The magic of Christmas is in the air, crisp pitter patter across crunchy snow captured in tiny white lights, sparkling messengers of hope peeking out of garlands and over tree branches.
I sit and sigh, knowing, once again, why I adore this holiday so. Mysteriously, Christmas stirs the part of my soul that always stays young, a child who never grows up. I’m sure she exists, at Christmas time! The knobby-kneed girl who gazes up at the Christmas tree in wonder.
This holiday transports me to a time long before those impressionable years of youth descended, a time when I believed…in the magic of Christmas…
in the realness of Santa…
in tiny wooden soldiers commanding toys while ballerinas swirl across wooden floors. Mystical moments when snowmen led parades of giggling girls and boys, and Rudolph’s cherry-red nose lit the path for Santa’s present-laden sleigh.
So when Christmas comes around, the anticipation of pretending builds in my chest until the magic bursts through, and pretending to be a grown up crumbles so the child inside can rush out and play.
My hubby and I drag containers out of rafters, hang sparkling lights across garlands, set up villages atop cabinets, and adorn every possibly surface with stuffed angels, bearded santas, and snow people with dancing eyes.
And I know I’m not alone. The other night, I saw my sister get on her knees and gaze at tiny people cutting down Christmas trees in the miniature scene set under our Christmas tree.
Yes, I dare to believe in the magic of Christmas, even though my adult self knows, full well, about the baby in the manger, God’s gift to us, and angels belting out a heavenly proclamation: “Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth, good will toward men.”
But then again, I think, perhaps it takes the heart of a child to believe.