Heavenly Christmas Quotes

If I had a girl I should say to her, 'Marry for love if you can, it won't last, but it is a very interesting experience and makes a good beginning in life. Later on, when you marry for money, for heaven's sake let it be big money. There are no other possible reasons for marrying at all.

Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence.

This boy turkied my Thanksgiving, but I won't let him Grinch my Christmas. -Dean Hughes (Midway to Heaven)

In those days, Christmas still retained a certain aura of magic and mystery. The powdery light of winter, the hopeful expressions of people who lived among shadows and silence, lent that setting a slight air of promise in which at least children and those who had learned the art of forgetting could still believe.

Fail not to call to mind, in the course of the twenty-fifth of this month, that the Divinest Heart that ever walked the earth was born on that day; and then smile and enjoy yourselves for the rest of it; for mirth is also of Heaven's making.

The Advent season is a season of waiting, but our whole life is an Advent season, that is, a season of waiting for the last Advent, for the time when there will be a new heaven and a new earth.

Christmas, when observed with the right spirit, still has the power to call miracles from Heaven to Earth.

Because the best gift in life, is just having someone to drink hot chocolate with

And when that happens, I know it. A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. That is why, walking across a school campus on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying towards heaven.

Magnus didn’t look at her; he was looking down at the tent, where Clary sat talking with Tessa, where Alec stood side by side with Maia and Bat, laughing, where Isabelle and Simon were dancing to the music Jace was playing on the piano, the haunting sweet notes of Chopin reminding him of another time, and the sound of a violin at Christmas.

The gift of the Sabbath must be treasured. Blessed are you who honour this day.

The Frays had never been a religiously observant family, but Clary loved Fifth Avenue at Christmas time. The air smelled like sweet roasted chestnuts, and the window displays sparkled with silver and blue, green and red. This year there were fat round crystal snowflakes attached to each lamppost, sending back the winter sunlight in shafts of gold. Not to mention the huge tree at Rockefeller Center. It threw its shadow across them as she and Simon draped themselves over the gate at the side of the skating rink, watching tourists fall down as they tried to navigate the ice. Clary had a hot chocolate wrapped in her hands, the warmth spreading through her body. She felt almost normal—this, coming to Fifth to see the window displays and the tree, had been a winter tradition for her and Simon for as long as she could remember. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” he said, echoing her thoughts as he propped his chin on his folded arms. She chanced a sideways look at him. He was wearing a black topcoat and scarf that emphasized the winter pallor of his skin. His eyes were shadowed, indicating that he hadn’t fed on blood recently. He looked like what he was—a hungry, tired vampire. Well, she thought. Almost like old times. “More people to buy presents for,” she said. “Plus, the always traumatic what-to-buy-someone-for-the-first-Christmas-after-you’ve-started-dating question.” “What to get the Shadowhunter who has everything,” Simon said with a grin. “Jace mostly likes weapons,” Clary sighed. “He likes books, but they have a huge library at the Institute. He likes classical music …” She brightened. Simon was a musician; even though his band was terrible, and was always changing their name—currently they were Lethal Soufflé—he did have training. “What would you give someone who likes to play the piano?” “A piano.” “Simon.” “A really huge metronome that could also double as a weapon?” Clary sighed, exasperated. “Sheet music. Rachmaninoff is tough stuff, but he likes a challenge.” “Now you’re talking. I’m going to see if there’s a music store around here.” Clary, done with her hot chocolate, tossed the cup into a nearby trash can and pulled her phone out. “What about you? What are you giving Isabelle?” “I have absolutely no idea,” Simon said. They had started heading toward the avenue, where a steady stream of pedestrians gawking at the windows clogged the streets. “Oh, come on. Isabelle’s easy.” “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” Simon’s brows drew together. “I think. I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it. The relationship, I mean.” “You really have to DTR, Simon.” “What?” “Define the relationship. What it is, where it’s going. Are you boyfriend and girlfriend, just having fun, ‘it’s complicated,’ or what? When’s she going to tell her parents? Are you allowed to see other people?” Simon blanched. “What? Seriously?” “Seriously. In the meantime—perfume!” Clary grabbed Simon by the back of his coat and hauled him into a cosmetics store that had once been a bank. It was massive on the inside, with rows of gleaming bottles everywhere. “And something unusual,” she said, heading for the fragrance area. “Isabelle isn’t going to want to smell like everyone else. She’s going to want to smell like figs, or vetiver, or—” “Figs? Figs have a smell?” Simon looked horrified; Clary was about to laugh at him when her phone buzzed. It was her mother. where are you? It’s an emergency.

Buckley followed the three of them into the kitchen and asked, as he had at least once a day, “Where’s Susie?” They were silent. Samuel looked at Lindsey. “Buckley,” my father called from the adjoining room, “come play Monopoly with me.” My brother had never been invited to play Monopoly. Everyone said he was too young, but this was the magic of Christmas. He rushed into the family room, and my father picked him up and sat him on his lap. “See this shoe?” my father said. Buckley nodded his head. “I want you to listen to everything I say about it, okay?” “Susie?” my brother asked, somehow connecting the two. “Yes, I’m going to tell you where Susie is.” I began to cry up in heaven. What else was there for me to do? “This shoe was the piece Susie played Monopoly with,” he said. “I play with the car or sometimes the wheelbarrow. Lindsey plays with the iron, and when you mother plays, she likes the cannon.” “Is that a dog?” “Yes, that’s a Scottie.” “Mine!” “Okay,” my father said. He was patient. He had found a way to explain it. He held his son in his lap, and as he spoke, he felt Buckley’s small body on his knee-the very human, very warm, very alive weight of it. It comforted him. “The Scottie will be your piece from now on. Which piece is Susie’s again?” “The shoe?” Buckley asked. “Right, and I’m the car, your sister’s the iron, and your mother is the cannon.” My brother concentrated very hard. “Now let’s put all the pieces on the board, okay? You go ahead and do it for me.” Buckley grabbed a fist of pieces and then another, until all the pieces lay between the Chance and Community Chest cards. “Let’s say the other pieces are our friends?” “Like Nate?” “Right, we’ll make your friend Nate the hat. And the board is the world. Now if I were to tell you that when I rolled the dice, one of the pieces would be taken away, what would that mean?” “They can’t play anymore?” “Right.” “Why?” Buckley asked. He looked up at my father; my father flinched. “Why?” my brother asked again. My father did not want to say “because life is unfair” or “because that’s how it is”. He wanted something neat, something that could explain death to a four-year-old He placed his hand on the small of Buckley’s back. “Susie is dead,” he said now, unable to make it fit in the rules of any game. “Do you know what that means?” Buckley reached over with his hand and covered the shoe. He looked up to see if his answer was right. My father nodded. "You won’t see Susie anymore, honey. None of us will.” My father cried. Buckley looked up into the eyes of our father and did not really understand. Buckley kept the shoe on his dresser, until one day it wasn't there anymore and no amount of looking for it could turn up.

