Christmas is that time of year

when children seem to light up brighter than any light on any tree. They

write thoughtful letters to Santa, picking their words like they were

picking jewels in the sand so as not to appear greedy in the eyes of the

patron of presents.

They tidy their rooms, and

conduct themselves as if some angel has plopped himself right on their

shoulders, sprinkling goodness and sweetness that seems to ooze right

out of them. Parents cast knowing glances at each other over the heads

of their bustling offspring. Everyone is joyful, relaxed, and savoring

the moment. Ah, sweet Christmas, the very essence of peace on Earth.

Bah humbug, you say? No peace

on your Earth? Are you more like a grousing Grinch or a scornful Scrooge?

Are you dashing and dancing and prancing and fixin'? Are there visions

of sugar plums in your head, or are your visions the result of some self-induced

stupor from late, late night wrapping? Have you locked yourself in your

closet to box up your gifts as little round fingers poke under the door?

So, this is Christmas.

For most of us, especially

the women folk, peace on Earth and good will toward men settles on us

sometime on Christmas day itself. It usually happens about the time the

last dish goes into the dishwasher from the dinner that took hours to

prepare, but minutes to eat. It happens about the time we settle down

for a nap, when the sound of children bouncing Nerf missiles off of downstairs

walls (and heads) is as muffled and distant as the faraway crackle of

melting snow.

At last, peace, if not on Earth,

at least in this house. The hustle and bustle winds down to a rustle,

and we finally take the time to reflect.

As parents and grandparents,

we have a perspective that our children do not. They are, quite simply,

anticipation unbridled. They are joy with no limits. It is through their

eyes that we glimpse what they see. And yet part of us longs for a simpler

time, a quieter time. We secretly yearn for a homemade holiday, a totally

non-commercialized Christmas.

We journey back in our minds

to the days when people received a gift fashioned by the loving hands

of their papas, when neighbors went caroling, and friends dropped by to

say hello, and there was always some fresh-baked goodie, still warm from

the stove, to enjoy at the kitchen table.

It's probably the hardest thing

to reconcile as an adult. We relish the antics of our children as we shuffle

them to and fro, and still we wish that they could have more by doing

less.

One day last December, our

youngest child declared the three people she loved the most, God, Jesus,

and Santa Claus. I had a great chuckle at her version of the Holy Trinity.

Our son has raised the brows

of more than a few Santas by asking for exquisite treasures like nails

and wood. The older children (we have one of those) roll their eyes at

the lengths that their own flesh and blood parents will go, but wisely

utter not a word. It's the loot that they want, and if enduring all that

parental silliness and, frankly, embarrassing behavior is what they must

do, then so be it. It is precious and memorable, all of it.

And still we feel that something

is missing. What we realize each year, when we sense that we've nearly

missed it again, is that Christmas isn't a day. It's 2000 years. It isn't

a season, it's a belief system. It's parties and pageants and gift giving,

sure. But it is ultimately something so much more.

It is simple and humble. It

is quiet and unassuming. It is the faithful obedience of a humble servant

who, when harkened by an angel sent by God, accepted with dignity and

reverence the most awesome destiny. Her name was Mary, and she bore us

a King. In a stable that night, as gentle beasts gazed on with doe-eyed

innocence, Hope was born into this world. His name was Jesus Christ, and

He was the gift of all time.

I'll have my homemade Christmas

one day. And next year I'll try harder not to lose sight of the stable.

May the peace and Hope of the world be yours this Christmas.

(Your comments are welcome:

[email protected].)