My family reminds me of the family in My Big Fat Greek Wedding except we’re Mexican. We’re loud and crazy and we yell a lot but we all really love one another.  Christmas morning we all get up and open our stockings together. Over the years the tradition has sort of taken on a life of it’s own and now the goodies spill over and your stocking is usually resting on a pile of little wrapped gifts that my mom couldn’t quite fit inside.  Then my dad will cook a big breakfast- bacon and eggs, chorizo and papas, beans and tortillas- don’t forget the salsa! Right after breakfast is cleaned up the tamales go in the oven to warm up and the menudo goes on the stove so we can all eat some more as soon as there is room in our over-stuffed tummies. We then begin that circus that is the unwrapping of presents. If all of us have managed to get home to my parents there are 4 or 5 families stuffed in my parent’s living room together along with the tree and the MOUNTAIN of gifts that is inevitable when everyone in the family has gotten everyone a gift or two (or three). You also have to consider that some of the families have procreated rather generously (RIS!) and we invite any stray family friends who don’t have a family near by, so there can be anywhere from 20-25 of us all tucked into every chair, couch, corner, or clear bit of floor space we can find and guard. We take turns opening gifts so everyone can admire the gift and giver, stopping to tidy up a bit when the mounds of wrapping paper (save the bows for nana!) threaten to suffocate us all. After several rotations around the circle (youngest to oldest!) the littles can’t take it anymore and it always dissolves into chaos – shredding paper and delighted squeals, cries of- Oh go give cousin Bobby a hug and tell him thank you!  Madness, yes. But wonderful madness.  Then we eat some more, watch movies, lay around, maybe go ride the horses a bit, eat some more, put together some of the new treasures the children have acquired, eat some more, try to find whoever’s Hickory Farms Beef Stick that has been stolen (a family tradition amongst our menfolk- the Beef Stick Wars), eat some more,  My uncle Jose will get out the guitar and begin (always) with Feliz Navidad (a dozen or so times) and then the various guitar players in the family may take turns playing different Christmas Carols, we’ll eat some more, some one will fight with someone, eat some more and just all be together until the wee hours of the night …

But I remember the Christmas when nothing happened like it should have. It was tense and quiet.  No good-natured yelling, everyone was a too polite. The conversation was stiff and the laughter a bit forced. No one knew what to say to anyone and it was all my fault.

That Christmas I was 18 years old and very, very pregnant. In the previous 8 1/2 months I had managed to get pregnant, admitted to CFNI (a Christian college in Texas) in spite of my pregnancy, kicked out of said Christian college, go back to CA to live in a maternity home in Grover Beach with a bunch of other pregnant chicks, (oh yes, that was great fun. There’s nothing quite like living with 8 other pregnant women- it’s just “Kumbayah” every evening. Or not.) return home to Visalia to sort of reconcile with my folks, and best of all I had gained about 60 pounds (no lie, I have the stretch marks to prove it) thus far outgrowing anything remotely stylish in my wardrobe and I couldn’t afford nice maternity clothes or new contacts so I was just super-cute. Yeah.

I tried to lie low, so to speak, and hide my hugeness as much as possible, but there was too much of me to hide.  I wore these big sweaters or overalls to try to cover up my swollen body and my old glasses from sixth grade. I didn’t have much make-up left from the last time my mom had bought me make-up (way back in high school the year before) so lets just say … I wasn’t at my most attractive. Ummm, yeah. (I have tried to gather and destroy all the evidence but every now and then a picture will surface and I have to break out the flame-thrower again.)

But even worse then knowing how terrible I looked was this huge, hideous, overwhelming shame I carried around with me. It was like a tangible weight on me. I had messed up bad. My life was a disaster and I had no plan, no way out that I could see. All I could see was a life consisting of standing in that grimy welfare office where everyone was so mean to me and getting some low paying job, trying to make enough to get by until the next month. I knew that wasn’t a life I wanted but it was all I could see.

And it was there- humiliated, broken, hopeless and ashamed that I found my Savior.  It was a long process, but it was then that He began to whisper to me that I was worth something, I was valued, that He had a plan for my life, that He saw beauty in me that had nothing to do with my appearance, and that if I would let Him that someday I would look back at my life and instead of being ashamed I would see His power.

My son was born a few weeks after Christmas, my little Michael Robert and by the time the next Christmas rolled around you wouldn’t have recognized me or my life. Jesus had begun to transform me just like He promised. I was in college fulltime (mostly dance classes, but still!) and had gotten back into shape, I had a job at Pac Sun so I had lots of cute clothes, had a cute new hairstyle and new contacts, I also had my beautiful amazing son, and had met the man I would go on to marry. But more importantly He transformed my heart and I was beginning to understand that my worth was not a result of my achievements or failures but a result of His sacrifice on the Cross. I was valuable because He said so. And that wasn’t something I could mess up.

We all celebrated like normal that next Christmas, my sweet son’s first Christmas. My relationship with my parents was restored, we laughed, yelled, unwrapped presents, ate way too much, watched movies, and sang Feliz Navidad while my new boyfriend tried to process all the craziness (it is a testament to his fortitude that he stuck with me and we have been together for eight years, married for the last five!) and I rejoiced that God had healed the wounds my mistakes had inflicted on myself and my family. It’s ironic that the Christmas of the year before, what I had considered the worst Christmas of my life is really the best Christmas ever- because it’s when I began to let God change my life.

So if you are suffering this Christmas season, if your life looks like such a mess you don’t see how it can ever be right again, if your mistakes or the mistakes of others have destroyed everything you counted on- take heart! Because my God can do exceedingly, abundantly, amazingly above anything you have ever hoped for, dreamed of or asked for. You just have to let Him.

Melissa Aulds