What is the meaning of Christmas? 🎅🎄☃️🎁🐑⛪

OISHI (Narrating, tail wagging like he just sniffed bacon):

Ah, December. The most wonderful time of the year. People seem… happier. Less annoying.

Even Susan hasn’t cried over burnt rice in days.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of parties, gifts and food. Brenda gave me a new lion squeaky toy. Told me to throw away the old one because it was “ugly” from all the chewing.

Rude. But sure. More to chew. I win.

And the food? Oh, the food. Fried chicken. Chicken adobo. Chicken with mystery sauce that I don’t trust but still eat. I’m drooling.

Am I in heaven?

SUSAN (Narrating, halfway between Mariah Carey and crisis):

🎶 “All I want for Christmas is youuuu!” 🎶

Yes. You heard that in your head, didn’t you?

It’s been a fun, chaotic, delicious blur. Badoodle (Oishi) and I have attended every party we were invited to. I’ve probably eaten enough lumpiang shanghai to be considered a walking spring roll.

And sure, it’s the season of giving. People seem kinder, more generous, like we’re all pretending we’re not normally tired, passive-aggressive versions of ourselves.

It’s lovely.

But underneath the laughter and chicken grease… I feel weird. Not sad exactly. Just… empty. Like everyone got the memo on joy, and I missed the group chat.

OISHI (Narrating, now annoyed):

After one party, Susan scooped me up, stared into my soul (again), and whispered,

“I feel sad, Badoodle.”

Excuse me? You just inhaled lechon and danced to Last Christmas like it was a spiritual experience. How are you sad?

She grabbed a pen, sat dramatically, and wrote to Jesus.

“Dear Jesus,

How are You?

Me, I’m not fine. I feel sad. Why are You not giving me what I asked for? Why are You not giving me a gift? I’m not asking for much—just make me beautiful, slim like a Victoria’s Secret model, a hunk husband, and a million dollars (yes Lord, dollars, not pesos, so I can buy what I want when I want it).

Thank You, Jesus, and goodnight.”

She turned off the lamp and whispered,

“Lord, I’ve been waiting a long time.

When are You going to answer me?

When are You going to give me my gift?”

And I thought, finally. A real prayer.

SUSAN (Narrating, 3 a.m. existential mode unlocked):

It’s 3 a.m., December 24.

I couldn’t sleep. Christmas is near, and I feel… off.

I’ve been wallowing, wondering why God still hasn’t given me my Christmas miracle. My feed is full of people posting new houses, new cars, new babies, new flight ticket to Europe. Meanwhile, I’m still here in the same room, same job, same face, same dreams on hold.

And then I feel guilty. Because I am blessed. We’re healthy. We have a home. Life is better than it was five years ago. I know all of that.

But my heart still hurts.

I looked at Badoodle, snoring like a tiny old man. My ridiculous wish list replayed in my head: VS-model body, husband, dollars, new life abroad. They sound shallow when you hear them in prayer form. But they’re real desires. They’re my desires.

“They’re achievable, right?” I told myself. “

So I kissed Badoodle on the head and whispered,

“I’m just going out for fresh air. No, do not call the precinct, do not launch search and rescue. I’ll come back before your next snack.”

I had to warn him. He’s dramatic.

SUSAN (Narrating):

The streets looked magical. Christmas lights. Parols. A few people heading to Misa de Gallo. I haven’t attended in years. Christmas in Our Hearts was playing faintly somewhere.

For a moment, I just stood there, breathing in December. The good kind of cold.

“Lord,” I muttered, “everyone says Christmas is about You… but why do I feel like it’s about everything I don’t have?”

Suddenly there was a whoosh and a light.

My heart leaped—finally! Jesus is here to hand me my gifts personally!

My smile dropped.

Of course. Not Jesus.

Just Angelusito, the Seraphim Sweetheart in Sneakers, floating in with his usual pep and a clipboard full of divine errands.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s an angel and all, but we’re buds, so I wasn’t that thrilled.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

ANGELUSITO (Narrating, soft but slightly panicky cherub):

The over-eager, always-running, “people-I’m-praying-for-today” kind of angel, not the sarcastic one.

He said, “Well, heaven received all your love letters to the Boss.”

My heart jumped.

Then he said, “Luke 2:1–20.”

I blinked. “What?”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you don’t know.”

And then he began:

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,

and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.”

ANGELUSITO (now in full fairy-god-angel mode):

Angelusito looked at me and said, “Sus, heaven already gave you a gift—way more than you asked for. The Father gave you His Son, to save you and all humanity.”

He floated a little closer, lowering his voice like someone about to drop premium-grade gossip.

“Listen carefully, Christmas is not just a vibe, or ham, or 13th-month sale. It’s not even mainly about you finally getting the sneakers you want, or the husband you keep ordering from heaven like online shopping.

Christmas is the night God came close.”

I stared at him.

