the stockings don’t match

It was in December of 2011 that I witnessed a terrible crash. I was at home, so it wasn’t the traditional fender-bender that you might see at a stoplight, nor was it a tractor-trailer pile-up on the interstate. In fact, there was no monetary damage done and not a sound was made upon impact. But the effects of this crash rocked me to my core and nearly seven years later, I’m still processing its significance.

The Christmas of 2011 was the first Christmas Joe, the kids, & I celebrated as a blended family. The magical smell of freshly cut pine and warm cinnamon spices wafted through the air of the “big-basement house.” The sounds of kids laughing and the cookie timer buzzing could be heard while the front porch glistened with its symmetrically draped garland and twinkling white lights. All was calm; all was bright.

Until the crash.

Upon opening two very differently-labeled boxes, the impact was imminent: the storybook Christmas I’d been waiting to create, no, actually aching to achieve, was never going to be a reality. The collision between the Christmas in my mind’s eye versus what was actually in front of me inflicted a pain that was physically palpable. That inaudible explosion happened in my brain as seven brand new coordinated stocking holders were perfectly spaced across the fireplace mantle and I began hanging the stockings by the chimney with care.

But the stockings didn’t match.

Literally.

Joe’s kids’ Christmas stockings were three completely random patterns he had chosen to represent their personalities, while my two girls’ stockings were (of course) coordinated right down to the identical thread and font used to stitch on their names. My own stocking matched, as well, while Joe’s was apparently MIA- a casualty of war, so to speak.

My mind spun while my eyes filled with tears. I tried, in vain, to tell myself that this was not a big deal… that the stockings didn’t matter and that probably no one would even notice. But it was so much more than patterns, textures and fonts. It was more than mismatched sizes and colors. I was looking at a row of decorations that bared the truth of my life in a way that no other visual had done to that point. The life I had dreamed of- the picket fence with 2.5 kids and a dog and a dad with a briefcase and a mom in an apron- was not my life. Instead, my life consisted of 5 kids (one or two of whom despised me at times), 3 dogs, one dad six feet under while the other dad shouldered the burden of a divorce, an insecure, grieving wife, scared kids and guarded stepchildren. There was no pretty line of coordinated cross-stitched velvet across our mantle- no. Ours was a hodgepodge of memories, hopes, broken dreams, and heartache all smacked together under the guise of “Christmas cheer.”

What a mess.

Fast forward to Christmas, 2018.

Tonight I find myself in the basement of our much smaller home, cuddled under a blanket on the hand-me-down sofa staring at a chimney with an incomplete stone veneer. My eyes rest on a basket with a cracked lid that houses pet-hair-laden quilts and throws. And above that broken lid hang seven stockings. Seven stockings on a piece of barn wood because we don’t have a mantle. Seven stockings that have been chewed by dogs, stained with chocolate and are likely still littered with last year’s pine needles.

Once again, my mind is spinning and my eyes well with tears as I allow myself to feel the full impact of that crash seven years ago. Those stockings did matter. Giving myself permission to grieve what they represented and ultimately, what they were not (matching, coordinated), made room for a wave of unexpected gratitude to fill my heart and soul. Gratitude that came from acknowledging and accepting sadness and disappointment, while still holding on to the hope that Jesus wasn’t finished with my life.

God uses absolutely anything to reveal Himself to us. The true magic of Christmas, I think, is recognizing His presence in unexpected places- whether a dirty barn in Bethlehem or a row of stockings in Pennsylvania- even when the stockings don’t match.

Or maybe especially when the stockings don’t match.

Christmas blessings from our miss-matched crew to yours.