It’s Christmas Eve. I stand out back in the crisp air, close my eyes, and lose myself in imagining that I am there on that cold night. I’m walking, but I don’t know where I’m going or how I’ll get there - a familiar feeling for this oft-lost girl. But somehow, I know to trust and follow the brightest light I’ve ever known.
Finally, in Bethlehem, I look into the stable where an overwhelmed teenage mother holds her baby boy. She looks exhausted, worn out from her journey and her delivery. And now, the mother of Jesus is recovering where livestock have lived.
Nearby, her betrothed seems worried - like he’s trying to figure out what this really means. I wonder if they have any idea what’s ahead - the miracles their son will perform, his sacrifice, and that thousands of years later, people around the world will know him. And them.
Behind the man, I spot a few gifts they’ve been given. I have nothing for them. Nothing for him. Just myself. I feel unprepared, like I should have been ready for this.
My mind races to come up with something for him, and I remember the little drummer boy from the Christmas carol with his gift of a gentle song. But I have nothing to play, and if I sang, I’d scare the poor baby right back to heaven. Maybe I can give my words, I think. But how? Before I find an answer, Mary beckons me in.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods.
Then, I look down at the baby in her arms who has led me here again this Christmas Eve. He is sunlight, chubby-cheeked, and sleeping peacefully like he has no idea who he is and what he will one day do.
“He is beautiful,” I say. That’s all I can utter. On the long walk here, I had rehearsed what I’d say, but it all falls from my head and my heart, both full to overflowing as I stare in awe.
“It’s Him,” I say in a gentle breath.
Mary smiles. “Do you want to hold him?”
Before I can answer, the Christ child is in my arms, and I am both awestruck and inadequate, undeserving of being this close. This intimate. Exposed to Him. And yet, I am pulled like a magnet.
“It’s okay,” his mother says, seeming to understand.
And as I look into the face of this baby who changed everything, His eyes open sleepily and look straight into mine. Straight through mine. And I am pulled to Him until there is nothing between us - a beautiful savior and a bumbling, faithful traveler united in spirit.
His eyes fall heavy again, and I hold him extra close. There is no adorned tree here. There are no wreaths or boxes with bows. There is no smell of Christmas dinner in the oven. There is only Christ. There is only Christmas. Every emotion I have ever felt comes to the surface, but most of all, love.
Love being held.
Love overflowing.
And I imagine this is what God wants us to feel every day.
This kind of Christmas - every day.
But especially today.