About Christmas

Christmas Day is right around the corner which means for many of us a rush to finish holiday shopping and preparations while squeezing out time to decorate trees, adorn table tops, wreath our front doors, and light up windows and eaves. Not to mention all the added Christmas parties and Winter concerts to attend.  As our check-listing scramble begins to overwhelm, inevitably the spirit of the season diminishes.  

It happens.  Often without notice.  

And so, I would like to revive that tender spirit of Christmas and gently warm your holiday heart once again... that is, if you will take a moment to check-list a short story.

About Christmas
By
Richelle E. Goodrich

　

My identity is not important—age, gender, or ethnicity.  The year and circumstances make little difference either, other than to know it was a cold Christmas night when this miracle occurred in my life.  And though the memories are distinctly mine, vivid and unforgettable as if years had never passed since their transpiring, I sincerely hope through this retelling of events you will acquire every thread of understanding I gained in a remarkable moment of truth.

It was cold enough to snow, yet warm enough to melt every flake that touched the ground.  I sat outside on my front porch, bundled in the warmest wrap I could find.  Inside, the sounds of merriment tickled my ears—a celebration of Christmas among friends and family.  I was missing their exchange of homemade gifts, having put no thought or effort into the task.  Christmas didn’t thrill me like it seemed to for so many others.  And as I sat in the darkness staring up at the twinkling aura of a particularly bright star, I wondered for what reason exactly this holiday existed.

I pulled the wrap more snugly around my shoulders while contemplating a string of traditions practiced yearly at this time.  What was the big deal about observing silly rituals?  Why the extra jollity and efforts this time of year? 

What was Christmas all about? 

I’m not sure how to explain what happened next, only that everything seemed quite natural in its occurrence.  The shimmering star that had locked my eyes upon it—a celestial light I knew to exist far, far from my world—suddenly changed perspective, appearing within my sight as if it hovered above me at an arms throw.  I blinked a number of times thinking my focus would return to normal and the star would once again hang sensibly in the heavens.  Instead, every flitter of my lashes produced a change in the star that revealed with decreasing brightness a male figure centered within the light.  He was beautiful beyond description—white, radiant, and smiling down upon me.  The thought occurred that I had passed on to the afterlife.  Perhaps unawares to my conscious self, I had frozen in the cold and suffered death.  Was this radiant being God?

The man’s smile broadened as if he found amusement in my thoughts, and I worried he could actually read them.  Anxiety made me sink lower, pulling the woolen wrap up over my hair.  The blanket warmed me, and so I doubted I was dead.

“Fear not,” the man said in the softest voice ever to caress my ears.  “Your prayer has been heard.”  I assumed then he was an angel.  To think God would personally come for me was a highly vain notion.

The smiling messenger reached out his hand, and I stared at it, wondering how light appeared to radiate from every inch of his skin.  It turned out he stood even closer to me than I had first perceived.  I blinked again, disturbed by the way distance seemed an incalculable thing in my eyes. 

“Fear not,” he repeated.  “Take my hand.”

Stunned by all the unusualness there was to perceive, I asked, “You heard my prayer?”  My forehead tightened at the idea.  I didn’t recall offering a prayer. 

Suddenly, his radiant palm was pressed against my chest.  “In here,” the angel explained.  “He knows all your heart’s desires.”

I wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to the glowing touch of an angel or the knowledge that God actually knew me, but a warmth beyond any physical source consumed my chest.  All my fears dissipated.

Again a hand was extended to me in offer, and I took hold. 

As inept as I had proven myself at perceiving distances, it seemed time and travel also elected to bewilder my senses.  For I knew we were in motion, and yet my discernment was of the world revolving around me and my heavenly guide.  A whirlwind of chaos encircled us, slowing within a blink to a nighttime sky.  I noticed one difference among the stars—a brighter light shone above the others, penetrating the darkness more effectively than any star I had ever witnessed. 

