Every December, the world seems to hold its breath.
Traffic slows to see homes trimmed in lights, strangers smile more easily as they pass, and a quiet anticipation seems fill the days. Underneath the month-plus of gift-giving and gatherings lies a story far older and more tender than the beloved traditions we layer on top.
Christmas began not with glitter, but with our greatest need. At Christmas the world acknowledges that God came on to the stage of human history— not as a warrior or a monarch, but as a newborn. In a forgotten corner of Bethlehem, in the darkness of a stable, the Second member of the Trinity entered the world not with force but with fragility.
Amazingly— God chose to be with humankind in our smallest, most vulnerable form. “Emmanuel,” the Scriptures say (Isaiah 7:14, and 8:8; also, Matthew 1:23): God with us.
The truth of that promise—God with us— came alive for me not just in a church services, but in the crucible of life experiences. My growth in relying on Jesus (from my mid-20’s onward) ran on a parallel track with my parent’s decline, physically and financially.
Through some very challenging seasons of life (during which increasing levels of responsibility fell on my quite unprepared shoulders), I learned that when I needed Him most, God would be there for me. Christ’s presence and provision would manifest themselves; The pain of saying goodbye to Dad and Mother was accompanied by the stress of six-figure medical bills, settling of bankrupt estates, and various ‘powers-of-attorney.’
During those years, Angie and I were building life together as a young couple. We were also diligently giving ourselves to following the Lord’s direction for a rapidly growing ministry. We daily leaned on the promise of, “God with us.”
Eleven years ago, I was experiencing the comfort of Immanuel, God with us, in a hospital hallway the week before Christmas.
My mother, for years the champion of Christmas in our family, had been in decline for months. Her once-bright eyes were now dim with confusion. She no longer remembered recipes or long-held stories, and eventually she no longer remembered our names.
But she had always remembered Christmas. Her Christmas nut cake had been an annual favorite since 1958, and Mom’s tradition of giving away dated, “special ornaments” had grown to include ornaments for many of the kids (and adults) at her church. But December of 2013, the cake pan lay on the counter for weeks, unused. As the month drew on, and as a few plaintive snowfalls offered themselves, her condition worsened. I somehow knew that this would be our last Christmas with Mom.
As Christmas drew near, the first of a series of strokes required that she be admitted to the hospital. Volunteers had placed a small Christmas tree at the nurses’ station, its lights blinking softly like a heartbeat. I paused there longer than I meant to, gathering myself.
In her room, the curtains were drawn, and the only light came from a single strand of colored bulbs someone had graciously taped along the wall—a string of red, yellow, and green that washed the room in a gentle glow. Mom lay small beneath the blanket, breathing quietly. For a long time, I said nothing. Love can make us eloquent, but it can also make us mute.
Then, without warning, Mom stirred. Her eyes opened just slightly, and she looked toward the lights on the wall. And in a voice thin as paper, she whispered, “Is it Christmas?”
“Almost, Mom.”
Her gaze drifted toward me, and Mom whispered, “Santa Claus is coming.” Eyes closed, voice barely audible, she smiled, “Don’t be afraid. He always comes.”
I felt something in me crack open. Not with grief—though grief was there—but with a strange, piercing comfort. “He always comes.” A woman slipping into the last twilight of her life was reminding us of the heart of the season: God meets us at our lowest, our loneliest, our most fragile moments.
Not when we are “on top,” but when we are broken.
Mom rallied somewhat and we were able to take her home for Christmas. But, it was a Christmas unlike any of our family’s previous ones: Dad had passed several years before, and though Mom was still with us, she was too feeble to care about a tree, decorations, or seasonal festivities.
I was thrilled to find her with some wrapping paper out, hopeful that her zeal for Christmas had reignited some memories and mental faculties. But my heart sank when it became clear that Mom thought that a roll of Christmas wrapping was the local newspaper. Words cannot express the sadness I felt upon realizing that, in her confusion, Mom was struggling to read a roll of Christmas paper.
She passed away not long after. I remember stepping outside the hospital afterward. A strange peace settled over me—not the kind that denies sorrow, but the kind that sits with it. The kind that says you are not alone.
And that is one of many reasons why the Christmas story still matters. God’s love appears not only in grand celebrations but in the hidden places of our lives. Heaven’s hope entered the world as softly as a newborn’s breath.
Every December, I think of my Mother’s frail whisper and the glow of battery-powered lights in her hospital room that last Christmas. But more than this, I think of the King in the manger, the newborn babe from eternity past, and of the healing love He brought into this world.
“He always comes.”
And somehow, even in the coldest winters of life, the reality of “God with us” is more than enough to warm our world again.
