It was my favorite Christmas decoration.
But we don’t use it anymore.
It decayed and fell apart, disintegrated, at least the one main part.
The other part hangs high and permanent now on the weathered barn.
Husband pours spotlight on it in this season, but not everyone who sees it connects it mentally with Christmas. It speaks more, they’d say, of Good Friday, of Easter.
But thinking that far ahead is okay, methinks, and maybe more than okay. Historically, Christmas wasn’t the big deal it is now (I’ve just learned), but more a first step annually leading toward acknowledgement of the Crucifixion, Resurrection, and Ascension, come spring.
The real big deal, the main show, the stellar season of the year came at “Eastertide,” holding high our hope, our future, our life eternal. Christmas at most celebrated the miraculous incarnation that brought the needed Lord and Savior down into our ruin-wracked world — that He might later offer the saving sacrifice, of Himself.
Jesus’ death and resurrection could not have happened had He never been born in the flesh. Yet His birth alone, without the dying and rising and ascending would still leave us utterly hopeless.
So first in focus this Advent season, let it be for me the cross.
And tomorrow I’ll tell the other half of my favorite decoration we no longer use, and all the astounding meaning wrapped up in this humble thing.