…have yourself an authentic little Christmas

I don’t mean to brag, but I was in Bethlehem for Christmas, and that’s about as genuine as you can get. And I looked forward to the holiday in a way I hadn’t for a long time, for I assumed there would be something special, something unique, about celebrating it here. I think that when we are young, Christmas is magical with its stories of rooftops and mangers and the excitement of gifts and decorations and music, and that thing in the air that everyone feels. But as we age I think we lose our grasp on that. We become consumed with the changing drinks at Starbucks and the pressure of getting everything set for the big day. It slowly becomes more and more normal, more familiar as years come and go and Christmases future become Christmases past. And this has been the case for me, but this was to be my first Christmas away from family. So I wondered what it would be like and decided it would emphasize the normalness, for really, it’s just another day.

A week before Christmas throngs of people stood in Manger Square. A big tree was dark, but promising. A big stage supported the feet and instruments of many performers and speakers. We may have been anticipating a visit from Baba Noel, as they call Santa Claus here, but instead we got the Prime Minister who, after a few gentle holiday words, spoke fiercely about the state of Palestine. He didn’t mention the birth of Jesus but the birth of Justice and how it shall grow into a man someday and perhaps a sacrifice will have to be made for our freedom. And then the tree was lit. As Christmassy as it gets, I suppose.

Baba Noel

Afterwards I walked around, bought some watery coffee and saw Baba himself being merry and blessing children. I grew weary and a bit awkward all alone so I walked to a coffee shop where I was included and destroyed in a game of cards. Merry Christmas.

Theatrical pizazz

So I anticipated my Christmas Sunday, but it too was quintessential. We pulled out the theatrical stops to convey the meaning of Christmas in this universally unusual way. And then all gathered for a big church-wide meal. It was nice, but I couldn’t stay: Sunday is a just another work day in the Muslim world. Merry Christmas.

Catholic Service

On Monday, on Christmas Eve, my friends and I caught a taxi to Bethlehem for the day. The taxi driver is a friend of mine and after he stopped the car and let us out, he got out himself and locked up. Guess he’s coming with us. AHlan wasaHlan, was my hospitable Arab response. I grew excited as we pressed through the host toward Manger Square. Certainly this would be an Eve to remember. We met a parade of Catholicked cars moving towards the church with bishops waving out the windows at mostly unimpressed onlookers. We grabbed some tea for the moment. The rest of the day was nice for the company I was with, the laughter and sunny wanderings we partook in. But the highlight was the service we slipped into. Though the midnight service is only for those with a ticket, this midday service seemed to be more open. We promised we wouldn’t take pictures and entered, only to greet fifty other onlookers with their cameras and iPhones high above their heads; we broke our promise. If the Magi can, so can we. I stood with the taxi driver, Anas and we listened to the sweet sounds of the clergy songs and recitations of scripture. After a flurry of pictures we couldn’t help but settle into a moment of awe. We made eye-contact with one another and smiled, words unneeded. The songs wafted above our heads as incense, and the sweet fragrance of friendship and wonder tied us together, Muslims, Christians and Atheists.

Anas and I

When the service was over we engaged in more wandering, companionship and coffeeshopping, and as the sun set, I shepherded the group to a restaurant I had never been to, but heard good news about. And we were blessed by the best pizza I have had since America. Oh, the pleasure of real Mozzarella cheese.

So it was a wonderful day, but I admit, it wasn’t what I expected. Though I am not sure exactly what it was that I expected, I guess I was a bit afraid that it would be too normal here, providing no story to tell of my Christmas in Bethlehem for years to come. But my worrying was greatly outweighed by my joy, for if it was to be normal, so be it. It would still be Christmas. But we felt we had seen what Bethlehem had to offer and decided that for Christmas day we’d stay at home, as we do in America. Danes have their big Christmas celebrations on the Eve, but we agreed to have American Christmas day. For me.

Hazily Beige

It came in an unusual way. The streets were so quiet as I trudged over to the Danes’ place. The day wasn’t exactly white, but it was kind of hazily beige. Good enough? I though so. I was up early to buy some last minute gifts. Our celebration had increased in number and I felt it important that everyone open a gift on Christmas. I mean, what’s Christmas without wrapping paper? I had bought the Danes some cool mugs at Stars and Bucks, the obvious and fun knock-off coffeeshop, and so I decided to make it a Drank Christmas. No Meat Santa this year, my dear family: we celebrated Made-In-China-Mug-Christmas. 

Only one store that I know of in Khalil was selling Christmas related chocolates and gifts. I grabbed a couple mugs, and some chocolates, then visited a bakery-sweetshop-pizza-making-grocer and found some cocoa powder. For a third of the price of hot cocoa mix, I decided I could add the sugar myself. After that, I trudged all the way to my friends’ place, stopping one more time to buy some surprisingly Christmassy wrapping paper and tape. Finally I made it, heavy laden and sweaty, and burst through their door with a Ho! Ho! Ho! (puff, huff, puff). Christmas had begun, and they were up making crafty decorations.

Would this Christmas be bittersweet so far away from home, from family? I was sure it would be, but something happened this year: the magic returned. Though being away from home emphasized my ‘matured’ perspective that Christmas is just another day, it also ushered in what was authentic about Christmas, that which we called magical in our innocence.

A Crazy Elf

As I ran around Khalil gathering gifts, unashamed of their simplicity, proud of their significance, I thought of my father, who delights in blessing those nearest to him with gifts of gold and frankincense…or poetry and steak. And as I burst into the apartment dressed as an elf, I realized I was so much like him, taking pleasure in the laughter of others by his silliness.

Our Humble Tree

And as the party grew to six, I found myself in the kitchen, making stacks of pancakes for my hungry friends. I heard chatter and chuckles coming from the table and I thought of my mother who is an endless blessing to stomach and heart, and says “I love you” through her servanthood and seeing you well-fed. I smiled deeply and realized I was so much like her, taking pleasure in the joy of others by her hand.

And even as I hurriedly wrapped gifts on Christmas morning, I thought of my sister, who would be proud of me for getting everyone a gift, and often wraps hers at the eleventh hour, for she has a heart that is large and thinks of all else before herself. My wrapping, however, would not have made her proud, for it was sloppy and wasteful, and she cares for things greater than herself.

A Star to be proud of, too

In this way, each of my family members visited me on Christmas. In the afternoon I was able to Skype with them while the Danes created a lasagna Christmas miracle. From Vietnam to Palestine to Maine, my family gathered in one place. I saw and heard my sister through screens that punctured and defied many time zones, and my mother led us in some of our favorite Christmas classics, namely Lo! How a Rose E’er Blooming. It was the most magical of all moments and of all Christmases. I sang along to the familiar voices of those I am closest to, and yet, so far from. We laughed, and shared some stories and then said good-bye. I stood up, warmed to my core. Pardon the dangling preposition, but it was a reunion to be proud of. I followed my nose to the kitchen where my eavesdropping friends greeted me. Sofie’s eyes sparkled, for in eavesdropping she found herself drawn into the Christmas spirit for the first time that day, and the blessing of family spread across continents, as it did two thousand years ago.

Celebratory muggery

I looked around at our international group: two Danes, a German, a Palestinian and two Americans, with two more on their way, and I thought, Isn’t this was Christmas is about? So despite my fears that the normalcy of Christmas would infect us even here beside Bethlehem, the authenticity was there. The real meaning of Christmas was palpable. The magic, indeed, had returned.