his favor rests."
Which meant us. Which meant me. Which meant my new wife. My new stepson. My new home. My new, wonderful life. My first Christmas with a family of my own!
I couldn't help it. Just like that, the link was made and I was overcome.
Standing there, wearing baggy pajama bottoms and a sausage-grease-stained T-shirt, I slipped on a pair of oven mittens and began to dance.
"What. Are. You. Doing?" Lisa asked.
"I'm dancing a happy dance. A CHRISTMAS happy dance!"
"Thaaat's lovely, dear."
"I know. And fun. It's Christmas!"
"Much better than your naked salsa-dancing," she said (don't ask) and went back to her song.
I joined her, "I yi, yi, yiii I'm dreamiiiing of a whiiiiiiite Christmaaaaaasss ..."
What a strange, vaguely familiar feeling it was to be celebrating, really celebrating, Christmas.
And even though our Franki Valli-inspired crooning failed to bring snow— Christmas was joyous again. And for me, it was wonderful.

Contact Reece Murphy at (803) 293-1151 or rmurphy@thelancasternews.com