I’ve never had a Christmas like this before. No Christmas shopping. No parties. No baking, decorating, or dancing in the rain. It’s been years since I danced in the rain, but this year I would if I could. Not in front of anyone. Not this white woman in her forties who can’t dance unless she’s drunk (which, thankfully, I haven’t been since my thirtieth birthday), not to mention seven months pregnant, trying to bust a move in the mud, seriously, this could scare away Christmas.

Anyway, I spent last week on bed rest staring at an angel ready to dive off the top of our Christmas tree. Scott set the tree up the weekend after Thanksgiving, but I am usually the one to put the ornaments on the boughs, and I wasn’t able to do this this year because I have a couch stuck to my backside. So we had an empty tree with lights and a suicidal angel for awhile. After wrapping the silver tip with electricity, Scott stuck the angel up there in a hurry because one of the boys was yelling from the bathroom that he was “done!” That’s what gets yelled around here, “I’m done!” our sons holler wanting to be wiped by a big person. Scott’s been a little overwhelmed being the only wiper on duty these days so he plunked the angel up there cockeyed and dashed off to the loo and the poor angel spent the week holding on by the skin of her halo.

Each day I would look at her and think, I see you, sweetheart. At least you have wings in case you jump. Staring at the desperate angel made me ponder why Christmas brings people to the brink of themselves. And after thinking about it for days on end, I think I know why.

It’s the birthday boy. If you have issues with the guy celebrating the birthday, it’s hard to enjoy his party. In fact, why even go? If you have no relationship with that baby in a manger, there is no reason to be happy about a giant party for him. You’re thinking there is no reason to celebrate. No reason to toast and be merry for a guy you could care less about. No reason to bring a gift. And if a bunch of other people are giddy up to their gills about this party and you don’t even like this guy, then it can sure bring out the inner Grinch in your soul.

So you let the Grinch out. Hopefully like that old Dr. Seuss Grinch, your Grinch will ruin the party for everyone this year. Wipe the smiles off those foolish people’s faces. You’ll growl “Seasons greetings!” through gritted teeth. Make it really clear that Merry Christmas is not for you. Slam on your breaks in front of some grandma’s plastic manger scene. Get out, gouge the lawn, and kick baby Jesus out of his straw bed. And still you don’t feel better. In fact, you feel worse. So you drive to Raley’s, purchase half the liquor department, and self medicate. Drunk, you climb the Christmas tree with kitty under your arm. You toss the cat to see if the fur ball really will land on its feet. Someone needs to land on their feet because you feel like yours have been kicked out from under you. You’re barely hanging on by a pine needle, and all because of Christmas…

But it’s not really Christmas that has you crazy. The whole Christ thing gets to you. Why?

Have you ever really thought this through to its climax? Why people get so bent out of shape over Christmas? And Christians for that matter. I mean nobody bashes on Buddha. They don’t dog Hinduism or get irate over Islam. But offer some prayers in Jesus’ name and watch the fur fly.

As I stared at that angel half hanging from our tree for a week while I lay on the couch I realized how meaningless Christmas is without Christ. It’s nothing but a fool’s race of spending, drinking, and dressing up when you feel fat already on the tide of Thanksgiving. I remember those ridiculous days of Christmas without Christ and I don’t miss them. While pondering why people panic at Christmas and jump out their windows, I also meditated on what Christmas really means to each and every person whether they hate Christmas or not: salvation. That’s the height and depth of it. Jesus saves. Which is good news for those going crazy at Christmas.