“Christmas,” the angel breathed, following my gaze upward.

“This is Christmas?” I wondered.  “Is this what Christmas is about?  A star?”

The angel smiled.  “Not entirely.”  He continued to look up.

“Is it about Heaven?” I asked, broadening my guess.

He flickered a glance at me with his beautiful, bright eyes.  “Not entirely.”

I watched him as he watched the heavens, the two of us still holding hands, for I was afraid if I attempted to sever our bond I might fall to the ground which we presently hovered above.  It wasn’t my intent to gawk at him, but withdrawing my eyes proved a difficult thing until something more amazing than a celestial companion lured my focus skyward again. 

Singing, rich and harmonic and penetrating, affected me first.  Such beautiful carols I had never heard before.  As my eyes swept across a choir of angels, I held my breath in awe.  They were singing hymns of joyous praise.  Carols of a newborn king—the Christ child.

I listened silently, my heart affected so profoundly as to bring tears to my eyes.  The whole time my guide squeezed my hand, beaming.  It wasn’t until the choir began to fade that I noticed a meager audience of sheep and shepherds gathered beneath them, witnessing what I saw.

Then we were all at once standing among the shepherds, mingled in their numbers as if we belonged with them.  I could understand their acceptance of me, being wrapped in a woolen blanket that resembled their draped attire, but I knew not why my companion received no incredulous looks.  Perhaps because of the messenger angel above?

“Fear not.  For behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.  And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

After a final chorus of praise, the angels went away.  I was sad to see them go, to have their inspiring music no longer permeating the atmosphere.  Naturally, I sighed at such a stark loss.

My glorious companion sighed likewise.  “Ahhh, Christmas.”

I nodded.  “Is this what Christmas is about?  Singing carols and songs of heavenly praise?”

The angel smiled kindly at me.  “Not entirely.”

“Is it about the message then?  Is Christmas about heralding Christ’s birth?”

I was given another patient smile.  “Not entirely.”

We separated from the shepherds, our feet touching the ground now, taking steps on a dirt road.  I felt secure enough to let go of my companion’s hand.  He released my fingers readily.  Our walk remained quiet; hushed but for the nocturnal sounds of herding country.  I pondered the things that had transpired—the message delivered by heavenly hosts to humble, poor shepherds willing and ready to hear.  This was the first Christmas.  This was Christ’s birthday.  What else would Christmas be about if not Him?

I had taken a few steps beyond my angel guide when I realized he was no longer at my side.  Turning back, my eyes opened up, aroused from my deep, inner reflecting.  We were standing in the shadows of a lowly stable.  Stone, wood, and straw were arranged as shelter for docile animals.  A small light shone from within, sustained by a single candle.  I squinted to make out two silhouettes that appeared joined.  Mother and baby.

I couldn’t help but ask, whispering, “Is it Him?”

The angel nodded, his smile tempered by reverence. 

“This is the first Christmas,” I said, making sure my understanding of events was correct.

The angel nodded again, concentrating on the newborn child.

“Christmas is about the baby, Jesus.” I declared. 

The angel’s smile reappeared as a result of my certainty.  “Not entirely.”

I crumpled my brow, frustrated, but a large shadow distracted my attention, appearing from the back of the stable.  A man approached and knelt beside the mother and child.  His arm fell gently around the woman, his free hand careful to cup the baby’s head.  He leaned in to kiss his wife.  The picture touched my heart.

“Is Christmas about family?” I asked.

I mouthed the echoed response.  “Not entirely.”

My eyes flickered from the forms beside a manger to my companion.  It was strange that his brilliance didn’t light the darkness within the stable.  But what hadn’t proved strange thus far?  I was about to question his definition of “entirely” when the scuffing of collected footfall caught my ear.  I twisted my neck to find strangers approaching—shepherds in rags and sandals followed by men garbed in finer, richer fabrics.

“The wise men?” I guessed.

My companion nodded.

