December 20 Advent Devotion Written by Aaron Austin

Trisha Huffman | December 20, 2015

We moved to Richmond, Kentucky, when I was four years old. Back then, the subdivision was new and the blacktop ended right at our house. So new neighbors were always moving in as I was growing up. I was always curious about who might move in, and often saddened by the transformation of yet another magnificent pile of dirt or gravel into a boring lawn.

When my friend Orval—who had inherited his name at an unfortunate time, just as the gaunt, curly-haired man of the same name was purveying his microwavable snacks in earnest—moved out, I was distressed. I hoped that the new family would also have a boy my age with one of those amazing miniature motorized bikes that looked like a police motorcycle from C.H.I.P.S. Unfortunately, it was a house full of teenage girls and cooties.

We saw little of the new neighbors until December, when they emerged from their house with ladders and staple guns. They knitted rows and rows of lights across the house. Then they assaulted the trees. Soon the yard was littered with a plastic sleigh and reindeer, elves, snowmen, gigantic candy canes, a nativity scene, and topped off with a huge glowing Santa head on the chimney.

You would think that as a kid I would have been awestruck, but even at the age of six, I was not impressed. I remember thinking that it was the most gosh-awful hodgepodge of Christmas ornamentation I had ever seen. It looked like Big Lots had exploded in their front yard. When I complained to my mother, she just said, “I think they’re Catholic,” as if that explained the situation.

A few nights later, as the Eastern power grid went into shock, the glow of backlit PVC drew hordes of minivans and wood-paneled station wagons to putter down our street and gawk at the monstrosity. At some point, they decided that the experience would be best accompanied by Christmas tunes at extraordinary volumes. I remember lying awake in bed, unable to sleep as “Jingle Bell Rock” careened down our street, only muted slightly by my shut window.

There seems to be pressure to make every holiday season an extraordinary experience—to top the previous year’s extravagance or memorability. When I look at the story of Mary and Elizabeth meeting and rejoicing at their extraordinary pregnancies, I find it hard not to think about how that joy and excitement would lead down a road laden with heartaches. And so it seems that this is the nature of life—joy and suffering, excitement and trepidation living in close quarters.

So this Christmas, don’t be surprised when the memorable and the mundane, the beautiful and the gaudy, the kind and the crass show up in the same room. Because there’s no such thing as perfection on this earth, but there is plenty of joy for the taking.