I’m not entirely certain what happened to the past eleven months, but somehow or other we slammed into December. Since it’s perpetually the hottest day of summer in Madang I don’t feel like real time passes until it passes. Another year gone… just like that. Pretty sure I was pregnant last week, so, um, what?!?

Despite my own inability to grasp time’s unrelenting march, the world recognizes the end of another year and is already engaged in the traditions and festivities that ensue. Even here in PNG the local store brought out their giant, creepy Santa to scare… I mean greet with jovial singing… small children. Just because I’m far from the traditions of my home culture doesn’t mean I don’t have traditions. Since I started life overseas and experienced multiple Christmases in the Southern Hemisphere, I have developed one consistent tradition: a bad attitude about the holidays. Once I’ve fully embraced my inner and outer Grooge (why not be a little of both??), I feed my tradition by spending way too much time pining over what I’ve lost. All those bundled up people trundling off to the Christmas tree farm to cut down their tree and roast chestnuts and drink hot cider and dance in the snow. All those Whos down in Who-ville having Christmas without me.

Last year we had a tree. I forced it because I didn’t want Ray’s first Christmas in PNG to be unadorned. My mother had foreseen that I might want a tree despite vehemently opposing a tree. I hope I become a mother like that. So she sent us a tiny tree with tiny fake lights and a tiny angel on top. Just enough to remind us it was Christmas, but not enough to mock my loss. It was a slight improvement from the previous Christmas spent in PNG where we sat on the couch staring at each other, unable to move it was so blasted hot. Occasionally we worked up enough energy to complain about the heat, but that was pretty much the extent of our Christmas celebration. No tree, no garland, no oomph, lots of sweat. A small tree was a small improvement.

I’ve been determined to hang on to the loss I feel over Christmases past, justifying my general lack of goodwill this time of year. I’ve held on to grief while harboring frustration at PNG and Australia for not doing Christmas right (starting with the whole summer instead of winter thing). God met me in my ridiculousness and held my hand. I didn’t even know he was doing it, I was too busy muttering about losing Christmas. But he met me there anyways.

This year we’ve taken a giant leap forward from our tiny tree. Now our tree is the height of a short woman and I, admittedly, would hate it in the States. It’s… fake. And fiber optic. And it has a sign that says “Merry Christmas” in case the tree itself was not enough to encourage a person to have a merry Christmas (which might be true). But I love it. We have garland resembling snow and is something I probably would have bought in the States I like it so much. We have a wreath that’s a bit huge and chunky, but plain. Plain is so hard to find here. And two small trees my mom sent again. One for Ray’s room and one for Willa’s. And they love, love their trees with all the tiny snowmen and nutcrackers hanging from the wee branches. And I know that Christmas isn’t about all the trappings, but here in the heat and the isolation and the drudge, I needed some trappings to remember that it isn’t the trappings. And God was merciful enough to provide those shallow things to point me to Himself. Because sometimes the rocks have to cry out in our lives for us to see.

I’m happily raising two girls that will not experience my Christmas. They’ll experience our Christmas with all its heat, fiber optics, and fake snow. All those things I turned my nose up at God is using to fill our home with reminders of what he did by sending his son.

Merry Christmas from PNG!