He went on, hands moving like he was explaining a group project:

“The God who made galaxies chose to have… a body. Tiny fingers. Baby lungs. He got hungry. He cried. He needed to be carried. The King of the universe entered a mother’s womb, was laid in a manger, grew up in a simple home, and later allowed Himself to be laid in a tomb—just long enough to break it from the inside out”

“He didn’t send a memo, Sus. He didn’t send a Google Doc of instructions. He came Himself. Emmanuel. God with us. Not ‘God watching from the sky with a clipboard.’ Not ‘God far away, judging your life choices and siopao intake.’ God with you — right in the middle of poverty, fear, anxiety, and despair… and just as present in your joy, your laughter, your quiet moments of peace, and all the tiny good things you forget to notice.”

My eyes started to sting.

“Look at the story you just heard,” he said. “God didn’t announce Jesus to emperors or influencers. The first people to hear the news were shepherds—night-shift nobodies watching smelly sheep. No filters, no followers. And heaven said, ‘YES. Them first.’

“He could’ve announced it to kings first, but He chose night-shift shepherds. That’s how God loves to work—starting with the people who feel small and overlooked.”

He glanced at me with that half-teasing, half-tender look he’d perfected.

“So when you say, ‘Lord, everyone else seems happy and I feel like the extra in the background’—guess what? You’re actually standing closer to the center of the Christmas story than you think. Because the people who feel most aware of their need are usually the ones who can feel Christmas the deepest.”

I swallowed hard. My chest felt tight, the way it does when I see our electricity bill.

“I was waiting for gifts,” I whispered, “like God was Santa… but He already gave… Himself.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“The manger is not just a cute baby photo op. It’s the start of a rescue mission. The Baby in the manger is the same Jesus who grew up, carried your sin, your shame, your envy, your loneliness, all the ‘Why not me, Lord?’ moments—and nailed them to a cross. Christmas is the opening scene of that rescue—God stepping into your world and saying, ‘I’ll come down to you, right where you are.’”

I sobbed. I imagined the Son of God, lying in a manger. No hospital. No epidural. No Instagrammable nursery. Mary and Joseph’s journey wasn’t exactly five-star comfort—more like budget airline, delayed flight, lost luggage, and no hotel booking.

And here I was, sulking because I didn’t get what I wanted on my wish list.

ANGELUSITO (sassy but sacred):

“Sus, if you want a better body, stop eating siopao like they’re vitamins. Take care of the one you have. It’s a gift too.

As for your other requests—only God can answer those. Wait patiently. Keep praying. Discern. Ask for wisdom. If you don’t know what to do, just do the next right thing. Pick one and start from there.”

“And while you’re waiting, stop looking at what you don’t have like it’s a verdict. Look at what you already have like it’s evidence of grace.

You’ve got a good life. A weird life, sure. But a good one.

A Shih Tzu who’d bite the mailman for you. Friends. Family. A home. A job that pays the bills and still lets you dream. You will face pain, envy, loneliness—but also joy, courage, peace… and love. Christmas doesn’t erase the hard things, but it proves you’re not facing them alone. The God who came as a Baby is still Emmanuel—God with you in every season of waiting and uncertainty.”

Then he quoted Philippians 4:8 and vanished into the night like a sparkly motivational speaker:

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”

OISHI (Narrating, Christmas Day!)

I woke up with a mission.

The house smelled like joy and barbecue. Susan was in the kitchen, humming, mixing a bowl of macaroni salad like it held world peace. Her mom was cooking. Her brothers were in the backyard roasting meat like cavemen with Spotify.

Then Boyo walked in.

He handed Susan a box.

She squinted. “Boyo, if this is a self-help book I’ll throw it at your head.”

It wasn’t.

It was the white sneakers she’s been dreaming of—the ones she wouldn’t buy because they weren’t on sale. Turns out Boyo listens when Susan talks.

Brave man.

We spent the day eating, dancing, laughing, giving out sandwiches, and collecting joy like it was buy-one-take-one.

At night, Sus was sniffing her new shoes like a weirdo.

I get it. New shoe smell is powerful.

Susan’s Prayer:

Lord, thank You for this day.

For the blessings—the food, the family, the friends, and the strength to give back.

For months, I’ve been focused on what I don’t have, comparing myself to people who seem to have it all. I kept asking You for gifts, but I forgot what Christmas truly means.

I see it now.

It’s about You—Your birth, Your peace, Your love, and the hope that came wrapped in swaddling cloth. Not just the hope of better days… but the kind that saves. The kind that changed the world.

Help me carry that in my heart every day. Help me love like You—especially when people test my patience.

Lord, thank You for Oishi. He’s one of the few consistent good things in my life—and he doesn’t even talk, although I’m pretty sure he silently judges everything I do.

P.S. If You could still make me look like a Victoria’s Secret model, that’d be great.

Good night.

Love, Sus.

OISHI (Narrating, tail thumping against the bed):

She gets it now. Finally.

Also… she better share that macaroni salad.

THE END.

Still Barking. Still Rising. 🐾