We have *really* gotten away from what Christmas is all about, and nothing makes that more clear than a conversation at a recent Sunday School class outing.
We grown-ups stayed on the fringes while our little ones... from two (mine) to eight, with several inbetween... playing in front of us.
"What do you want from Santa this year?" asked a four-year-old of the eight-year-old.
"An American Girl doll and a computer and a pink bike helmet and a goldfish," the eight-year-old ticked off on her fingers, "and clothes for my Samantha doll, and the books that go with Samantha and Nellie."
"I want..."
"I want..."
"I want..."
I want my little boy to know what Christmas Eve was like at my Granny's house when I was small. I still remember cuddling close to her soft, plump side, her arm around me with her Bible in her other hand, leaning close to get the best light from the candle that she lit just this night. The blue glass of the candle holder had the shapes of Wise Men and a star etched in it, casting those shadows on the wall to make the journey to Bethlehem as she read to our entire family... four-years-old to 70... from the gospel of Luke.
I want my little boy to know, without question, that he is loved. Not just by me, mind you. He's loved so much that Jesus left the wonders of Heaven and was born among the hay and the sheep dander and the cow patties in a stable in a village inn.
I want my little boy to go to sleep understanding what a wonderful precious choice was made that night.
I want my little boy to be secure in knowing that his mommy and daddy will never stop loving him, no matter what.
I want my little boy to really know about Christmas, the real one... the one that's hiding behind all the tinsel and glitz and sparkle and bows.
