By Molly Balison
When we look at this world, our relationships and our lives it’s obvious brokenness exists. Nothing is perfect as it was intended to be. Even the holidays can be a subject of discomfort, grief and overwhelm — something that was intended to be a season of joy and celebration.
As a WOTS staff, we reflected on what the holiday season means to us and it’s not always rosy. Brokenness gets in the way. For me, that brokenness is revealed as depression. Even through episodes where my mind grows heavy as daylight becomes scarcer and the rhythms of life feel stressful and disrupted with relational conflicts, there’s still a lasting hope that’s followed me since childhood.
I remember waking up as a child on Christmas morning filled with a sort of calm anticipation as I made my way to the living room toward the glimmering lights wrapped around a pine tree, still blurry as grogginess clung from my eyes. My younger brother and I sat in front of the spectacle of boxes wrapped in winter themed paper and waited for my older brother to crawl out of bed to “get the show started”.
My parents sipped on their routine morning coffee after busying themselves with meal prep for our traditional holiday dishes — french toast dish, egg dish and fruit dish. When my older brother made his way to the living room, each member of the Balison family sleepily found a section of couch to get cozy in. Dad adjusted his glasses and cracked open his well-worn Bible to set our minds on truth, history and hope from the book of Luke.
He began to read and my mind painted pictures of the story of a young virgin named Mary who was told she carried the Savior of the world in her womb through a miracle from God. Now that’s not something you hear every day. The man she was betrothed to, Joseph, led her on a week’s long journey across Israel on the back of a donkey to Bethlehem for the Roman census.
Mary had nowhere suitable to birth her baby, so in the humble conditions of a stable, the baby named Immanuel (“God with us”), known as Jesus was born. I imagine the Son of God being born in a bed of unsanitary hay, surrounded by the stench of barn animals starkly contrasting, the pure joy that outweighed all the pain and discomfort Mary endured. It was not glamorous conditions by any means for the boy who possessed all human instincts yet all the characteristics of God.
Meanwhile, shepherds were on their way to marvel at this miracle who they believed was the Messiah after an encounter with a holy angel. Dad read, “But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all people.’” Luke 2:10.
I wonder if the shepherds experienced episodes of depression in their nomadic lifestyle. I want to know what they felt in that moment when they witnessed old prophecies come to fruition at the sight of Jesus swaddled in grave linens, foreshadowing his fatal crucifixion out of unconditional love for human kind. Another thing you don’t hear every day.
It’s like if my brother was waiting for me to unwrap the best gift I didn’t deserve knowing I came to Christmas empty handed.
The greatest gift of all is the sacrifice of Jesus’ perfect life and his resurrection that bridged the uncrossable chasm between God and people created by brokenness. Now, receiving the gift of communicating with the Creator through prayer and the hope of eternal life with him through faith brings me peace I’ve never found anywhere else. It’s the hope that light can rise out of a seemingly dark place. All because of the historical account Dad read every Christmas.
Dad closed the Bible and said a prayer thanking God for the gift of his Son and the hope of the good news of eternal life he brought joy to this broken world. The song Joy to the World played softly in the background.