I watched as the visitors cautiously approached, waiting for permission from the stable’s occupants to come close enough to witness the Christ child.  I wanted a closer look myself and followed the others across a carpet of strewn straw.  I watched the wise men kneel to place gifts at the mother’s feet.  She appeared truly grateful.

“Is Christmas about gifts?” I asked.  It was a holiday tradition spanning the ages, to be sure.

“Not entirely.”

The mother, a pretty young woman, held up her baby for all to see.  His features were glowing in the candlelight.  He was asleep.  Adorable.  He appeared so tiny and fragile, snuggly wrapped in a single blanket. 

“He came to save the world,” the angel told me.  “To suffer and die for all of us.”

I nodded, aware of the truth.

“Is that what Christmas is about?” I asked.  “Christ’s purpose?  His suffering and death?”

There was no smile on the angel’s face when he turned to me, only gravity in his eyes.  “Not entirely.”

I sighed.  What in the world was Christmas about then?  I thought of the few Christmases I had celebrated in my own lifetime—gathered around family, singing carols, exchanging gifts, retelling the story of our Savior’s humble birth, rehearsing by heart the angel’s tidings of joy to the shepherds.  Was this not what Christmas was about? 

When the others stepped back, I knelt before the new mother, questioning her with my eyes as to whether or not it would be okay to touch her child.  She smiled with understanding and held him out to me, offering the chance to cradle the babe in my arms.  I couldn’t make myself do it.  To hold my savior was a privilege I was unworthy to accept.  I yearned, though, to at least touch him.  With a trembling reach, I let my hand fall gently against his cheek, so soft and warm.  I feared for a moment my touch might be too cold, but the baby stirred and turned his face toward me, his little nose nuzzling in my palm.  I exhaled raggedly and chuckled at this.  My breathing stopped entirely when his eyes opened up. 

He looked right at me. 

I couldn’t turn away, even when my sight blurred with tears.  His tiny fingers moved to wrap around my one, clasping on.  Behind him, I caught his mother’s smile as she assured me, “He loves you.”

I bawled like a baby at her words because I knew they were true.  His life, his actions—they proved it to be so.

It took some time to regain my composure before I could speak again.  My companion waited patiently for my eyes to dry.  He was nodding before I even asked the question.

“Is Christmas about love?”

“It is.”

As my angel guide departed to take his place in the heavens, I found myself once again seated on the porch outside my own house.  I looked up in time to catch a shooting star.  The laughter of friends and family carried to me from inside.  Rising to go join them (wondering what the chances were they would believe my miraculous story) I heard the truth proclaimed in the quietest, piercing voice.  Words of a loving Father.  Words I resolved that very Christmas night to forever abide.

“For I so loved the world that I gave my only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.  Love one another, even as I have loved you.”

Copyright 2012 Richelle E. Goodrich

 

Christmas is a Whisper

A whirlwind.

That is Christmas.

Turmoil, demands, expectations, and anxiety swirl internally while I rush to and fro, trying to accomplish in very little time what is deemed necessary for a successful holiday.

Tree up. Decorate the boughs, lights first. No, not like that, spread the ornaments around. Mix up the colors. Attempt to show helping hands how to do it right, but everyone is apparently colorblind. Whatever. Determine to fix it later. Where did that blasted star get stored? Check inside ten different boxes and then settle on an angel topper.

"But, Mom, we used the angel last year and the year before that!"

"Ugh, just deal with it."

Online shopping―because it's easier, right? Have gifts shipped to the front door and avoid the crowds. Why is the cursed internet so slow? Out of stock―ugh. Only the sizes I don't need, of course. Click, click, click―tick tock, tick tock. Oh, oh, wait a minute... great prices here! Yes, my shopping cart is full at last! Check out with VISA; charge it and worry about the bill later.

"What the criminy? HOW MUCH IS SHIPPING?!!!"

