A Son is Given…
“It’s too early to decorate for Christmas. People just need to enjoy the holidays as they come,” the cashier commented.
I smiled politely, thinking, this lady has no idea with whom she is sharing her opinion.
No, seriously, I’m one of those.
A fanatic that would happily keep Christmas decor on display every day of the year… if it were socially acceptable.
Every hall in our home will be “decked” - while others have pumpkins and thankfulness signs in abundance.
Her words rattled in my mind, as I wondered when my Christmas obsession originated.
From where did my desire to empty closets to replace regular home decor with nativity scapes and festive decorations come?
Honestly, I can think of numerous possibilities, but this, I believe, is when it all began.
Picture it, Parkersburg, 1989…
A nine-year-old, Erica, overjoyed to attend a birthday party.
This was not just your ordinary afternoon gathering of giggling grade-school girls.
Oh no, this was my first step toward independence.
This party would be a memory, forever etched in time… my very first group SLEEPOVER.
With my Care Bear sleeping bag tucked under one arm and a backpack swinging from the other, I eagerly stepped through the front door to join my friends.
The party progressed with the usual birthday fanfare… gifts, cake, games and an abundance of laughter.
When nightfall arrived, we snuggled into our strategically placed bedding to watch a movie selected by our host.
In the comfort of my sleeping bag I hid, pretending not to see the images on screen, protected only by the stuffed animal in my arms.
Nine-year-old me knew better than to expose my overactive imagination to this type of content but I didn’t want the other girls making fun of me.
Now, as if showing a horror flick to a group of children wasn’t enough, they followed it up with an animated Disney classic.
I guess this was an effort to swap the images, before heading to dreamland.
Let me pause for a moment to express my gratitude for the love my father willingly demonstrated that night.
Because no sooner than my friend’s mom called “lights out,” overwhelming terror sprouted and I had to get out of there.
In my young mind, every squeak, snore, or sound that echoed through the house, meant the villain of the movie would soon follow.
My hero, bleary-eyed from being awakened in the middle of the night, came to the rescue and drove me home.
Safe on the floor of my parents bedroom, I slept for weeks as the nightmares continued.
What does the tale possibly have to do with my love of Christmas, you ask?
That event led to thirty plus years of an inability to subject myself to scary images.
God bless my dear husband for willingly pre-screening potentially frightening shows to safeguard my imagination.
Without fail, as the pumpkin spice rolls out, along come the images of a particular villain and the nightmares resume.
In an effort to erase the horror of my vivid dreams, I choose to bring on the merriment of Christmas.
This simple act allows me to essentially take every wayward, and horrifying thought, captive by replacing them with things that spark joy.
To the sweet Walmart cashier, please know that I appreciate your commitment to recognize every holiday for its unique tradition. May you continue to find happiness as you celebrate this season.
And for all the curious readers, rest assured, I happily participate in every pumpkin carving, apple-picking, trick-or-treat event throughout fall.
Nevertheless, in my home, this time of year, you can likely find the twinkling lights, comfort, and nostalgia of Christmas as I take a few extra months to savor its meaning.
All the while keeping my heart fixed, not on things of this world, but on Immanuel, “God with Us.”
