A Christmas Story... Feeling Needed

 

It was early in the morning, three days before Christmas. I was in bed with my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more reality. I had retired to bed late the previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the house snored peacefully in the background. I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a better place with him alive. Then I’d turned off the TV and gone to bed.

Years ago when my children were young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition. But ever since my four darlings had entered puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy……no matter how many tears it cost their mother. My husband had sided with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual alone.

Still in bed, I opened my eyes and stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca. The grogginess had lifted enough for me to realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions bothered me. Sometime in the night I’d assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children. I was painfully aware of them but unable to interact with anyone. Though I stood directly in their path, they were entirely oblivious of me.

The worst part wasn’t my sudden ghostliness. Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t communicate with the ones I loved. What weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence. No one had stopped for even a second to question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of effort searching the house for me. They simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish activities each had planned for the day.

No one missed me. It was disheartening.

The fact that my entire family had opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver. I may as well have been a real ghost for as little as I was wanted. In truth, every other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family could go right on functioning without me.

My goal as a parent had always been to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent, so I had succeeded. That was good! But I felt miserable nonetheless.

Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of the fact that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.

I was jolted awake—startled upright. A glance at the clock showed I’d overslept by a couple hours. Five unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me. I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking, “Moth—er!” that had awakened me. The silence accompanying four tight stares only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared beneath my eyes.

“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking at once.

“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take me.”

“Because I can’t, Bratilda. I told you, I’m scheduled to work…”

“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”

“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”

“No, no, no way! He hasn’t done one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”

“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at the mall…”

“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed? You said you’d have it ready for my concert tonight…”

“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork concert tonight! I have that Christmas cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”

Just then, my husband squeezed his head in. “Hunny? Have you seen my car keys anywhere?”

If in reality I were to wake up and find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to function. But my dream had been wrong. My family needed me, even if I was slightly taken for granted. The truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos. Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had nothing on mine.

Copyright 2017 Richelle E.Goodrich, Making Wishes

Christmas Story in Haiku Poetry

New light in the sky
announces a sacred birth.
Shine brightly young star.

Hallelujah song
carries on a gentle wind,
heralding a king.

Shepherds lift their heads,
not to gaze at a new light
but to hear angels.

"Unto you is born

in the city of David

a Savior for all."

Born on straw at night
under low stable rafters,
Baby Jesus cried.

Sheep and goats and cows
gather 'round a manger bed
to awe at a babe.

Wise men come to see
a child of greater wisdom
and honor divine.

Rare and precious gifts,

gold and myrrh and frankincense,

to offer a king.

Mary and Joseph
huddle snugly together.
They cradle God's son.

On this wise He came,

the Son of God to the earth.

A humble wonder.

Mine's a Wonderful Life

It was early in the morning, three days before Christmas.  I was in bed with my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more reality.  I had retired to bed late the previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the house snored peacefully in the background.  I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a better place with him alive.  Then I’d turned off the TV and gone to bed. 

Years ago when my children were young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition.  But ever since my four darlings had entered puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy……no matter how many tears it cost their mother.  My husband had sided with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual alone.   

Still in bed, I opened my eyes and stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca.  The grogginess had lifted enough for me to realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions bothered me.  Sometime in the night I’d assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children.  I was painfully aware of them but unable to interact with anyone.  Though I stood directly in their path, they were entirely oblivious of me. 

The worst part wasn’t my sudden ghostliness.  Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t communicate with the ones I loved.  What weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence.  No one had stopped for even a second to question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of effort searching the house for me.  They simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish activities each had planned for the day. 

No one missed me.  It was disheartening. 

The fact that my entire family had opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver.  I may as well have been a real ghost for as little as I was wanted.  In truth, every other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family could go right on functioning without me.

My goal as a parent had always been to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent; so I had succeeded.  That was good!  But I felt miserable nonetheless. 

Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of the fact that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.

I was jolted awake—startled upright.  A glance at the clock showed I’d overslept by a couple hours.  Five unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me.  I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking, “Moth—er!” that had awakened me.  The silence accompanying four tight stares only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared beneath my eyes. 

“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking at once.

“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take me.”

“Because I can’t, Bratilda.  I told you, I’m scheduled to work…”

“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”

“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”

“No, no, no way!  He hasn’t done one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”

“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at the mall…”

“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed?  You said you’d have it ready for my concert tonight…”

“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork concert tonight!  I have that Christmas cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”

Just then, my husband squeezed his head in.  “Hunny?  Have you seen my car keys anywhere?”

If in reality I were to wake up and find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to function.  But my dream had been wrong.  My family needed me, even if I was slightly taken for granted.  The truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos.  Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had nothing on mine. 

This story is from "Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, & a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year".  

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

 

About Christmas

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

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

     Through my window I see the first star of the evening, which I pause to make a wish upon. 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. Enjoy this Christmas story.

About Christmas

-Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons

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 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, 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, 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.”