Search the internet for a free shipping code. Find none. Try twenty discount codes―all denied. First-time-shopper code―invalid. Invalid? Really? Did our house elf shop at this site when I wasn't looking? Feel a serious headache coming on. So much time wasted surfing the net, inserting useless codes. Fine; just forget it. Empty out half the shopping cart and swallow the exorbitant shipping rates. Determine to finish the Christmas shopping downtown―later.

Do not forget the holiday baking! Sugar cookies, gingerbread, chocolate chip... you want brownies and fudge? Gain 10 pounds just mixing the dough. Bake, clean, bake, clean, bake, clean, clean, clean... I'll clean up the rest later.

Make up plates to deliver to friends. Run from one side of town to the other.

"Merry Christmas! No, sorry, no time to sit and talk. More deliveries to make."

Go, go, go. Nearly done!

"Hey, Mom, what about so-and-so? We didn't give them any cookies."

Dang it, forgot about so-and-so. Hurry home. Find a paper plate. Extra cookies, but no red candy kisses. So what, good enough. Head across town... deliver... finally done!

Exhausted. Whirlwind intensifies. Still have shopping to finish―later.

Just smile one time for this photo. Please? Yes, you have to wear the Santa hat. For the Christmas card. Because, dear.

Because.

Because.

Just because.

Because I said so, alright! Now smile! Grrrrr.

Good enough―not really; kids look like angry little elves. Patience has left the building (mine and theirs.)

Sign a hundred Christmas cards.

Lick a hundred stamps.

Hand cramps. Tongue numb.

Christmas shopping to finish―later.

"Mom, you didn't put up any mistletoe."

"I know."

"Mom, you didn't get out the Countdown-to-Christmas chart."

"I know."

"Mom, you haven't watched Scrooge with me yet."

"I know."

"Mom, you didn't make my hot chocolate yet."

"I know."

"Mom, how many days until Santa comes?"

"I don't know."

"Mom, I have a Christmas Concert tomorrow at school."

"Eeek! What? I forgot about that."

"Yeah, Mom, I have one too for band next week."

"Uh, forgot about that too."

"Yeah, Mom, and we have to sell Christmas trees to go to camp."

"You have to sell what?"

"Mom, I have to bring brownies to school tomorrow for a party."

"Mom, I wanted to make that Christmas wreath, remember?"

"Uh, right."

"Mom, I have to go caroling with our group tonight."

"Mom, did you find that Countdown-to-Christmas yet?"

"The company Christmas party is next Friday; don't forget."

Whirlwind escalates. And I still have to finish the Christmas shopping―later.

Time stretches thinner to allow for attending Christmas concerts and parties and tree sales and to finally dig through storage boxes for that begged-after, must-have, young-lives-will-be-ruined-otherwise Countdown-to-Christmas chart. "Thanks, Mom!"

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...

"Twelve days to Christmas, Mom!"

"Seven days to Christmas, Mom!"

"Five days to Christmas, Mom!"

The whirlwind picks up internally; anxiety levels spike. I seriously need to finish my shopping!

Make a list and run to the store between work and piling events.

"WHY ARE THE LINES SO *%#@$*•ING LONG?!"

Hide in a room to wrap gifts.

Wrapping, wrapping, wrapping―"Mom, where are you?"

Ignore the question; hope it goes away; wrapping, wrapping, wrapping―"Mo~o~om, where are you?" Sigh and answer. "I'm in my room. I'm busy."

Young mouths press up to the door―"Mom, we need... Mom, we want..."

Ignore their demands to wrap a little more, a little faster. "Mom, can we come in?"

Doorknob twists and jiggles. Throw blanket over exposed gifts. "No, no, no! Stay out!"

Return to wrapping―frantically. Whining now begins, traveling through the locked door. "Mo~o~om, we're starving."

Might as well give up. This means wrapping all night on Christmas Eve, but who needs sleep?

"Two days to Christmas, Mom!"