Noble disappointment, noble self-denial are not to be admired, not even to be pardoned, if they bring bitterness. It is one thing to enter the kingdom of heaven maim; another to maim yourself and stay without.

You are never so lost that your angels cannot find you.

If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race," returned the Ghost, "will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population." Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief. "Man," said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!

When I try to picture heaven, I see a place where it's always December, every radio station plays hair bands, and every time I check my pockets they're full of Hershey's Kisses. There's a Christmas parade on every street, every day is my birthday, and the sun always sets at 4:58 p.m.

There are some doubters even in the western villages. One woman told me last Christmas that she did not believe either in hell or in ghosts. Hell she thought was merely an invention got up by the priest to keep people good; and ghosts would not be permitted, she held, to go 'trapsin about the earth' at their own free will; 'but there are faeries,' she added, 'and little leprechauns, and water-horses, and fallen angels.' I have met also a man with a mohawk Indian tattooed upon his arm, who held exactly similar beliefs and unbeliefs. No matter what one doubts one never doubts the faeries, for, as the man with the mohawk Indian on his arm said to me, 'they stand to reason.' Even the official mind does not escape this faith. ("Reason and Unreason")

She could hear his words ringing in her ears like an air raid siren. “Father’s asked me to accompany a sick soldier home. I would leave tomorrow but be back by Christmas.” Who was this Airman Ralph Jacobs? And why now? Why Dick, for heaven’s sakes? The man was shot down in Italy. Wasn’t that Sly and Bobby’s territory? Wasn’t it Harry’s? Maybe that’s what Annie had heard. So instead of using Sly, they dumped the duty onto Dick.

Take Christmas away, and in biblical terms you lose two chapters at the front of Matthew and Luke, nothing else. Take Easter away, and you don’t have a New Testament; you don’t have a Christianity; as Paul says, you are still in your sins.

One foggy night I was walking the dogs down the lane and heard the geese, very close overhead, calling, calling, their marvellous strange cry, as they flew by. I think that is what our own best prayer must sound like when we send it up to heaven.

may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry

Great and terrible was the year of Our Lord 1918, of the Revolution the second. Its summer abundant with warmth and sun, its winter and snow, highest in its heaven stood two stars: the shepherds' star, eventide Venus; and Mars- quivering, red. But in days of blood and of peace the years fly like an arrow and the thick frost of a hoary white December, season of Christmas trees, Santa Claus, joy and glittering snow, overtook the young Turbins unawares. For the reigning head of the family, their adored mother, was no longer with them.

Man," said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!

On his back, Robert must have had time to see something beautiful, and not just the ugliness of a city street at the end of life. Even with the tremendous pain in his badly gutted belly he would have looked up beyond the fire escapes and the windows with their glittery trees and television glows, to the sky about the rooftops. A sky shimmery with the possibilities of the death; lights exaggerated, the heavens peeled back- a swirling haze of nebulae and comets - in some distant place, intimations of the new beginning into which he would soon journey

Three persons of the Trinity – Father God, Jesus Christ, and Holy Spirit – gathered close together to imagine you. And God in three persons, uncontainable affection, knelt down and kissed warm life into you with the breath of his love. You are made of dust of this earth and you are made of the happiness of heaven, and you are flesh and you are spirit, and you are of two worlds longing for the home of forever and him. No matter your story before, this is your beginning now: you were formed by Love…for love.

Long before silver bells jingled, Christmas lights twinkled, and horse-drawn sleighs went dashing through the snow, God reached down from heaven with the best gift of all. Love, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Hope, nestled in a manger.

It was Christmas Eve. Big snowflakes fluttered slowly through the air like white feathers and made all of the Heavenly Valley smooth and white and quiet and beautiful. Tall fir trees stood up to their knees in snow and their outstretched hands were heaped with it. Those that were bare of leaves wore soft white fur on their scrawny, reaching arms and all the stumps and low bushes had been turned into fat white cupcakes.

Look up, you whose gaze is fixed on this earth, who are spellbound by the little events and changes on the face of the earth. Look up to these words, you who have turned away from heaven disappointed. Look up, you whose eyes are heavy with tears and who are heavy and who are crying over the fact that the earth has gracelessly torn us away. Look up, you who, burdened with guilt, cannot lift your eyes. Look up, your redemption is drawing near. something different from what you see daily will happen. Just be aware, be watchful, wait just another short moment. Wait and something quite new will break over you: God will come.

And yet that water went only where the Lord directed it. He sent it from the heavens. He poured it into the oceans. He carved those rivers and streams with the tip of His finger. That same finger had carved her into who she was, able to receive that same life.

For Heaven’s sake, Adrian, do you think Intelligence consists of unassailable philosophical truths? Does every priest have to prove that Christ was born on Christmas Day?

Let heaven intrude upon our earthly affairs to rip our attentions from the world to you again.

It was absolute heaven, with the fire flickering and the candles burning steadily while the rain drummed on the old windowpanes.

Christmas is a powerful reminder that what is important in heaven is often unimportant on earth.

We all know Christmas is about the Infant Child, what he brings to our lives, what he offers to our hearts. We know this, but we live as if he hadn't been born in that manger so long ago. We live as if the Christ child hadn't exchanged heaven for a manger - for you and for me.

He who carved the edges of the cosmos curved Himself into a fetal ball in the dark, tethered Himself to the uterine wall of a virgin, and lets His cells divide, light splitting all white. He gave up the heavens that were not even large enough to contain Him and lets Himself be held in a hand. The mystery so large becomes the Baby so small, and infinite God becomes infant.

We love Christmas presents but not Christ; Easter baskets but not crosses. We want to tell our friends with cancer that we will pray for them (we don’t) and our puddle-eyed children that their goldfish have gone to heaven (doubtful). When we lose our jobs we want to take comfort in the idea that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, but really, how can we? We have absolutely no idea what God has given us or what it might be for. We haven’t talked to Him in ages.

Isn’t that the way life goes? Just when everything seems perfect and nothing could possibly go wrong, then, boom, you’re tossed onto your butt, wondering what in the name of heaven happened.

While other creeds endeavor to get us out of the world and into heaven, in Christianity, heaven comes down and Christ comes into this world to get us. To suffer with us. We find favor —only because Christ feels pain.

Born in a stable, cradled in a manger, He came forth from heaven to live on earth as mortal man and to establish the kingdom of God. During His earthly ministry, He taught men the higher law. His glorious gospel reshaped the thinking of the world. He blessed the sick. He caused the lame to walk, the blind to see, the deaf to hear. He even raised the dead to life. To us He has said, ‘Come, follow me.’ As we seek Christ, as we find Him, as we follow Him, we shall have the Christmas spirit, not for one fleeting day each year, but as a companion always. We shall learn to forget ourselves. We shall turn our thoughts to the greater benefit of others.

I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!” Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. “The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this!

