I looked for you in the lights that shined brightly on the houses. But you were not there.

I looked for you in the music that swelled and rose, with choruses of voices, strings, drums, and brass instruments. But you were not there.

I looked for you in the sentiment of holiday cards and greetings, well wishes, and gifts. But you were not there.

I looked for you in the flames of candles and roaring hearth fires. Still, I couldn’t find you.

I looked for you in the eyes of excited children, anticipating and anxious – you were not there.

I went to a church, decorated with wreaths and poinsettias. I listened for you. Watched for you. You were not in the church.

So I sat alone, in the quiet stillness. I thought of your mother, and remembered how it felt to bring life into the world. Dark and uncertain, yet blanketed with joy, and hope. And I caught a glimpse of light.

I remembered the shepherds who were first to be told of your birth. I remembered those who are forgotten and outcasts, and I saw the brightness of the light increase.

I remembered the proclamation that you would be called Wonderful Counselor, Prince of Peace. I resolved to be a vessel of that to others, and prayed for a spirit of peace over all that I knew. And I began to see the outline of your countenance. 

I knelt at the altar. I opened my hands and received the body of Christ, the bread of heaven. I drank from the cup of salvation. I prayed for thy will to be done, on earth as it is in heaven. 

I opened my eyes.

And you were there.

I could not see you, but I knew. You had come to me in the still, quiet moments to make yourself known to my heart.

In the moments of reflection, remembrance, and surrender, you arrived quietly. Unassuming. But wholly present.

“Your voice wasn’t in a bush burning. Your voice wasn’t in a rushing wind. It was still, it was small, it was hidden. You came like a winter snow. Quiet, soft and slow. Falling from the sky, in the night, to the earth below.”

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