Grumble under my breath. No time, no fun.

The whirlwind inside feels awful.

Dinner over. Dishes done. Everyone in bed. Lights out. So much left to do but too exhausted. Still have last-minute items to shop for―later.

I plop down on the sofa in the dark, but it is not entirely dark. Christmas lights on the tree blink soundlessly, on and off and on again in repeated patterns. It is beautiful. I stare at the light show, mesmerized.

The silence is astounding. Therapeutic even. Internally, the whirlwind eases by degrees, melting like magic. My breathing slows as colors dance on needled tree branches, consoling me. Sinking into the sofa, I wonder at this strange feeling of calmness that invades my being, seeping in from the top of my head to travel in warm tingles throughout my body. It makes me smile.

How sweet the silence that needs no straining ear. How perfect it is, like a whisper that only my soul can hear―"It's alright. It's alright." This gentleness settles into my heart, and I wish for it to remain. This is what has been missing. Too caught up in the whirlwind that society declares Christmas to be, my racing thoughts have drowned out the still, small voice that now brings genuine comfort to my soul. The Christmas spirit does not rush. It does not shout. It does not expect or demand or constrain.

I joy in this rare moment of stillness. My soul hears and believes.

A whisper.

That is Christmas.

"Christmas is a whisper of peace and a sigh of hope on the lips of love." 

~ Richelle E. Goodrich

Being Mrs. Santa Claus

It's nearly Christmastime.

A mid all the festive and traditional runaround, we generally perform a few extra acts of goodwill during this giving season.  So, upon a request this year, my husband and I agreed to dress up and play Santa and Mrs. Claus at a craft bazaar held inside a small-town elementary school.  Children lined up to sit on jolly, old Santa's lap and receive peppermint candy canes from his sweet and cheerful wife, Mrs. Claus.  Our teamwork made a bunch of kids happy—twinkling, eager eyes and grinning lips reciting long lists of what-I-want-for-Christmas.  We also made a few wary children cry at their parents' insistence they sit on the old, bearded man's lap for as long as it took to snap a few keepsake pictures.

O verall, it was a merry day.  But it was more than that; it was an eye-opening marvel.

I  began noticing something fascinating the moment we walked out our front door all dressed up in red-and-white Claus disguises.  Observers who looked our direction beamed cheerfully, pointing us out to others in their company.  Nudging my husband, (who had also become aware of the fact that his presence was excitedly noted by kids in the car ahead of us) we waved at the smiling onlookers.  They returned eager waves.  It was an interesting drive along the freeway noting brightened expressions on those who glanced our way, traveling the same road.  And by the time we arrived at the little elementary school, a distance from our own hometown, I understood that great expectations rest on the shoulders of those who dare garb themselves in the famous 'Claus' uniform.

A s  Santa and I walked up the sidewalk to the front doors of the school, we were taken in by a sea of eyes.   It was an illuminating and surreal experience.  People smiled.  People waved.  People offered cordial greetings.  The unanimous assumption was that we were a happy, kind, generous couple with warm hugs to offer and open ears available to hear every last youthful want and wish.  And as we went about our business—visiting with strangers, holding their children, giving them sweet hope and happy hearts and candy canes—it occurred to me I'd never in my lifetime been approached by such an abundance of friendly smiles.  It felt wonderful!  So I had to ask myself, why this collective thrill at Santa's presence?  

E asy enough to answer... because people know that Santa cares.  They expect a jolly character, open arms, and a warm lap.  They trust that this white-bearded man dressed all in red will be attentive to their wants, patient with their reservations, kind in his words and gestures, and generous with his gifts.  A short visit with him grants acceptance and love and affirmation to all.  A moment in his presence lets them know they are indeed precious individuals worthy of his time.  What an honorable thing to assume the role of Santa Claus!  What a treat to have Santa's fixed attention!