To belong to a clan, to a tight group of people allied by blood and loyalties and the mutual ownership of closeted skeletons. To see the family vices and virtues in a dozen avatars instead of in two or three. To know always, whether you were in Little Rock or Menton, that there was one place to which you belonged and to which you would return. To have that rush of sentimental loyalty at the sound of a name, to love and know a single place, from the newest baby-squall on the street to the blunt cuneiform of the burial ground . . . Those were the things that not only his family, but thousands of Americans had missed. The whole nation had been footloose too long, Heaven had been just over the next range for too many generations. Why remain in one dull plot of earth when Heaven was reachable, was touchable, was just over there? The whole race was like the fir tree in the fairy-tale which wanted to be cut sown and dressed up with lights and bangles and colored paper, and see the world and be a Christmas tree. Well, he said, thinking of the closed banks, the crashed market that had ruined thousands and cut his father’s savings in half, the breadlines in the cities, the political jawing and the passing of the buck. Well, we’ve been a Christmas tree, and now we’re in the back yard and how do we like it?

I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!” Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. “The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. O Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas-time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees!

I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!” Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. “The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob; on my knees!

Christ was born in Bethlehem as Heaven sang with joy. Roaming shepherds came to see the Infant, swaddled boy. Several wisemen sought him out, Traveling from afar. Mary wondered, looking skyward At a bright, new star. Sacred was the Christ child's birth. Sacred is CHRISTMAS.

Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief. "Man," said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!

I think how heavenly it must be to nibble on tiny cakes and swirled caramels and plum ginger puffs all day. Tea with lemon petit fours in the afternoon; after-dinner mint truffles with butterscotch coffee in the evening. My mind swims with the notion of it. The easy, sugar-induced lull that would follow me into candy-tinted dreams each night. Life here, in Valentine's Town, would surely be simple and uncomplicated.

Christmas was largely ignored in my heaven. Some people dressed all in white and pretended they were snowflakes, but other than that, nothing.

The sacredness of Christmas: glory to God in the highest holy heavens, peace on earth and goodwill to all people.

Paradise is not something that we create. Rather, it is something that we find.

This wasn’t a big deal among most of the world, but it was a big deal in heaven.

Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh

And for those like Norma and Macky, born and raised in the forties and fifties, it was such a drastic change from that era when everyone felt safe, and your only knowledge of the Middle East was a picture on a Christmas card of a bright star shining down on a peaceful manger, not the place full of hate and rage they saw daily on the television and read about in the newspapers.

continually amazed at just how many skills and crafts could go into making “a lovely home”—the patchwork quilts you could sew, the curtains you could ruffle, the cucumbers you could pickle, the rhubarb you could make into jam, the icing-sugar decorations you could create for your Christmas cake—which you were supposed to make in September at the latest (for heaven’s sake)—and at the same time remember to plant your indoor bulbs so they would also be ready for “the festive season,” and it just went on and on, every month a list of tasks that would have defeated Hercules and that was without the everyday preparation of meals,

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way — in

Christmas is about God's doing whatever it takes to be with us-and our doing whatever it takes to be with Him. He climbed down from the throne in heaven to get to you. Climb over the throes of Christmas to get to Him.

Man,” said the Ghost, “if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!

It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust

Go back to that night when Divine Light, in order to illumine the darkness of men, tabernacled Himself in the world He had made… The angels and a star caught up in the reflection of that Light, as a torch lighted by a torch, and passed it on to the watchers of sheep and the searchers of skies. And lo! As the shepherds watched their flocks about the hills of Bethlehem, they were shaken by the light of the angels And lo! As wise men from beyond the land of Media and Persia searched the heavens, the brilliance of a star, like a tabernacle lamp in the sanctuary of God’s creation, beckoned them on to the stable where the star seemed to lose its light in the unearthly brilliance of the Light of the Word.

MR. BONES KNEW THAT WILLY WASN'T LONG FOR THIS WORLD. The cough had been inside him for over six months, and by now there wasn't a chance in hell that he would ever get rid of it. Slowly and inexorably, without once taking a turn for the better, the thing had assumed a life of its own, advancing from a faint, phlegm-filled rattle in the lungs on February third to the wheezy sputum-jigs and gobby convulsions of high summer. All that was bad enough, but in the past two weeks a new tonality had crept into the bronchial music - something tight and flinty and percussive - and the attacks came now so often as to be almost constant. Every time one of them started, Mr. Bones half expected Willy's body to explode from the rockets of pressure bursting agaisnt his rib cage. He figured that blood would be the next step and when that fatal moment finally occurred on Saturday afternoon, it was as if all the angels in heaven had opened their mouths and started to sing. Mr. Bones saw it happen with his own eyes, standing by the edge of the road between Washington and Baltimore as Willy hawked up a few miserable clots of red matter into his handkerchief, and right then and there he knew that every ounce of hope was gone. The smell of death had settled upon Willy G. Christmas, and as surely as the sun was a lamp in the clouds that went off and on everyday, the end was drawing near. What was a poor dog to do? Mr. Bones had been with Willy since his earliest days as a pup, and by now it was next to impossible to imagine a world that did not have his master in it. Every thought, every memory, every particle of the earth and air was saturated with Willy's presence. Habits die hard, and no doubt there's some truth to the adage about old dogs and new tricks, but it was more than just love or devotion that caused Mr. Bones to dread what was coming. It was pure ontological terror. Substract Willy from the world, and the odds were that the world itself would cease to exist.

Is it really ten ladies dancing?" Lillian asked him, and Swift grinned. "My lady, I've never been able to remember any part of that song." "You know," Annabelle said contemplatively, "I've always understood why the swans are swimming and the geese are a-laying. But why in heaven's name are the lords a-leaping?" "They're chasing after the ladies," Swift said reasonably. "Actually I believe the song was referring to Morris dancers, who used to entertain between courses at long medieval feasts," Daisy informed them. "And it was a leaping sort of dance?" Lillian asked, intrigued. "Yes, with longswords, after the manner of primitive fertility rites." "A well-read woman is a dangerous creature," Swift commented with a grin, leaning down to press his lips against Daisy's dark hair.

I buy an ice-cream sandwich at the Stop-N-Go on my way home. The taste takes me back to childhood. Back when life was dreaming about things to come and believing that if you really wanted something bad enough, it could and would be yours. I remember praying for a bike for Christmas, and there it was. We prayed for Minnie's gerbil to live and it did. Later, in high school, I asked God for guidance about where to go to college, and that very day, like a kite floating straight from heaven, the acceptance letter came from UNC-Charlotte.

There has always been philosophical speculation on the question, What if there were no God? Keller thinks as he walks through the slush. But no one has really asked, much less answered, the question, What if there were no Satan? The answer to the former is that there would be chaos in heaven and on earth. But the answer to the latter is that there would be chaos in hell—all the lesser demons would be set loose in an amoral struggle to become the new Prince of Darkness. The fight for heaven is one thing. The fight for hell … If God is dead, and so is Satan, well … Merry Christmas.

Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be that in the sight of Heaven you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. O God! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!” Scrooge

It's weird not being in our subculture of two any more. There was Jen's culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she'd already learnt she loved before we met me. Chorizo and Jonathan Franken and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the works absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. Chicken bhuna, strange-looking cats and always having squash or cans of soft drinks in the house. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, friend eggs, ten hours' sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. Never missing dental check-ups. Sister Sledge (my mum). Watching TV even if the weather is nice. Cadbury's Caramel. John and Paul and George and Ringo. And then we met and fell in love and we introduced each other to all of it, like children showing each other their favourite toys. The instinct never goes - look at my fire engine, look at my vinyl collection. Look at all these things I've chosen to represent who I am. It was fun to find out about each other's self-made cultures and make our own hybrid in the years of eating, watching, reading, listening, sleeping and living together. Our culture was tea drink from very large mugs. And looking forward to the Glastonbury ticket day and the new season of Game of Thrones and taking the piss out of ourselves for being just like everyone else. Our culture was over-tipping in restaurants because we both used to work in the service industry, salty popcorn at the cinema and afternoon naps. Side-by-side morning sex. Home-made Manhattans. Barmade Manhattans (much better). Otis Redding's "Cigarettes and Coffee" (our song). Discovering a new song we both loved and listening to it over and over again until we couldn't listen to it any more. Period dramas on a Sunday night. That one perfect vibrator that finished her off in seconds when we were in a rush. Gravy. David Hockney. Truffle crisps. Can you believe it? I still can't believe it. A smell indisputably reminiscent of bums. On a crisp. And yet we couldn't get enough of them together - stuffing them in our gobs, her hand on my chest, me trying not to get crumbs in her hair as we watched Sense and Sensibility (1995). But I'm not a member of that club anymore. No one is. It's been disbanded, dissolved, the domain is no longer valid. So what do I do with all its stuff? Where so I put it all? Where do I take all my new discoveries now I'm no longer a tribe of two? And if I start a new sub-genre of love with someone else, am I allowed to bring in all the things I loved from the last one? Or would that be weird? Why do I find this so hard?

Man," said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child.

Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in! ‘I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!’ Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. ‘The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this.’” “Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset.” “And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!

A SAVIOR IS BORN Psalm 8:9 (ESV) O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!   REFLECTION On this night, shepherds were doing what they always did, keeping an eye on Bethlehem’s sheep through the night. But everything was about to change, as heaven opened and the angel of the Lord appeared to them and declared that Jesus had been born nearby. What irony. The sheep these shepherds were raising would be sacrificed just a few miles down the road on Jerusalem’s altar. Yet the shepherds themselves could not enter the temple to worship even if they wanted to. Because of their profession, they were ceremonially unclean. They were outcasts in the very worship that their hands made possible. Yet, God chose the shepherds to receive the greatest news ever heard. God came to them because He knew the shepherds couldn’t make it to church. What does that say about the Gospel? What does it say about you? This magnificent night says that grace meets you where you are, and saves you while you cannot do a thing to save yourself. Tonight, celebrate that Christ has come. Not to a mansion, but a manger. Not to the high and mighty, but to the guys on the lowest rung of the spiritual ladder. And celebrate that God’s grace finds you wherever you are this Christmas and shows you the way upwards to the arms of Almighty God. MEDITATION FOR CHRISTMAS EVE

An awful lot of hokum is talked about love, you know. An importance is ascribed to it that is entirely at variance with fact. People talk as though it were self-evidently the greatest of human values. Nothing is less self-evident. Until Plato dressed his sentimental sensuality in a captivating literary form the ancient world laid no more stress on it than was sensible; the healthy realism of the Muslims has never looked upon it as anything but a physical need; it was Christianity, buttressing its emotional claims with neo-Platonism, that made it into the end an aim, the reason, the justification of life. But Christianity was the religion of slaves. It offered the weary and the heavy-laden heaven to compensate them in the future for their misery in this world and the opiate of love to enable them to bear it in the present. And like every drug it enervated and destroyed those who became subject to it. For two thousand years it's suffocated us. It's weakened our wills and lessened our courage. In this modern world we live in we know that almost everything is more important to us than love, we know that only the soft and the stupid allow it to affect their actions, and yet we pay it a foolish lip-service. In books, on the stage, in the pulpit, on the platform the same old sentimental rubbish is talked that was used to hoodwink the slaves of Alexandria.

The lenses of telescopes and cameras can no more cover the breadth and scale of the visual array than language can cover the breadth and simultaneity of internal experience. Lenses enlarge the sight, omit its context, and make of it a pretty and sensible picture, like something on a Christmas card. I assure you, if you send any shepherds a Christmas card on which is printed a three-by-three photograph of the angel of the Lord, the glory of the Lord, and a multitude of the heavenly host, they will not be sore afraid. More fearsome things can come in envelopes. More moving photographs than those of the sun’s corona can appear in magazines. But I pray you will never see anything more awful in the sky.

Actually, I sometimes think there is something very Jesus-like about Charlie Brown—his heartbreaking patience, his endless suffering. You have to admit the show would have a very different ending if, after he and Linus bought the sad little Christmas tree, the other kids in the Peanuts gang came after them with a hammer and some nails. The thing that contains the burning incense in a Catholic church is called a thurible. The rising smoke is supposed to symbolize the prayers of believers rising up to heaven. The word incense comes from a Greek word. Originally it meant sacrifice. It’s no wonder one of the Magi brought it as a gift. Gold and myrrh were powerful presents, I’m sure. But the king who brought frankincense

That wintry night, a child was born, swaddled with light and hay to adorn, through divine intervention, and a woman pure. And Heaven Rejoiced! He lived as a man to die for His creation, to shed His Blood as an offering and render us clean, to claim us back unto Himself as One in God our Creator, One God in all men, and to all men their God. At this, Heaven cried ' Accomplished'! He resurrected and ascended for which Heaven trumpeted 'Restored'! And now Heaven plans this banquet called 'Many Called-Few Chosen' for the time ripe for Him to come again to sweep His bride off her feet, sealed with His Blood and garment divine, for her to live and reign with Him forever. So this is the Christmas Story, the story of Jesus Divine!

If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race,'' returned the Ghost, "will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.'' Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief. "Man,'' said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!

A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. That is why, walking across a school campus on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven.

Elsa held her children’s hands. They stood on the muddy bank and looked up to the bright heavens and sang hymns and Christmas songs, and by the end, none of them cared that the local churches denied them entry or that their clothes were ragged and dirty or that Christmas dinner would be small. They found strength in each other. Elsa and Jean looked at each other as they sang the words be unbroken.

And from that time to this the din of war is still going on, and they are in the thick of it. The carnage of their battles, the hatreds of their civil contests, are terrible to us when we think of them; but may it not be that the beneficient power of Heaven, which they acknowledge as we do, is thus cleansing their land from that stain of slavery, to abolish which no human power seemed to be sufficient?

