Returning unwanted gift might not mean comfort and joy

   Roy got up at 6:30 the day after Christmas so he could beat the crowds and get to the gift return counter as early as possible.

  When he arrived at the store parking lot, he was surprised at the number of shoppers with the same idea. He parked, grabbed his unwanted gift and made for the return counter.

   Quite a few shoppers had arrived ahead of him, but that was okay; standing in line would allow him to think about what to buy with his refund.

   For Christmas, he’d really wanted the shiatsu massager with iPod dock and mug warmer, but no one thought to give it to him. Maybe he could have it after all.

   Standing in line, he was cold. The return counter stood near the front door, and cold air rushed in. His neck ached from looking over and around heads to see the gift return clerks.

   He heard the exchanges at the counter:

   “Do you have a receipt?”

   “No.”

   Well, who did have a receipt for a Christmas present, an item someone else bought for you?

   “What is the reason for the return?” a clerk asked one woman.

   “It’s too big.”

   He heard other voices give different reasons for their returns:

   “It’s too tight.”

   “It doesn’t match.”

   “I have too much of this already.”

   “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”

   Knowing others were unhappy with their gifts made Roy feel better about returning his. He wasn’t the only one disappointed in Christmas. And it wasn’t that he had anything against his father for giving him an unwanted gift. He just knew he could do better, so here he was.

   He began to dream about his neck being massaged with the shiatsu massager, while sipping cocoa and listening to Norah Jones on his iPod. His feet began to thaw as he thought of it all.

   Up ahead was a small commotion.

   “I don’t care if it’s an uneven exchange,” said a man. “I don’t want this gift. I want Guitar Hero.”

   Roy noticed how unhappy the returners were. They scowled and muttered. Some kept glancing at their watches as if to signal the clerks that they were important, and in a hurry and needing attention.

   Before long, only one customer stood ahead of him.

   “Good,” he thought. Soon he would be able to discover whether he had enough to buy his shiatsu massager. Then he saw an ad for a Wii and began weighing its merits against those of the massager.

   Whatever he decided, he would have to come up with a reason for his return. He looked down at his plain, simple gift and sighed. It was too big and too small. It didn’t fit his lifestyle. It was too tight, very constricting at times. It didn’t match his way of doing things. He had too much of it already, or, if not too much, more than he felt comfortable with. And it certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. He was expecting something fun or comfortable or entertaining or profitable.

   Roy looked down dejectedly at his gift. He didn’t want this baby, nor this manger.

   The baby started to cry as Roy approached the clerk. And then he noticed the other customers. They all, too, held babies in mangers and were giving reasons they needed to exchange them for something else.

   Those babies began to cry a little, too, and pretty soon a soft, low cry reverberated through the whole store.

   It was hard returning Christmas, but Roy knew that sometimes Christmas just wasn’t enough.

  

It helps to know what Christmas looks like

    I spent 30 minutes helping my son search for a blue folder containing sheet music. After turning the house upside down, my son finally remembered that the music wasn't in a folder at all, but in a plain manila envelope.

   I had passed it dozens of times because I didn't really know what I was looking for.

   In another fruitless search, my daughter agreed to pick up some blue replacement bulbs for an outdoor strand of Christmas lights. I wasn't sure the size: C-7? C-9? The bulbs didn't say. The cord didn't say. I tried describing them. A little bigger than my thumb. My daughter searched thoroughly and returned with C-7s – too small. They were smaller than my thumb, but larger than hers.
   Searching for an overdue book is similar. What are we looking for? A red hardback about the size of a thick novel, someone says. No luck. A week later we find it: a tall, thin, blue paperback. We really didn't know what we were looking for.

   Too many times, after searching, I've found DVDs in the wrong case; it's disappointing to find Bing Crosby when I'm expecting Laurence Olivier. And when Hamlet turns up in a White Christmas DVD case, my kids are similarly miffed.
   Christmas sometimes seems like that kind of fruitless hunt. I don't do Black Friday, but earlier I tried to find a robotic cat featured in a store ad at a great price. I looked down every aisle. It wasn't there. I finally had to ask.
   "No. We're not getting those, and there's no rain check. But you can use this coupon online."
   I went online. The item was not listed for purchase, with or without the coupon. Fruitless!

