That year we rushed home with our Christmas tree. I was eager to set it up.

Soon Lowell paused in the doorway with lights draped over his arms. "You know," he said, "I'm not really enjoying our Christmases. Do you have to make them such grand productions?"

Productions? I couldn't wrap my mind around that. Christmas was -- well, Christmas. I had my vision of how it should be.

"It's for the children," I said. I was certain they needed storybook Christmases.

So every year I cleaned, baked and made candy, gifts and decorations. I shopped until my feet and our bank account were past aching. I became irritated when I thought the rest of the family didn't help enough. Lowell often felt the strain and sometimes was even a little grumpy.

And me? I just squared my shoulders and forged on, oblivious to my total disconnect from what Christmas is really about. Every year I overdid, overspent and wore out myself and my family.

The children learned to make themselves scarce, because evidently the storybook approach didn't work well for them either. Eventually I came to dislike wrapping gifts because there were too many. Then my whole overblown mess began to repulse me. Yet I carried on.

Finally, one Christmas Eve when I was close to exhaustion, Lowell said, "Let's go for a walk." We bundled up and headed out. Big, fluffy snowflakes fell. Time slowed. I slowed. Hand in hand we strolled, and soon the beauty of the night overcame me, with its drifting snow and Christmas lights shining messages of good cheer.

Miraculously my heart began to soften. What was I doing, I wondered. Who was my Christmas production really for?

Looking back, I know the baby Jesus was calling at my soul's portals. "Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you..." Rev. 3:20.

I, the lost sheep, so headstrong and self-willed, barely heard him. Yet something changed in me that night. Perhaps Jesus' tender voice began awakening the faith-filled child I'd once been.

It was a long way back, but, like other journeys, it started with a single step. I needed to want to believe.

Why did I insist on my Christmas production for so long? It was about me, the adopted child, who never quite felt she belonged anywhere or to anyone.

Little did I realize that I yearned for home, true home where God is. To get there I had to surrender my will at the manger, to that helpless baby, the Christ child. It wasn't -- and isn't -- easy. And yet I'm coming to want to please God, that holy baby who is also the resurrected Christ, above all things.

Soon he will come again. Soon the heavenly host will sing and we will kneel at the manger. The holy baby holds my soul. O, come let us adore him, Christ the King.

Yes, blessed Christmas. Let us rejoice.

Joan Uda is a retired United Methodist pastor who lives in Lewis and Clark County. E-mail her at joanuda@yahoo.com. Her books are available at certain area bookstores.