Because of Bethlehem, I have a Savior in heaven. Christmas begins what Easter celebrates. The child in the cradle became the King on the cross. And because he did, there are no marks on my record. Just grace. His offer has no fine print. He didn’t tell me, “Clean up before you come in.” He offered, “Come in and I’ll clean you up.” It’s not my grip on him that matters but his grip on me. And his grip is sure.

The picture Sophie had made, sitting in a faded brown velvet dress at the table—her dark hair gathered sleekly at her nape, her soft voice a low caress in Vim’s mind as she’d spoken to the child—had been an image of heaven. And then the feel of her… No hesitance, no remonstrance for reappearing uninvited, nothing but her arms lashed around him in welcome, and those dangerous, wonderful words: I missed you. “These

The desire and the effort to give to the Lord, born of the surrender of man to the plan of salvation, stamp every Christmas gift with genuine value. They who identify themselves with the plan, who do not resist it, who earnestly seek to tread the path of the plan, are true givers to the Lord, and their gifts to men come with the flavor of heaven. The Lord and his plan must have place in our Christmas celebration.

Did the Toyon not see that he, too, had been born like the others—with bright, open eyes, in which heaven and earth were reflected, and with a pure heart which was ready to hearken to all that was beautiful in the world. And if he longed now to hide his miserable and shameful self underground, it was no fault of his, nor did he know whose fault it was. The one thing he knew was that there was no patience left in his heart.

Man," said the Ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!

Man,' said the Ghost, 'if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be that, in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. O God! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!

Man,” said the Ghost, “if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Oh God! To hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust.

At Christmastime, the whole Christian world stands still to celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Christmas cannot be cut out of the calendar nor out of the heart of the world — it is the supreme festive season of mirth and gladness. Love for God and one another should be the Christmas theme. Such was the divine announcement by the heavenly host that first heralded the good tidings of great joy, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.

CHRISTMAS FUSS IN BARBADOS IN THE 70’S Ginger immersed in the brewed sorrel was always tempting. There was also the aroma of the red English apples on the table, and ripe golden apples smelling heavenly. The smell of the new cloth, from the curtains reminded us that it was Christmas. There was also the smell of the oil skin tablecloth on our varnished table, the smell of new sheets on our bed, and not forgetting the smell of the big shaddock which sat in the center of the table.

I wonder if, like newborn children, we go through our entire lives looking for a face, longing for a particular gaze that calms and fills us, that loves and welcomes us, that recognizes and runs to greet us. Is that perhaps what this day, Christmas, is all about? It is an imponderable thought that the Giver of Faces, the face of heaven itself, the face for which every heart yearns, became a wee babe, misty eyed and helpless, looking Himself for the tender face of His mother on the night of the angels.

On Mure, midwinter had been celebrated long, long before the Christians had arrived in the northern lands; way back as long as there had even been people, they had marked with standing stones the position of the heavens, and the changing of the seasons, and the very centre of the dark. Midwinter is a far deeper, wilder magic than Christmas. It began before religious divisions and is older than religion itself, beyond nativities or other portrayals. Midwinter is a human concern rooted in the earth and the body, not the heavens and the soul.

I am no longer my own, but thine. Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt. Put me to doing, put me to suffering. Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee, exalted for thee or brought low for thee. Let me be full, let me be empty. Let me have all things, let me have nothing. I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal. And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, thou art mine, and I am thine. So be it. And the covenant which I have made on earth, let it be ratified in heaven. Amen.

was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way — in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

You are a thoughtless person with no consideration for the feelings of others. Your best quality is someday you’re gonna die. If you were a planet in the solar system among millions of beautiful heavenly bodies, you’d still choose to revolve around yourself. If every day was Christmas, you’d give yourself 366 gifts, two on your birthday. If you thought about looking into your soul to become a better person, you’d change your mind because there’s no mirror attached and you couldn’t admire your face or flexed muscles. If rulers could measure a man’s character, you’d be a centimeter. And if you ever again decide to call me a name, next time try Liz.

Having written some pages in favor of Jesus, I receive a solemn communication crediting me with the possession of a “theology” by which I acquire the strange dignity of being wrong forever or forever right. Have I gauged exactly enough the weights of sins? Have I found too much of the Hereafter in the Here? Or the other way around? Have I found too much pleasure, too much beauty and goodness, in this our unreturning world? O Lord, please forgive any smidgen of such distinctions I may have still in my mind. I meant to leave them all behind a long time ago. If I’m a theologian I am one to the extent I have learned to duck when the small, haughty doctrines fly overhead, dropping their loads of whitewash at random on the faces of those who look toward Heaven. Look down, look down, and save your soul by honester dirt, that receives with a lordly indifference this off-fall of the air. Christmas night and Easter morning are this soil’s only laws. The depth and volume of the waters of baptism, the true taxonomy of sins, the field marks of those most surely saved, God’s own only interpretation of the Scripture: these would be causes of eternal amusement, could we forget how we have hated one another, how vilified and hurt and killed one another, bloodying the world, by means of such questions, wrongly asked, never to be rightly answered, but asked and wrongly answered, hour after hour, day after day, year after year—such is my belief—in Hell.

First coming He did not wait till the world was ready, till men and nations were at peace. He came when the Heavens were unsteady, and prisoners cried out for release. He did not wait for the perfect time. He came when the need was deep and great. He dined with sinners in all their grime, turned water into wine. He did not wait till hearts were pure. In joy he came to a tarnished world of sin and doubt. To a world like ours, of anguished shame he came, and his Light would not go out. He came to a world which did not mesh, to heal its tangles, shield its scorn. In the mystery of the Word made Flesh the Maker of the stars was born. We cannot wait till the world is sane to raise our songs with joyful voice, for to share our grief, to touch our pain, He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!

If I cried just now in church it wasn’t for the reason that you thought. I’ve cried enough for that, heaven knows, but just then it was for something different. I felt so lonely. All those people, they have a country, and in that country, homes; to-morrow they’ll spend Christmas Day together, father and mother and children; some of them, like you, went only to hear the music, and some have no faith, but just then, all of them, they were joined together by a common feeling; that ceremony, which they’ve known all their lives, and whose meaning is in their blood, every word spoken, every action of the priests, is familiar to them, and even if they don’t believe with their minds, the awe, the mystery, is in their bones and they believe with their hearts; it is part of the recollections of their childhood, the gardens they played in, the countryside, the streets of the towns. It binds them together, it makes them one, and some deep instinct tells them that they belong to one another.