   It's also a fruitless search, sometimes, finding where you stored the special wreath, or the ornament Grandma gave you 3 years ago. And didn't you tuck away bargain Christmas cards somewhere?
   I wonder if Christmas seemed like a fruitless hunt to the wise men. They traversed field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star. Then, the only thing they found was a little kid and some pretty ragged-looking guardians. I bet if they'd used a GPS, they might have called the manufacturer's 800 number at that point. Or skimmed the online reviews.

   This kid is a king? Next time we'll use the deluxe, super, mega telescope!
   When the Christ-child grew up, others looked at him like he was some kind of wrong item, too. The Pharisees kept saying, "No, this can't be the Christ. The cover's wrong. This guy's from Galilee, and the Messiah's supposed to be from Bethlehem." 

   Even John the Baptist wondered if he'd been part of a fruitless search. Sitting in a Roman prison, soon to have his head cut off, John likely puzzled over why the messianic deliverer was sermonizing on the mount and not overthrowing Rome.
   "Are you the One who should come -- or should we be looking for another?" he asked.
   We're all out "looking for another" Christmas. 

    Is Christmas about God zapping Himself into a certain location (+31° 40' 53.16", +35° 12' 0.70") on the earth at a specific point in history, to save the earth's people from themselves, or do we look for another, another kind of Christmas?

    If we're always searching for "the real meaning of Christmas" we don't know what we are looking for, and likely as not, we're in for a big let down, kind of like finding the Chipmunk's Christmas CD in a Handel's Messiah case.

   Time to stop useless searching and let Christmas find us.

Gluing together the Roman Empire for Christmas

    I don’t decorate. I have enough trouble keeping up with essentials. Right now, in a feeble attempt to decorate for Christmas, half a red garland hangs on our house, in lopsided mockery of décor.

   No tree this year. You can’t imagine the time saved by not putting up a tree!

   Decoration, I figure, is for people of leisure or taste.

   Once, when visiting a home goods store on vacation, I admired the dainty, orderly and splashy looking items and saw what I was missing: a whole array of things to dust. But among the vases, pots, table linens and candles stood something different: a bust of Caesar Augustus.

   What, I wondered, was this doing here? But there it was and at a very reasonable price, too. Imagine owning an emperor for thirty bucks! Since my husband Art teaches Roman history, what could be a better accessory than the head of a Roman emperor?

   I mailed it home, carefully wrapped, and it made it without breaking. The bust sat regally in our living room -- among the clutter and laundry, books and dirty socks. The kids would dress Augustus in hats, sunglasses or earphones. After about three months, my husband took him to school to use in a class.

  He then placed him in a gym bag in his office. Augustus remained in that bag on a chair. Weeks passed. One day, Art needed the chair for a student, forgot what was in the bag and tossed the bag to the floor. The early fall of the Roman Empire ensued.

   The way Art described the shattering of Augustus, I assumed the bust was a permanent “bust,” but months later, the gym bag and ruins of Augustus came home, and I saw that he was in four large pieces, a little more than a triumvirate!

   In no time, with ordinary Elmer’s, I had restored the Roman Empire, and Augustus now sits on a dining room counter next to our crèche, with only a prominent jaw line to show for his travails.

  Augustus is the one Roman emperor mentioned in the Christmas story, with his plan to tax all the world, so I figure it’s appropriate for him to loom over the stable.

   We don’t know much about this tax plan except it was typical of bureaucracy, forcing people like Joseph to go out of their way, at much inconvenience, for nothing.

   From what the resident historian tells me, Augustus tried to unify Rome by encouraging emperor worship. So the people worshiped their emperor.

  Meanwhile, another god/king slipped into the empire quietly one Christmas night. This one, though, was King of Kings and Lord of Lords; though weak and small, he came as God of all, into a little town in the far corner of the empire.

  Years later, when the Christ-child grew up, he was trapped when asked whether it was right to pay taxes to oppressive Rome. If he said to pay, he was taking the side of oppressors. If he said not to pay, he could be in danger of treason charges.

     He asked his critics to show him a coin.

    “Whose image is this?” he asked.

   “Caesar’s,” they told him.

    “Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God.”

    The saying has lasted more than two thousand years, and stands as a good rule, even for Christmas today.

   When our tax forms arrive –- as they will pretty soon – that saying could serve as a prompt not only to remember what we owe Uncle Sam, but what we owe God, too.