Just when I thought I had written a fitting, bittersweet post for Christmas (one that fulfilled my annual tradition), something came up. It was unpredicted, unpleasant, and unwelcome. I was blindsided by how such an unfortunate thing could happen in the midst of this supposedly festive season.
In a jarring moment of weakness, I lost the spark that only December can ignite. I was momentarily (and undeniably) defeated. As I lay on the hospital bed, whole body aching from food poisoning, I saw a strange resemblance between this Christmas and the one three years ago.
And the similarity was uncanny.
If back then the Grinch itself had come to bestow me with Herpes Zoster, this year its minions came to steal back what their boss had taken much earlier. My Christmas spirit—the thing I cherish most during ’tis the season—was their ultimate target. They came in like thieves, worked their way into the corners of my heart, and tried to snatch it. I was almost certain that with just a few more steps, they would have escaped.
But what the Grinch didn’t know, they didn’t know either. My Christmas spirit has become less and less tangible over the years. And truthfully? It should be.
Instead of letting it freeze for most of the year, I should let my Christmas spirit melt into my heart every day. I should live it, no matter how sunny or windy (or perhaps terrible) the day is. After all, our Christmas spirit should be the heritage, culture, and values that seep into the way we live our lives. We shouldn’t reserve it for December only.
On my bus ride home from work yesterday, finally healthy after a week of rest, I passed a festive Christmas carol being performed on the big street. The pavement was crowded, difficult to walk through, but I smiled—because I knew I had it in me all along.
I used to think that growing up meant eventually losing my Christmas spirit. But I’m glad I don’t—and that I’m living it now.
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