I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery. “You shall have no other gods before me. “You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. . . . “You shall not misuse the name of the LORD your God. . . . “Observe the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. . . . “Honor your father and your mother. . . . “You shall not murder. “You shall not commit adultery. “You shall not steal. “You shall not give false testimony against your neighbor. “You shall not covet. . . .” These are the commandments the LORD proclaimed in a loud voice to your whole assembly there on the mountain from out of the fire, the cloud and the deep darkness; and he added nothing more. Then he wrote them on two stone tablets and gave them to me. . . . [The Lord said,] “Oh, that their hearts would be inclined to fear me and keep all my commands always, so that it might go well with them and their children forever!” DEUTERONOMY 5:1, 5-22, 29 (NIV) Love comes

On this side of eternity, Christmas is still a promise. Yes, the Savior has come, and with him peace on earth, but the story is not finished. Yes, there is peace in our hearts, but we long for peace in our world. Every Christmas is still a “turning of the page” until Jesus returns. Every December 25 marks another year that draws us closer to the fulfillment of the ages, that draws us closer to . . . home. When we realize that Jesus is the answer to our deepest longing, even Christmas longings, each Advent brings us closer to his glorious return to earth. When we see him as he is, King of kings and Lord of lords, that will be “Christmas” indeed! Talk about giving Christmas gifts! Just think of this abundance . . . You do not lack any spiritual gift as you eagerly wait for our Lord Jesus Christ to be revealed. (1 Cor. 1:7) And carols? You’re about to hear singing like you’ve never heard before. Listen . . . Then I heard something like the voice of a great multitude and like the sound of many waters and like the sound of mighty peals of thunder, saying, “Hallelujah! For the Lord our God, the Almighty, reigns.” (Rev. 19:6, nasb) Christmas choirs? Never was there a choir like the one about to be assembled . . . They held harps given them by God and sang . . . the song of the Lamb: “Great and marvelous are your deeds, Lord God Almighty. Just and true are your ways, King of the ages.” (Rev. 15:2–3) True, Main Street in your town may be beautifully decorated for the season, but picture this . . . The twelve gates [of the city] were twelve pearls, each gate made of a single pearl. The great street of the city was of pure gold, like transparent glass. (Rev. 21:21) Oh, and yes, we love the glow of candles on a cold winter’s night and the twinkling of Christmas lights in the dark, but can you imagine this? There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever. (Rev. 22:5) Heaven is about to happen. The celebration is about to burst on the scene. We stand tiptoe at the edge of eternity, ready to step into the new heaven and the new earth. And I can hardly wait.

Sophie heard the sound of booted feet stomping in the hallway. Good heavens, Merriweather or Higgins would be coming to check on her. She rose, swiped at her cheeks, and set aside the baby’s spoon and rag. Then a thought hit her that had her sitting down hard on the bench again: her brothers. Oh, please God, not those three. Yes, she’d missed them terribly, but at that precise moment, she didn’t want to see anybody, not one soul except the very person she would never see again. Vim. He stood in the doorway, looking haggard, chilled to the bone, and so, so dear. Sophie flew across the kitchen to embrace him, the sob escaping her midflight. “I’m sorry,” he said, his arms going around her. “There were no coaches going to Kent, no horses to hire for a distance that great. No horses to buy, not even a mule. All day… I tried all day.” He sounded exhausted, and the cold came off him palpably. His cheeks were rosy with it, his voice a little hoarse, and against his ruddy complexion, his blue eyes gleamed brilliantly. “You must be famished.” Sophie did not let him go while she made that prosaic, female observation. Despite all she’d eaten, she was famished—for the sight of him, for the sound of his voice, and oh, for the feel of his tall body against her. “Hungry,

In Luke’s own experience with loss, he didn’t turn to God for comfort. Although a believer as a child, he had become an atheist by his mid-twenties. And it was then, just as his atheism was overshadowing his theism, that his beloved father unexpectedly died the day after Christmas. “So that was really a test of my atheism, when my dad died. I mean, I was like, ‘If this is true that there isn’t a God, then I’ll never see my dad again. He’s not in heaven. There is no afterlife.’ I really had to seriously think about the implications of that. And I did—very deeply and very seriously. And I knew that I just couldn’t believe any of it. My dad was gone, and that was that. But it was actually not as traumatic as you might expect, because I found that I didn’t need to believe all that religious stuff from my childhood in order to feel better. I still had the memory of my father, and that was good enough. The things that I valued about my dad were still there, inside of me. He lives on in me, and in my brothers. Why did I need to think he was in heaven looking down at me? Why did I need to think I would someday meet him again? In all honesty, I think those things seem kind of weird to me now.” But how did he cope, exactly, when his dad died? “Friends and family. Friends and family. That’s it.

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel “T hey shall call his name Immanuel” (which means, God with us)” (Matthew 1:23 ESV). This is perhaps our oldest Christmas carol. Historians say its roots go back to the 8th century. In its earliest form, it was a “plain song” or a chant and the monks sang it a cappella. It was sung or chanted in Latin during the seven days leading up to Christmas. Translated into English by John Mason Neale in 1851, we sing it to the tune “Veni, Emmanuel,” a 15th-century melody. Many churches sing it early in the Advent season because of its plaintive tone of expectant waiting. Traditionally Advent centers on the Old Testament preparation for the coming of the Messiah who will establish his kingdom on the earth. When the words form a prayer that Christ will come and “ransom captive Israel,” we ought to remember the long years of Babylonian captivity. Each verse of this carol features a different Old Testament name or title of the coming Messiah: “O come, O come, Emmanuel.” “O come, Thou Wisdom from on high.” “O come, Thou Rod of Jesse.” “O come, Thou Day-spring.” “O come, Thou Key of David.” “O come, Thou Lord of Might.” “O come, Desire of Nations.” This carol assumes a high level of biblical literacy. That fact might argue against singing it today because so many churchgoers don’t have any idea what “Day-spring” means or they think Jesse refers to a wrestler or maybe to a reality TV star. But that argument works both ways. We ought to sing this carol and we ought to use it as a teaching tool. Sing it—and explain it! We can see the Jewish roots of this carol in the refrain: Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to thee, O Israel. But Israel’s Messiah is also our Savior and Lord. What Israel was waiting for turns out to be the long-expected Jesus. So this carol rightly belongs to us as well. The first verse suggests the longing of the Jewish people waiting for Messiah to come: O come, O come, Emmanuel And ransom captive Israel That mourns in lonely exile here Until the Son of God appears The second verse pictures Christ redeeming us from hell and death: O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free Thine own from Satan’s tyranny From depths of Hell Thy people save And give them victory o’er the grave This verse reminds us only Christ can take us home to heaven: O come, Thou Key of David, come, And open wide our heavenly home; Make safe the way that leads on high, And close the path to misery. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to thee, O Israel. Let’s listen as Selah captures the Jewish flavor of this carol. Lord, we pray today for all those lost in the darkness of sin. We pray for those who feel there is no hope. May the light of Jesus shine in their hearts today. Amen.