U nderstanding of these facts came to me bit by bit throughout the afternoon as I did my very best to perform as people expected.  My time as Mrs. Claus passed delightfully.  My thoughts, however, continued to mull over the event even days later until I finally understood why this experience had affected me so intensely.

T  he truth—I want people to look at me the way they looked at Mrs. Santa Claus.  Is that silly?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  All I know is this: when I walk into a room full of individuals who know me presently, the response isn't nearly as delighted and good-spirited as what I experienced from those faces turned on Mrs. Claus.  Not that I don't receive smiles or kind words, but the reception is mild compared to the joyful acceptance of those who greeted Mr. & Mrs. Claus.

I  t seems I have my work cut out for me.  For it is one thing to care about people; I do care.  It's an entirely different story to have people know you care and respond to that surety.  And that is where the Claus's have taught me a valuable lesson.  And so this Christmas season I will turn over a new leaf and do more than simply feel for others.  Then perhaps, eventually, people will see in me the heart of dear Mrs. Santa Clause and naturally brighten up in my presence.

"Act like you care. Pray like you care. Speak, smile, reach out, and live like you care. The point is to make sure those in your life know beyond doubt that you do care." 

~ Richelle E. Goodrich

About Christmas

On this Christmas Eve I find much in the world to sorrow over.  But at the same time I realize that darkness hasn't overshadowed everything.  There is still an abundance of goodness performed by humanity; kind, humble acts that offer light and comfort to those who choose to see and acknowledge these sweet and quiet deeds.

It's no secret that one gift I consider dear is the magic of storytelling.  I'm inspired by how time and again the reciting of a simple tale effectively hushes a room; how it draws a smile on somber lips and adds a curious spark to the eyes of engrossed listeners.  I love stories.  I do.  And so, as a gift offering and my small addition to those things good in this world, I post this Christmas story for all to read.  

Through my window I spy the first star of the evening, and pause to make a wish upon it... a wish for worldwide longing to live peaceably, for softened hearts among all nations, and for the jolliest spirits to attend to us this Christmas season.

Be good.  Be nice.  Be happy.

About Christmas

By Richelle E. Goodrich

Dedicated to my children.

　

My identity is not important--age, gender, or ethnicity. The year and circumstances make little difference either, other than to know that it was a cold Christmas night when this miracle occurred in my life. And though the memories are distinctly mine, vivid and unforgettable as if years had never passed since their transpiring, I sincerely hope that through this retelling of events you will acquire every thread of understanding that I gained in a remarkable moment of truth.

It was cold enough to snow, yet warm enough to melt every flake that touched the ground. I sat outside, bundled in the warmest wrap I could find. Inside, the sounds of merriment tickled my ears--a celebration of Christmas among friends and family. I was missing their exchange of homemade gifts, having put no thought or effort into the task. Christmas didn’t thrill me like it seemed to for so many others. And as I sat in the darkness staring up at the twinkling aura of a particularly bright star, I wondered what it was exactly this holiday was meant for.

I pulled the wool more snugly around my shoulders as my mind considered a string of traditions practiced yearly at this time. What was the big deal about observing silly rituals? Why the extra jollity and efforts this time of year?

What was Christmas all about?

I’m not sure how to explain what happened next, only that everything seemed quite natural in its occurrence. The shimmering star that had locked my eyes upon it - a celestial light that I knew to exist far far from my world - suddenly changed perspective, appearing within my sight as if it hovered above me at an arms throw. I blinked a number of times thinking that my focus would return to normal and the star would once again hang sensibly in the heavens. But instead, every flutter of my lashes produced a change in the star that revealed with decreasing brightness a male figure centered in the light. The being was beautiful beyond description - white, radiant, and smiling down upon me. The thought occurred that I’d suffered death out in the cold and, unawares to my conscious self, had passed on to the afterlife. Was this being God?

The man’s smile broadened as if he were amused by the thoughts in my head, and I worried that he could actually read them. Anxiety made me sink lower, pulling the woolen wrap up over my hair. The blanket warmed me, and so I doubted that I was dead.

