12/24/2025
I love Christmas. So much so, I named my springtime baby “Holly.” I have always loved how everything smells like cinnamon and pine needles, how the lights make everything more romantic, how people abundantly flock to church - sometimes out of obligation, maybe out of curiosity, or nostalgia. What I love most is how the spirit of God infiltrates even the most cynical people. I have had all kinds of Christmases: overly abundant and joyful, dark and heavy. I have cried with gratitude and with longing. But you know the line - “a thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.” It gets me every time. No matter how weary I have been, hope always returns on Christmas. Hope is the choice to reframe our perspective from a place of radical joy, in the embodiment of what is most innocent in the world: a baby. It’s poetic that the hope of the world came to be in what was essentially a cave, born to a scared and brave 14 year old (theologians and historians estimate) girl. God could have done it with fireworks, and instead he chose ordinary people in difficult circumstances to bring hope and joy to weary humanity. Sometimes, God doesn’t immediately change the circumstance. It would be decades before water would turn to wine or sickness would be healed with a touch. On Christmas Day, in a dark world, angels sang because hope had come. It always, always does. So we rejoice.
Merry Christmas, I love you.