You look a bit fatigued, Sophie.” St. Just studied her with a brooding frown, all hint of teasing gone. His brows knit further as his gaze went to the hearth. “Is that a pair of my favorite socks set out to dry? They’re a bit large for you, aren’t they?” Westhaven emerged from the back hallway, a small box in his hand. “Somebody has decimated my stash of marzipan. If His Grace has given up crème cakes for German chocolate, I’ll be naming my seconds.” Valentine returned from the corridor. “Somebody left my favorite mug in the linen closet. I thought you favored more delicate crockery, Sophie.” In the ensuing moment of silence, Sophie was casting around desperately for plausible reasons why all this evidence of Vim’s presence in the house was yet on hand, when the back door opened and slammed shut. “Sophie, love! I’m back. Come here and let me kiss you senseless, and then, by God, we’re going to talk.” Oh dear. Oh, good heavens. Vim emerged from the darkness looking weary, handsome, and very pleased—until his gaze traveled to each of the three men glowering at him. “Who the hell are you?” Westhaven’s voice was soft, but he did not sound sensible in the least. “And what makes you think you’re going to be kissing my sister?” St. Just added, hands on his hips. “And what on earth could you have to speak with Lady Sophia about?” Valentine asked, crossing his arms.

He shifted so he was kneeling before her on the hard ground, as much to stop her from leaving as because it seemed the only thing left to do. “Tell me what you wished for, Sophie. Tell me, please.” “I wanted—” She paused and dashed the back of her hand against her cheek. “I wished for some Christmas of my own. I wished for a man who will care for me and stand by me no matter what inconvenient baby I’ve attached myself to. A man who will love me, love our children, and sojourn through life with me. I wished, and then you appeared, and I wished—” “What did you wish, Sophie?” “I wished you were my Christmas, wished you could be all my Christmases.” He wondered if maybe those shepherds on that long ago, faraway hillside had heard not the beating wings of the heavenly hosts but nothing more celestial than the beating of their own hearts, thundering with hope, wonderment, and joy. “Happy Christmas, Lady Sophie.” He framed her face in his hands and kissed her, slowly, reverently. “Be all my Christmases, mine and Kit’s, forever and ever.” She wrapped her fingers around his wrists and tried to draw his hands away when he brushed his thumbs over her damp cheeks. “I cannot,” she said. “It isn’t enough that we both care for the child or that I care for you.” He kissed her, kissed to silence her, kissed her to gather his courage. “Then let it be enough that I love you, you and the child both, and I will always love you. Please, I pray you, let it be enough.” She

Soon, things were heating up in the kitchen. The first course was a variation on a French recipe that had been around since Escoffier, Baccala Brandade. Angelina created a silky forcemeat with milk, codfish, olive oil, pepper, and slow-roasted garlic, a drizzle of lemon juice, and a shower of fresh parsley, then served it as a dip with sliced sourdough and warmed pita-bread wedges, paired with glasses of bubbly Prosecco. The second course had been a favorite of her mother's called Angels on Horseback- freshly shucked oysters, wrapped in thin slices of prosciutto, then broiled on slices of herb-buttered bread. When the oysters cooked, they curled up to resemble tiny angels' wings. Angelina accented the freshness of the oyster with a dab of anchovy paste and wasabi on each hors d'oeuvre. She'd loved the Angels since she was a little girl; they were a heavenly mouthful. This was followed by a Caesar salad topped with hot, batter-dipped, deep-fried smelts. Angelina's father used to crunch his way through the small, silvery fish like French fries. Tonight, Angelina arranged them artfully around mounds of Caesar salad on each plate and ushered them out the door. For the fifth course, Angelina had prepared a big pot of her Mediterranean Clam Soup the night before, a lighter version of Manhattan clam chowder. The last two courses were Parmesan-Stuffed Poached Calamari over Linguine in Red Sauce, and the piece de resistance, Broiled Flounder with a Coriander Reduction.

After I returned from that morning, our telephone rang incessantly with requests for interviews and photos. By midafternoon I was exhausted. At four o’clock I was reaching to disconnect the telephone when I answered one last call. Thank heavens I did! I heard, “Mrs. Robertson? This is Ian Hamilton from the Lord Chamberlain’s office.” I held my breath and prayed, “Please let this be the palace.” He continued: “We would like to invite you, your husband, and your son to attend the funeral of the Princess of Wales on Saturday in London.” I was speechless. I could feel my heart thumping. I never thought to ask him how our name had been selected. Later, in London, I learned that the Spencer family had given instructions to review Diana’s personal records, including her Christmas-card list, with the help of her closest aides. “Yes, of course, we absolutely want to attend,” I answered without hesitating. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I’ll have to make travel plans on very short notice, so may I call you back to confirm? How late can I reach you?” He replied, “Anytime. We’re working twenty-four hours a day. But I need your reply within an hour.” I jotted down his telephone and fax numbers and set about making travel arrangements. My husband had just walked in the door, so we were able to discuss who would travel and how. Both children’s passports had expired and could not be renewed in less than a day from the suburbs where we live. Caroline, our daughter, was starting at a new school the very next day. Pat felt he needed to stay home with her. “Besides,” he said, “I cried at the wedding. I’d never make it through the funeral.” Though I dreaded the prospect of coping with the heartbreak of the funeral on my own, I felt I had to be there at the end, no matter what. We had been with Diana at the very beginning of the courtship. We had attended her wedding with tremendous joy. We had kept in touch ever since. I had to say good-bye to her in person. I said to Pat, “We were there for the ‘wedding of the century.’ This will be ‘the funeral of the century.’ Yes, I have to go.” Then we just looked at each other. We couldn’t find any words to express the sorrow we both felt.

Twas the night before Christmas and in SICU All the patients were stirring, the nurses were, too. Some Levophed hung from an IMED with care In hopes that a blood pressure soon would be there. One patient was resting all snug in his bed While visions—from Versed—danced in his head. I, in my scrubs, with flowsheet in hand, Had just settled down to chart the care plan. Then from room 17 there arose such a clatter We sprang from the station to see what was the matter. Away to the bedside we flew like a flash, Saved the man from falling, with restraints from the stash. “Do you know where you are?” one nurse asked while tying; “Of course! I’m in France in a jail, and I’m dying!” Then what to my wondering eyes should appear? But a heart rate of 50, the alarm in my ear. The patient’s face paled, his skin became slick And he said in a moment, “I’m going to be sick!” Someone found the Inapsine and injected a port, Then ran for a basin, as if it were sport. His heart rhythm quieted back to a sinus, We soothed him and calmed him with old-fashioned kindness. And then in a twinkling we hear from room 11 First a plea for assistance, then a swearing to heaven. As I drew in my breath and was turning around, Through the unit I hurried to respond to the sound. “This one’s having chest pain,” the nurse said and then She gave her some nitro, then morphine and when She showed not relief from IV analgesia Her breathing was failing: time to call anesthesia. “Page Dr. Wilson, or May, or Banoub! Get Dr. Epperson! She ought to be tubed!” While the unit clerk paged them, the monitor showed V-tach and low pressure with no pulse: “Call a code!” More rapid than eagles, the code team they came. The leader took charge and he called drugs by name: “Now epi! Now lido! Some bicarb and mag! You shock and you chart it! You push med! You bag!” And so to the crash cart, the nurses we flew With a handful of meds, and some dopamine, too! From the head of the bed, the doc gave his call: “Resume CPR!” So we worked one and all. Then Doc said no more, but went straight to his work, Intubated the patient, then turned with a jerk. While placing his fingers aside of her nose, And giving a nod, hooked the vent to the hose. The team placed an art-line and a right triple-lumen. And when they were through, she scarcely looked human: When the patient was stable, the doc gave a whistle. A progress note added as he wrote his epistle. But I heard him exclaim ere he strode out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all! But no more codes for tonight!” Jamie L. Beeley Submitted by Nell Britton