“Fear not,” the angel said in the softest voice to ever caress my ears. I assumed that he must be an angel. To think God would personally come for me was suddenly a highly-vain notion.

The man reached out his hand, and I stared at it, wondering how light appeared to radiate from every inch of his skin. It turned out he stood even closer to me than my perception gave him credit for. I blinked again, disturbed by the way distance seemed an incalculable thing in my eyes.

“Fear not,” he repeated. “Take my hand. Your prayer has been heard.”

“My prayer?” My forehead tightened at his words. I didn’t recall offering one.

Suddenly his radiant palm was pressed against my chest. “In here,” the angel explained. “He knows all your heart’s desires.”

I wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to the glowing touch of an angel or the knowledge that God actually knew me, but a warmth beyond any physical source consumed my chest. All my fears dissipated.

Again a hand was extended to me in offer, and I took hold.

As inept as I’d proven myself to be at perceiving distances, it seemed that time and travel had also elected to bewilder my senses. For I knew we were in motion, and yet my discernment was of the world revolving around me and this heavenly guide. A whirlwind of chaos encircled us, slowing within a blink to a nighttime sky. I noticed one difference among the stars, however. A brighter light shone above the others, penetrating the darkness more effectively than any star I’d ever witnessed.

“Christmas,” the angel breathed, following my gaze upward.

“This is Christmas?” I asked, wondering. “Is this what Christmas is about? A star?”

The angel smiled. “Not entirely.” He continued to look up.

“Is it about Heaven?” I asked, broadening my guess.

He flickered a glance at me with his beautiful, bright eyes. “Not entirely.”

I watched him while he watched the heavens, the two of us still holding hands, for I was afraid that if I attempted to sever our bond I might fall to the ground over which we hovered. It wasn’t my intent to gawk at him, but withdrawing my eyes proved difficult until something even more amazing than a celestial companion lured my focus upward again.

Singing, rich and harmonic and penetrating, affected me first. Such beautiful carols I’d never heard before. As my eyes swept across a choir of angels in the sky, I held my breath in awe. They were singing hymns of joyous praise.  Carols of a newborn king; the Christ child.

I listened silently, my heart affected so profoundly as to bring tears to my eyes. The whole time my guide squeezed on my hand, beaming. It wasn’t until the choir began to fade that I noticed a meager audience of sheep and shepherds gathered beneath them, witnessing what I saw.

Then suddenly we were standing amidst the shepherds, mingled among their numbers as if we were one of them. I could understand their acceptance of me, wrapped in a woolen blanket resembling their draped attire, but I knew not why my companion received no incredulous looks. Perhaps because of the messenger angel above?

“Fear not. For behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

After a final chorus of praise the angels went away. I was sad to see them go, to have their inspirational music no longer permeating the atmosphere. Naturally, I sighed at such a stark loss.

My glorious companion sighed likewise. “Ahhh, Christmas.”

I nodded. “Is that what Christmas is about? Praising the Lord in song?”

The angel smiled kindly at me. “Not entirely.”

“Is it about the message then? Is Christmas about heralding Christ’s birth?”

I was given another patient smile. “Not entirely.”

We separated from the shepherds, our feet touching the ground now, stepping along a dirt road. I felt secure enough to let go of my companion’s hand. He released my fingers readily. Our walk remained quiet; hushed but for the nocturnal sounds of herding country. I pondered the things that had transpired - the message delivered by heavenly hosts to humble, poor shepherds so willing and ready to hear. This was the first Christmas. This was Christ’s birthday. What else would Christmas be about if not Him?

I had taken a few steps beyond my angel guide when I realized he was no longer at my side. Turning back, my eyes opened up, aroused from my deep, inner reflecting. We were standing in the shadows of a lowly stable; stone and wood and straw arranged as shelter and dwelling for docile animals. A small light shone from within, sustained by a single candle. I squinted to make out two silhouettes that appeared joined. Mother and Baby.

