One of my first and most favorite Christmas memories took place when I was only four or five years old. We were living in Price, Utah, where my dad was pastoring. My mom was a nurse but decided to quit and stay home with my brother and me, so we packed our bags and moved out of our nice rental house and into the church’s “manse.” It was really a 20-foot by 20-foot shack that had all the windows broken out and hadn’t been lived in or taken care of in years!
Before we moved in, my parents “fixed up” the place by getting old metal kitchen cabinets from a burnt-out house to redo the non-existent kitchen and 1.5-foot by 2-foot leftover carpet samples to create a patchwork new flooring. A sheet went up in the living room to separate my parents’ room from the rest of the house as there was only one bedroom, which my brother and I were lucky enough to get.
When Christmas came around, we got a tree and some lights and tried to decorate as best we could on my father’s meager salary. I don’t remember if we had any presents under that tree, but that wasn’t important. My mother’s favorite time of year was Christmas. She adored it and always made the most of it, playing Christmas music for months leading up to it.
When Christmas Eve came, I didn’t want to go to bed. What kid would? I delayed and tried everything under the sun to stay up longer. I begged, I pleaded, I needed water, I had to go to the bathroom; whatever was necessary to stay up just a little longer!
Finally, my parents got us to bed, but it didn’t last long. After a few agonizing minutes, which seemed like hours to me, I quietly got down from my homemade bunk bed, tiptoed into the living room, and pulled back the sheet to my parents’ room. I cautiously crept over to my mom and whispered in her ear, careful not to wake my father. I pretended to be terrified by a nightmare and begged my mom to rock me in the old rocking chair, holes and all, which sat in front of the Christmas tree, under the glow of the twinkling tree lights.
Mom gently picked me up, cradled me in her arms and took me to that old squeaky chair. She rocked me there, quietly snuggling me close for more than an hour. I was warm. I was safe. I was content. I was fully loved. I don’t remember Christmas morning. I don’t remember if I got any presents or not. But none of that mattered, because I was LOVED. I don’t know if my mom would remember that night or not as she passed away from cancer when I was 16, but I will never forget that night.
That one moment changed my life and has forever shaped the way I view God. I don’t see God as Santa Claus sitting up there somewhere waiting to grant my every wish, but as a loving mother, holding me close in her arms and rocking me to sleep. When I am stressed, anxious, overwhelmed, or feeling like a failure, I stop and try to remember that night and remember that I am LOVED.
In the end, that is all that really matters. I am LOVED.
Chris James is the media director for Faith for Today, married up to his beautiful and funny wife, Linda, and is a proud father to his two extremely brilliant and beautiful girls, Emily and Ashley.