Monday, October 27, 2014

Merry Christmas

Flickr Credit: Moyan Brenn
I’m writing this in October, and I’m listening to my Christmas playlist, even though there’s little over a week until Halloween.

Wow, Heather, you’re really weird. It’s weird that you’re listening to Paul McCartney and Eleventyseven and the Wiggles and Enya and some random lady singing in German. It’s weird because it’s not even Black Friday yet. And a lot of these Christmas songs are heavily seasonal which means that unless it’s snowing, I don’t want to hear it.

Well, Merry Christmas yourself.

Okay, yeah, I get it. The reason Christmas is special is because it happens once a year—if we got presents every day and we ate huge turkey dinners with our families we’d be sick of it all in no time. That’s as it should be.

But, fun fact, the point of Christmas is not actually to support the American consumer society. Unless you’re Kohl’s, in which case you can stop reading. I don’t even like the flip flops I bought from you.

Christmas is about Jesus.

If you don’t celebrate Christmas, okay. Or if you celebrate it non-religiously—okay. I’m not going to bug you. But the reason Christmas Day and Christmas Eve are little stripey bars on my Google calendar is because a chick gave birth to her son in a cave, some two thousand years ago.

I believe that that child was the Son of God. People have called me out on the details, the debates go on and on, and I myself have sneered at the nativity scenes (Birth was not a new concept. Do you really think they were going to make a girl give birth with a cow breathing in her ear? That’s not just ridiculous and cruel, that’s a really good way to have someone kill your cow. I’m going to guess there wasn’t snow—I’m sure some schmuck had time to take the animals outside before the performance began).

Funnily enough, the details don’t really matter to me anymore.

The thing that does matter to me is why it happened.

There God was, having a ridiculously great party up in Heaven, hitting up on the dip and getting His groove on—and then He was like, “Hold up.”

And of course, when God says to hold up, everybody holds up.

“You know what would really make this party? _________ would make this party. Oh my gosh, we need to get them here, like, pronto. Jesus, can you get onto that?”

And Jesus, being the bro that He is, was like, “You got it Pops—back in a few!”

And I’m sure God doesn’t talk like that, but I talk like that, which is kind of my point. That blank wasn’t empty when God said it—he was thinking about me. And you. Your third grade teacher. The UPS guy. Everybody.

Heather would really make this party.” 

Valentina seriously needs to be here.” 

“I want Omar dancing on that floor, pronto.” 

“Where the heck is Fernando? Get him!”

Every dang person ever would add a little something extra to that party—and God wanted it. God wanted it so bad, He sent His own son down to earth, as a person—and not the oogly-boogly mystical ghostie kind but the kind with earwax and bellybutton lint and toenails—just so that he could die.

He could die, we could live, and we would rock the house until Kingdom Come and beyond.

Talk about an invitation.

Why don’t we get excited about that more often?

I am invited to the greatest party ever. I don’t even like parties, and I think that’s completely dope. And Christmas started it all—for us.

I’m invited to the greatest party ever! I was worth it. There was a guy who was like, “Yup, I want her on my invite list,” and he DIED so that I could come. He wanted to be with me. Forever.

Woah.

So I’m listening to Christmas music. Maybe it’s a little cheap, because a lot of the songs do depend on that one day—but screw it. There’s a kind of love embedded into music, that brings up memories and feeds the soul.

Also, it reminds me: Heaven is gonna be a heck of a time.

(Don’t believe me? Listen to this and this—two of my favorites. We don’t have to be boring!)

Merry Christmas!

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