For years I believed Christmas was a marathon, a long stretch of effort that ended at a finish line called Christmas Eve. If I wasn’t exhausted, I wasn’t serving. I called it giving my all. What I meant was runsheets, sponsor packets, the frantic choreography of a massive stage built on borrowed adrenaline. I remember the weight of it— literal weight. A headset pressing into my hair, a baby heavy in my arms, eyes fixed on the clock. Who’s next. Are they in position. Did we hit the cue. I believed this was ministry. This was how people were reached. This was how the Kingdom was built. But adrenaline wears off. And when it does, it leaves everything exposed. Every Christmas morning the night before felt like a hollow victory. My husband and I arrived at my parents’ house like ghosts. We were the workers. The sacrificers. Entitled, we thought, to our collapse. While my mum basted the turkey and gathered loose children and noise and laughter into order, we lay useless on the couch. My family didn’t get my joy. They got my burnout. They didn’t get my presence. They got my fatigue. Later, I had to ask harder questions. We told ourselves we were reaching thousands spread across open fields. But I remember looking to the back of the crowd past the speakers we couldn’t afford, and realising they couldn’t even hear us. We were pouring oceans of energy into a bucket with a hole in the bottom. We were so busy doing Christmas that we failed to be the church to the people sitting beside us. My kids still remember those years. They loved the spectacle— the rides, the candles, the sea of faces. They want that feeling again. But I can’t go back. I finally know the difference between a cause and a calling. One demands your depletion. The other offers rest. This year, there is no stage. No sound system. Just a promise I made to my mum: You’ve hosted for too long. It’s my turn. I’m not a great cook. The meal will be improvised— a stone soup of family, friends-who-are-family, and maybe a few people with nowhere else to go. It isn’t polished. It isn’t wrapped in a bow. But when the sun rises on Christmas morning, I won’t be watching my life from the depths of a couch. I’ll be in the kitchen. At the table. Present. So if you’re looking for me this Christmas, don’t search for the clipboard or the figure waiting in the wings. Look for me in the kitchen, a little flustered by a recipe, but fully awake to the people in the room. This year isn’t about the thousands in the field. It’s about the few around my table. My mum finally being a guest. My kids seeing my eyes instead of the back of my head. The quiet understanding that the Kingdom of God doesn’t need my exhaustion— it only asks for my presence. It isn’t a production. But for the first time in a long time, it feels like home. We will try. At least.
Well said. True. Too true.
It has been a few years since I last wasted myself on the same event for the same delusional vision bearer. I don't miss it.
For all those years, nothing was ever achieved except too fan the flames of the Pastorpreneur's vanity.
Sounds like the little man was honoured for his long years of sacrifice to make this event happen. The truth is, that each year he walked onto a stage built on the bones of other's sacrifices.
He coveted the event. He needed it in ways that have nothing to do with God. I regret ever helping.
My family grew distant from the things of God, due in no small part because of what this event required of me. I robbed from them my time, attention, help and prime. I then those precious things into the fire of his annual vanity project.
Last year, I had the privilege of sitting on a hill in West Virginia holding the hand of my Mother as she passed. She asked God to allow her to make it to Christmas. She did. He was faithful.
This year, I cooked and prepared for a special family Christmas here in Australia. Almost 7 weeks ago I took my precious Mother-in-law to the emergency for a much needed iv treatment. She asked me to help her out of bed to go to the restroom. As I swung her feet to the floor, she died and slumped into my arms. I laid her down and called for assistance. As I stood back and thanked God for her life, as reminded Him that she wanted to enjoy another family Christmas. After four minutes of CPR she returned to us.
A week or so later Mum had a stroke. We have been in the hospital with her daily. Slowly some of her cognitive ability has returned and made preparations for a special Christmas just for her.
Yesterday, she fell at the hospital and broke her hip. Her risky operation will be tomorrow. Today, our family celebrated our family Christmas as per the plans. Jenni and all the kids and their partners made the drive to be with her. They carry gifts, her favourite meal and heaps of love. Mum has made it to Christmas.
Tomorrow will be difficult. Her recovery will.not be easy. God has been good to her and he has blessed me with a family that I am so very proud of.
Every moment I invest in them delivers good results. The fruit of my investment in them hangs heavy in their lives. I am blessed.
And, I will never rob them again of my prime time.
As someone who lost countless holidays to mandatory service and outsized effort ... this one tugs at my heart in ways that I can't quite express. Enjoy your Christmas with your family. Enjoy every minute of it!