A little boy runs to his room on Christmas eve; he climbs up into his bed and underneath the covers. He waits for sleep to claim his excited mind. And as he listens, he hears a stirring in the front room--and he knows who is there. It's the one he met on the courthouse square, wearing the red suit with the white beard. He's come into the boy's house at night. Yet there is no fear. The child is certain the stranger will leave only blessings.
Morning breaks and with wondering eyes he steps into the front room, looking under the tree. Mystery; magic fills the air. He sees it in the misty eyes of his mother and the smile of his father. He feels it in his sisters' giggles. And peace breaks-out.
Growing-up takes the magic out of Christmas. We are certain we will get our gifts because we have our place in the family or business. We buy because we know we should and enjoy doing it. But do we expect anyone to sneak into the place we live--quietly, mysteriously, impossibly--leaving blessings behind? Is there room for a pregnant virgin, or singing angels? Do we listen for Mary's song declaring justice?
Or do we think that any gift, or any good will come only because we vote for change, or work for income, or earn the love of our dear ones? Is there room for magic, mystery or spirit stuff in your adult world this Christmas?
"Unless you become like children..."