Introduction

Christmas has a way of pulling memories to the surface.

This year, more than any other, I’ve found myself revisiting Christmases past. Maybe that’s because this is my first Christmas without either of my parents. My mom passed away seven years ago, and my dad earlier this year. It’s strange—my mom was always the one who truly loved Christmas. And yet, it’s now, with both of them gone, that the memories feel louder.

I’ve been thinking about Christmases from my childhood. Christmas eves, Christmas mornings. Traditions. Laughter. The feeling—however fleeting—that everything was right with the world. I’ve also been remembering Christmases later on, when my wife and I were raising our own kids, and my parents were part of those years too.

Here’s the interesting thing.

My parents were not perfect people. Not even close. There was tension—sometimes a lot of it. My sister and I felt it growing up. Later, my wife and I felt it. And then my kids felt it too. There were misunderstandings, sharp edges, unresolved conflicts—the kind that come with broken people trying to live and love together.

And yet… that’s not what my heart keeps returning to.

What I remember most vividly is my parents trying.

Trying to make Christmas magical.
Trying to create something warm and memorable.
Trying—imperfectly, clumsily, sincerely—to love us well.

And that’s when it struck me:

This is what love does.

Love helps us remember the light.
And love helps us forget—or at least soften—the pain.

It doesn’t erase reality. It doesn’t pretend the brokenness wasn’t there. But it reframes it. It filters memory through grace.

And as I sat with that realization, I began to see something even deeper.

This is how God loves us.

Loved Beyond Our Brokenness

God knows us far more intimately than we ever knew our parents—or they knew us. He sees every flaw, every failure, every sharp word, every selfish impulse. Nothing about us is hidden from Him.

And yet, Scripture tells us that God does not relate to us primarily through the lens of our brokenness, but through the lens of His love.

God didn’t wait for us to clean ourselves up.
He didn’t demand perfection before moving toward us.
He didn’t focus on the mess—we made plenty of that on our own.

Instead, He sent His Son into the mess.

And not as a conquering king.
Not as a display of overwhelming force.
But as a baby.

Which brings me to the second thing that’s been sitting with me this Christmas.

Power, Powerlessness, and a Baby in a Manger

From last Wednesday through yesterday, we went through something that, on the surface, had nothing to do with Christmas—but spiritually, it felt deeply connected.

We lost power for nearly six days.

No electricity.
No heat.
No hot water.

It was uncomfortable. Exhausting. Frustrating, not the least because I couldn’t write this blog post like I usually do on Sundays. And it was humbling.

What struck me most wasn’t just the inconvenience—it was how powerless we felt. In our normal lives, we like to believe we’re in control. We manage schedules, thermostats, lights, devices. We plan. We optimize. We assume stability.

And then the power goes out.

And we’re reminded how little control we actually have.

That experience made something about Christmas click for me in a new way.

Because Christmas is full of irony about power.

A heavenly army of angels announces the birth of God’s Son…
to shepherds in Israel—an unremarkable profession in an unremarkable place.

The Creator of the universe enters His creation…
not in a palace, but in a borrowed stable.

The One through whom all things were made arrives…
utterly dependent on a young, poor couple.

It turns out the greatest power is not the power that needs to prove itself.

The strongest power is the kind that chooses restraint.

The Power of Love

God could have come in fire and thunder.
He could have arrived with unmistakable force.
He could have bent the world into submission.

Instead, He came in love.

Love that remembers us not for our worst moments, but for what we were created to be.
Love that absorbs pain instead of returning it.
Love that doesn’t need to dominate in order to win.

And here’s the quiet miracle of it all:

Just as my memories of my parents are being filtered through love…
God sees us through the finished work of His Son.

Not as we are at our messiest.
But as we will be in heaven—whole, healed, restored.

Christmas is God saying:

I see the brokenness.
I know the tension.
I understand the pain.

And I love you anyway.

This Christmas

This Christmas will feel different for me.
There will be empty spaces.
There will be memories that ache.

But there will also be gratitude.

Gratitude for love that endured.
Gratitude for parents who tried.
Gratitude for a God whose power is gentle enough to come to us as a child.

And maybe that’s the invitation Christmas offers all of us:

To remember the light.
To release what no longer needs to define us.
To trust a God whose love reframes everything.

Even grief.
Even power.
Even memory.

Especially memory.

Because in the end, love helps us remember… and forget.

And God’s love—revealed in a manger—is more powerful than we could ever imagine.