Missing the miracles of Christmas
A TALE
As a girl, she often spent a portion of Christmas Eve staring out her bedroom window, seeking the star dots in the darkness of the sky.
Like most children, she eagerly awaited the visit of Santa Claus, so she didn't want to risk being at the window too long. Still, she lingered there, often until her mother told her to get into bed or Santa would not come. Even in bed, her eyes faced the window, searching the night on the other side, until her lids drooped and she fell asleep.
She wished to witness magic. She wanted to see miracles. She believed in magic and miracles. She believed in Santa and the birth of Jesus, but she wanted the thrill of seeing some sign firsthand.
Depending on her age, some years, she hoped to catch a glimpse of a jolly, round man in a sleigh being pulled by eight reindeer through the air; other years, she prayed that God would light the sky with some magnificent star or send an angel like the ones atop Nativity scenes, but a real one, to bless the Earth on Christmas Eve.
Every year, she grew up seeking the sky on Christmas Eve. If any night such a thing could happen, it would be Christmas Eve, she thought, the night when magic and the possibility of miracles seemed to radiate from every face in her family, from everyone she knew on her small part of the planet.
Yet, every year, the sky stayed the same. She never saw Santa Claus nor did she see the light of an angel. She still believed in magic and miracles, but she awoke a little more disappointed with every Christmas morning as the years passed.
By the time she had become a young woman, she had moved away from home. She had found a job in a town far away from her family. Magic and miracles faded from her life as she made her away alone in the world. At Christmastime, she was unable to make it home. Many of her colleagues had family in town, but she decided to stay at her little apartment.
As Christmas Eve lingered and she tired of the holiday shows on TV, she turned off the lights and stared at the sky through her apartment window. She smiled briefly as she recalled her little girl hopes of seeing magic and miracles dash before her eyes. She had no expectations of seeing either this year, but she stayed at the window a while longer.
Then, a bright light shined through the window. So bright, the light momentarily blinded her in the darkness of the apartment. Blinking, she realized the light had come from a car's headlights pulling into her driveway.
Several dark shapes lingered around the car's open doors and trunk, and then a knock sounded at her door.
At the door, she discovered her younger brother holding presents. Behind him, her mother carried food and her father wrestled a Christmas tree from the trunk of the car. As her family piled into her apartment for an unexpected Christmas visit, apologizing for not calling first, explaining that traffic had kept them from arriving earlier, she finally understood.
Magic and miracles had been around her throughout her life, on Christmas Eves and Christmas mornings and every day and night in between.
Miracles and magic were in the sky she had searched, the breath on the glass, the hopes and wishes in her head and heart. They existed in the moon that shined above the treetops and the sun that rose every day.
Miracles fluttered in the yellowing grass of winter, which would be green again come spring, and magic wavered across the sky as easily as a plane bringing travelers home for the holidays.
Miracles existed in the love of family and magic bloomed in the joy of their presence.
And a miracle lived in the promise of a birth some 2,000 years ago in a small town more than half a world away. A magical gift of miraculous hope that everything would be all right, no matter the darkness of night, or the despair of loneliness, if only people could open their eyes and see the miracles that surround them every minute, of every day, and did not lose faith or sight.
As her family settled into makeshift beds on couches and chairs, she stared out her window once more. She gave a thankful prayer, staring into the tranquil stillness of the stars. Her mother whispered for her to go to sleep or Santa wouldn't come, and the woman closed her eyes and smiled at the comforting magic of those words.
Dean Poling is an editor with The Valdosta Daily Times.
A TALE
As a girl, she often spent a portion of Christmas Eve staring out her bedroom window, seeking the star dots in the darkness of the sky.
Like most children, she eagerly awaited the visit of Santa Claus, so she didn't want to risk being at the window too long. Still, she lingered there, often until her mother told her to get into bed or Santa would not come. Even in bed, her eyes faced the window, searching the night on the other side, until her lids drooped and she fell asleep.
She wished to witness magic. She wanted to see miracles. She believed in magic and miracles. She believed in Santa and the birth of Jesus, but she wanted the thrill of seeing some sign firsthand.
Depending on her age, some years, she hoped to catch a glimpse of a jolly, round man in a sleigh being pulled by eight reindeer through the air; other years, she prayed that God would light the sky with some magnificent star or send an angel like the ones atop Nativity scenes, but a real one, to bless the Earth on Christmas Eve.
Every year, she grew up seeking the sky on Christmas Eve. If any night such a thing could happen, it would be Christmas Eve, she thought, the night when magic and the possibility of miracles seemed to radiate from every face in her family, from everyone she knew on her small part of the planet.
Yet, every year, the sky stayed the same. She never saw Santa Claus nor did she see the light of an angel. She still believed in magic and miracles, but she awoke a little more disappointed with every Christmas morning as the years passed.
By the time she had become a young woman, she had moved away from home. She had found a job in a town far away from her family. Magic and miracles faded from her life as she made her away alone in the world. At Christmastime, she was unable to make it home. Many of her colleagues had family in town, but she decided to stay at her little apartment.
As Christmas Eve lingered and she tired of the holiday shows on TV, she turned off the lights and stared at the sky through her apartment window. She smiled briefly as she recalled her little girl hopes of seeing magic and miracles dash before her eyes. She had no expectations of seeing either this year, but she stayed at the window a while longer.
Then, a bright light shined through the window. So bright, the light momentarily blinded her in the darkness of the apartment. Blinking, she realized the light had come from a car's headlights pulling into her driveway.
Several dark shapes lingered around the car's open doors and trunk, and then a knock sounded at her door.
At the door, she discovered her younger brother holding presents. Behind him, her mother carried food and her father wrestled a Christmas tree from the trunk of the car. As her family piled into her apartment for an unexpected Christmas visit, apologizing for not calling first, explaining that traffic had kept them from arriving earlier, she finally understood.
Magic and miracles had been around her throughout her life, on Christmas Eves and Christmas mornings and every day and night in between.
Miracles and magic were in the sky she had searched, the breath on the glass, the hopes and wishes in her head and heart. They existed in the moon that shined above the treetops and the sun that rose every day.
Miracles fluttered in the yellowing grass of winter, which would be green again come spring, and magic wavered across the sky as easily as a plane bringing travelers home for the holidays.
Miracles existed in the love of family and magic bloomed in the joy of their presence.
And a miracle lived in the promise of a birth some 2,000 years ago in a small town more than half a world away. A magical gift of miraculous hope that everything would be all right, no matter the darkness of night, or the despair of loneliness, if only people could open their eyes and see the miracles that surround them every minute, of every day, and did not lose faith or sight.
As her family settled into makeshift beds on couches and chairs, she stared out her window once more. She gave a thankful prayer, staring into the tranquil stillness of the stars. Her mother whispered for her to go to sleep or Santa wouldn't come, and the woman closed her eyes and smiled at the comforting magic of those words.
Dean Poling is an editor with The Valdosta Daily Times.
