Braving Christmas Alone

“I’ll wait to open gifts,” I said to myself as large flakes drifted downward. “First, the trail along the river.” Because there’s nothing more magical on Christmas morning than hiking near the sound of water while white fluffy stuff swirls every which way.

As I write this, it’s December 25, 2015. My first Christmas not with family. Two years ago this month, I had head surgery. My husband whisked me away to a nearby resort village for a blissful time of healing, even as he was dealing with cancer and the side effects of wretched chemo. We packed food for a simple Christmas dinner, a two-foot tree decked in tiny white lights, and two gifts.

We didn’t know it would be our last Christmas together.

Ever since stumbling into widowhood, I’ve wanted to return to SunRiver Village on this holy day. Because when I do things alone that I’ve only ever done with my husband, I come away a little more resilient.

This was the year it happened.

Christmas 2015

Before layering up against the weather this morning, I watched a short video sent by a friend. It depicted the nativity story from the vantage point of a shepherd with a lame foot. The lad had presented one of his lambs to a religious leader in the small village of Bethlehem. Loudly berated for bringing a less-than-perfect animal, the young man was turned away and his fellow shepherds distanced themselves from his disgrace.

On his own in the crowded marketplace, the shepherd bumped into a dusty traveler with a very pregnant wife on a donkey. “Do you know where I can find water for my wife?” the traveler asked.

The lame shepherd—who had recently filled his water pouch—offered a drink to the thirsty young woman. This herder-of-sheep had no way of knowing he’d just provided refreshment to the girl who was chosen to give birth to the Messiah.

That night, after a visitation from a choir of stunning angels, the shepherds ran down the hillside toward town, looking for the Promised Child. The disabled lad tried to keep up, breathing heavily and struggling with a foot that pained him, a foot that wouldn’t fully cooperate.

But half a minute later, he was running with only a slight hobble. And then—wonder of wonders!—he tossed aside his wooden crutch and ran full strength after his friends.

The shepherds found the stable where the child lay in a feeding trough. The once-crippled herder-of-sheep held baby Jesus, wonder radiating from his face. He knew, because of the angels’ astonishing announcement, that this was the long-awaited Messiah who would be the perfect Lamb as the ultimate atonement for all mankind’s sins.

Seven hundred years before the fictitious lame shepherd found an infant lying in a manger, the prophet Isaiah spoke of this baby:

“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given … and he shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” – Isaiah 9:6

As I sit here on Christmas Day—completely alone—I realize I’m that shepherd with the injury, with the hurt and the sorrow.

And I’ve been reminded:

“Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.” – Luke 2:10

And so I toss my crutch aside and run toward my Savior who is the only One able to heal broken places.

Christmas 2024

Fast forward nine years. It’s Christmas again and Dan and I have gathered most of our adult children/children-in-law and the grands for an early Christmas in Lincoln City.

I couldn’t have known nine years ago that I would be remarried, that this good man and I could gather our people together to share meals, and play games, and laugh out loud, and hold meaningful conversations.

Together. Our two families joined. Without any tension. Priceless gifts.

Back on that Christmas morning in 2015, before walking along the river in the snowfall, I wrote:

“My time of intentional solitude this Christmas has been a brave-making venture. Even though no other human is with me on this holy day of celebration, I’m not lonely. And I’m not really alone. Because the Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace is here with me.”

I’m grateful that I know what it feels like to be alone. I’m also grateful for this particular holiday crowd—these kids and grands—and for a second chance at love. And because Emmanuel is here with us.