Scott and I were telling the kids about some of our favorite toys growing up. He had He-Man, toy soldiers, and hockey cards to flick against the wall. I had the usual variety of girly things, but often found myself playing with my brother. I do remember the year when the big toy, for girls at least, was Cabbage Patch Dolls.
Now, without sounding too sentimental, it truly never occurred to me that I would ever own one of these dolls. There was no way my mom would be joining the other parents who were rioting in the K-Mart to snatch the last one on the shelf.
I’ve written before that my mom was widowed at the age of 30, when she had four young children. We were not poor, or lacking in any good thing, but I was always aware of the fact that there were others who simply had more than us. It was the other girls who would be receiving a Cabbage Patch doll on Christmas morning, not me. And while I may have thought wistfully about it, I was, honestly, completely detached from the idea. It did not matter to me in any way, because it was simply a fact that those dolls cost $39.99, and in my mind, that was the same thing as a million dollars. I did not lament, I simply knew.
I believed that our Christmases were better by far than any others’, rich or poor. I felt spoiled every Christmas morning when my overflowing stocking was passed to me, bursting with fun little things my mom had tucked away for me throughout the year.
Our entire family would have gathered the night before to eat, sing carols, and open gifts at our house. We were richer on that night than anyone else on the planet. No specific gift could have made our Christmases any better, because we were together, and we were loved.
One Christmas Eve my mom passed me a gift to open early. It was a box full of Cabbage Patch doll clothes, from a Russian fur parka to a ballerina tutu. There was even a school uniform that matched mine!
“I hope these fit my dolls!” I thought to myself. Even if they didn’t, I knew I would have fun because of the amazing variety of the outfits. It honestly still never occurred to me.
On Christmas morning I was passed a familiar shaped box, and I was utterly shocked when I opened it to discover Anne, my own Cabbage Patch doll. I could not believe my eyes. How could this be? They cost too much! They were for the rich girls!
But as I looked at my mom I remembered, I was one of the rich girls, because of how much she loved me. The truth is that the $39.99, on top of all the other gifts, probably did hurt a little, but my mom loved me and found a way to give me this great and favourite gift.
When I talk to my children about the salvation story it sounds a little like this Christmas memory of mine. We are born broken, and we choose to sin. We are poor, but there is nothing to resent, no one else to blame. We know that God loves us in our broken poverty, and that love is certainly the treasure above all treasures. That love, our salvation, makes us rich.
Our salvation is more than enough to give us unending joy. But our Father does not leave it at that. His love for us is superfluous, and he does not stop giving until it costs him every last cent. God looks at our sin and broken souls and is not content in just giving us enough, he goes on to give us himself, which is absolutely everything.
The Christ Child was born to die. It sounds macabre to associate the Nativity with the Crucifixion, but that was the purpose, the endgame. He did not step in to save us in kingly glory, but in the same poverty he found us in. And when the time came, he gave us every last drop of his Precious Blood, so that we might be made new in it.
He abandoned the glory of heaven, not out of curiosity or to condescend, but to become one with us. And by becoming one with us, we were invited to become one with him. As we become one with him, we become one with the Father. We become, not his rightful slaves, but his children.
We say it so often, but do we think of it, really? That God makes us his children? You are a child of God. If that is true, what are the implications? What does it mean to have God, not just as a saviour, but as a Father?!
It is beyond me, and certainly beyond my power with words to understand what his love makes me. But it is certainly something deserving of a moment’s speechlessness.
Have a blessed Christmas, and as you look upon the Christ Child, poor in the hay, stand speechless for a moment. That manger is the reminder that he gave up everything so that you will know you are loved.
“See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are … Beloved, we are God’s children now; it does not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when he appears we shall be like him” (1 Jn 3).