I couldn’t help but ask, whispering, “Is that Him?”

The angel nodded, his smile tempered by reverence.

“This is the first Christmas,” I said. Making sure my understanding of events was correct.

The angel nodded again, concentrating on the newborn child.

“Christmas is about the baby, Jesus.” I declared.

The angel’s smile reappeared as a result of my certainty. “Not entirely.”

I crumpled my brow, frustrated, but a large shadow distracted my attention, appearing from the back of the stable. A man approached and knelt beside mother and child. His arm fell gently around the woman, his free hand careful to cup the babe’s head. He leaned in to kiss his wife. The picture touched my heart.

“Is Christmas about family?” I asked.

I mouthed the echoed response. “Not entirely.”

My eyes flickered from the forms beside a manger to my companion. It was strange that his brilliance didn’t light the darkness within that stable. But what hadn’t proved strange so far? I was about to question his definition of ‘entirely’ when the scuffing of collected footfall caught my ear. I twisted my neck to find strangers approaching - shepherds in rags and sandals followed by men garbed in finer, richer fabrics.

“The wise men?” I guessed.

My companion nodded.

I watched as the visitors cautiously approached, waiting for permission from the stable’s occupants to come close enough to witness the Christ child. I wanted a closer look myself and followed the others across a carpet of strewn straw. I watched the wise men kneel to place gifts at the mother’s feet. She appeared truly grateful.

“Is Christmas about gifts?” I asked. It was a holiday tradition that had lasted through the ages, to be sure.

“Not entirely.”

The mother, a pretty young woman, held up her baby for all to see. His features were reflected by candlelight. He was asleep. Adorable. He appeared so tiny and fragile, snugly wrapped in a single blanket.

“He came to save the world,” the angel told me. “To suffer and die for all of us.”

I nodded. I knew that.

“Is that what Christmas is about?” I asked. “Christ’s purpose? His suffering and death?”

There was no smile on the angel’s face when he turned to me, only gravity in his eyes. “Not entirely.”

I sighed. What in the world was Christmas about then? I thought of the few Christmases I’d celebrated in my own lifetime - gathering around family, singing carols, exchanging gifts, retelling the story of our Savior’s humble birth, rehearsing by heart the angel’s tidings of joy to the shepherds. Was this not what Christmas was about?

When the others stepped back, I knelt down before the new mother, questioning her with my eyes as to whether or not it would be okay to touch her child. She smiled with understanding and held him out to me. Her gesture offered that I might cradle him in my arms, but I couldn’t make myself do it. To hold my savior was a privilege I was unworthy to accept. I yearned to at least touch him, though. With a trembling reach I let my hand fall gently against his cheek, so soft and warm. I feared for a moment that my touch might be too cold, but the baby stirred and turned his head toward me, his little nose nuzzling in my palm. I exhaled raggedly and chuckled softly at this. My breathing stopped entirely when his eyes opened up.

He looked right at me.

I couldn’t turn away, even when my sight blurred with tears. His tiny fingers moved to wrap around my one, clasping on. Behind him I caught his mother’s smile as she assured me, “He loves you.”

I bawled like a baby at her words because I knew they were true. His life, his actions - they proved it so.
It took some time to regain my composure before I could speak again. My companion waited patiently for my eyes to dry. He was nodding before I even asked the question.

“Is Christmas about love?”

“It is.”

As my angel guide departed to take his place in the heavens, I found myself once again seated outside my own house, looking up at a shooting star. The laughter of friends and family carried from inside. Rising to go join them, wondering what the chances were that they would believe my miraculous story, I heard the truth proclaimed in the quiet; the piercing whisper of a loving Father; words I resolved that very Christmas night to abide by forever.

“For I so loved the world that I gave my only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. Love one another, even as I have loved you.”