What, I wonder, is the real wonder of Christmas?
An evening walk holding a favorite mittened hand, scrunch-crunch of hard-packed snow, twinkling lights adorning porches, and through frosted windows, glowing trees.
Perfect playlist, bells on Bobtail, hark the herald, chestnuts roasting, and I’m dreaming of a silent night. Or is it white?
Tattered scrap of an index card, yellow stained and molasses splattered, Grandma’s pen. And wafting from an open oven, flood of memories in cinnamon.
Delivery truck dropping one last box from Santa’s workshop, the perfect something for a special one. Gift-wrapped in sturdy paper, tucked just so beneath the tree. To wait and see.
Stockings hung in expectation. Candles lit in Advent wreaths. Calendar countdown. Flight reservations. And they’ll be home for Christmas.
Child’s face, serious study of light reflecting single bulb inside a stable, small fingers reaching, stroking babe in manger, nudging closer, a curious sheep.
Bells ringing. Children singing. Church doors swinging. Joy to the World!
Love leaving heaven, putting on flesh, becoming human to walk among us. Seeing. Tasting. Hearing. Smelling. God reaching out through skin of Jesus. Touching. Feeling. Knowing. And showing. Glorious mystery of incarnation.
Wonder indeed.