The Story (Day 341/365)
The celebration of Christmas in my childhood was centered about the reason for Christmas; the birth of Jesus whose parents had traveled to Bethlehem in order to pay their taxes. Born in a stable, the tiny baby–God incarnate–was laid in a manger.
Near the town of Springfield, Mo. where I grew up, the woods were full of cedar trees, and there on someone’s property, my dad cut down our trees. We decorated them simply with colored lights, glass ornaments, silvery icicles, and angel hair.
We sat on Santa’s lap at Herr’s department store and whispered secrets into his listening ear. We bought presents for our parents at the dime store and wrapped them in white tissue paper, then proudly placed them under our treasured tree.
But we knew the real Christmas story was that one written in Luke chapter 2, and in little Christmas programs at our church we dressed as shepherds and as angels and grinned and waved as we said our parts.