The composite quality of Christmas has been part of the holiday…almost certainly long before there was a Christ owed a mas. There has been a mid December holiday to celebrate the winter solstice by appeasing the sun god and assuring the return of spring since people first noticed the sun’s retreat…and the festival is almost always a festival of supplementary light. The light’s going out in the heavens, so we light one here. The Roman Kalends festival of light, greenery, and gift giving. All were recycles by the early Judeo-Christian followers: the act of lighting candles, the practice of giving gifts, even the use of holly and ivy.

Clearly a mark of the in-breaking kingdom is the relief of suffering. As the Christmas hymn “Joy to the World” reminds us, Jesus “comes to make his blessings known far as the curse is found.” Relief of suffering is a good and necessary thing. This in fact is where history is going; in the new heavens and earth there will be no crying or pain (Revelation 21:4). So when we seek to bring relief from suffering now, we are keeping in step with God’s plan of redemption. As the Puritan Jeremiah Burroughs said, contentment is “not opposed to all lawful seeking for help in different circumstances, nor endeavoring simply to be delivered out of present afflictions by the use of lawful means.”1 I believe medications can certainly be one of those lawful means. There is nothing inherently wrong with seeking relief from present suffering.

What’s more, Christmas itself has now far outstripped Easter in popular culture as the real celebratory center of the Christian year—a move that completely reverses the New Testament’s emphasis. We sometimes try, in hymns, prayers, and sermons, to build a whole theology on Christmas, but it can’t in fact sustain such a thing. We then keep Lent, Holy Week, and Good Friday so thoroughly that we have hardly any energy left for Easter except for the first night and day. Easter, however, should be the center. Take that away and there is, almost literally, nothing left.

I just have to keep trusting in the love of my heavenly father, hoping for amazing things . . . and loving with everything I have.

... Christmas... the apotheosis of the bourgeoisie, the season when with shining fable Heaven and Nature, in accord for once, edict and postulate us all husbands and fathers under our skins, when before an altar in the shape of a gold-plated cattle-trough man may with impunity prostrate himself in an orgy of unbridled sentimental obeisance to the fairy tale which conquered the Western world, when for seven days the rich get richer and the poor get poorer in amnesty: the whitewashing of a stipulated week leaving the page blank and pristine again for the chronicling of the fresh...

An archangel from the heights of the heavenly hierarchy kneels courteously and graciously before a young girl from Nazareth; even in the angel's gesture we see the true depth of the kenosis, the self-emptying humility with which heaven courteously comes to reconcile earth.

BY MAYA ANGELOU AUTOBIOGRAPHIES I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings Gather Together in My Name Singin’ and Swingin’ and Gettin’ Merry Like Christmas The Heart of a Woman All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes A Song Flung Up to Heaven Mom & Me & Mom

Oh, for heaven’s sake. If Mr. Ricci wanted to kidnap me or murder me and throw my body in the river, don’t you think he would have done so in the middle of the night last night?” She turned to Leo and called to him, “Are you planning to kidnap me or murder me and throw my body in the river?

Some believe that God is going to take us off to heaven all wrapped up in cellophane, looking like we ought to be hanging on the Christmas tree. God is going to take us to heaven after He has purged us and disciplined us and taken us through the fire and has made us strong. Thank God that faith brings feeling, as they used to sing:

The good thing about reading a book is that you never feel guilty about the hours you spend on it, because when you finish, there's a sense of accomplishment.

How can you give to God, who dwells in the highest heaven? You reach up by reaching down, or by reaching across. No gift given here in the right way goes missing in the final tally (Mt. 10:42). With every form of unrighteous mammon, you have the opportunity to extend grace to your fellow creatures, in the hope that they will receive you into glory (Lk. 16:9). But every gift given here in the wrong spirit is just thrown into the bottomless pit, that ultimate rat hole (Lk. 12:34; Jas. 5:3).

Cold wintry night ,was born a child through a woman pure, with divine intervention and a mission to cure, to heal the broken hearted, to bind up their wounds. He lived as man for me to die for me, to shed His Blood as an offering to wash me clean, to claim me back unto Himself as One in God my Creator, and So is He my Jesus Divine, One God in all men. He is ! He was ! and will always be ! At His birth on earth, heaven rejoiced, with His sacrifice heaven said it is accomplished , at His resurrection Heaven shouted 'restored' and He will come again, for which Heaven plans a banquet. And this is the Christmas Story

The star over Bethlehem is not what we were expecting. If we don’t accept the astrological math option, then that means the star came down into our sky, and stood over a particular house—fifty feet up, say. Does faithfulness to Scripture require us to accept absurdities? That a flaming ball of gas, many times larger than our entire earth, came down into Palestine in order to provide first century GPS services? And that it did so without incinerating the globe? As I’ve mentioned earlier, we need to take a lesson here from our medieval fathers in the faith, brought to us via Narnia. “In our world,” said Eustace, “a star is a huge ball of flaming gas.” “Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of.” If we can leave our bodies behind when we go to Heaven, why cannot a star leave its body behind to come to earth? But any way you take it, the Christian faith flat contradicts the truncated cosmology of moderns. Choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve. And if you choose the wrong way, you are going to have to stop sending Christmas cards.

We’ve had the bottle since Christmas. With any luck we’ll get another one this year, so I see no reason we shouldn’t drink it.’ ‘Do you think there’s grappa in heaven?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Since there’s no heaven, no, there’s no grappa in heaven,’ she answered, then added, ‘which is even more reason to drink it while we can.’ ‘I’m helpless in the face of your logic,’ Brunetti said, emptied his glass, and handed it to her. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ ‘Good,’ Brunetti said and closed his eyes again.

Advent prayer Lord, may Jesus be more real to me this season than he ever has been. Open my eyes wider than ever to the beauty of his coming. Give me ears to hear the whispers of your voice. May your restoration continue and your Kingdom come—in my life, in my family, in my workplace, in my church, in my community, in my world—just as it is in heaven. May I live with excited anticipation throughout this season and beyond. Grant that I would enter into the story and the blessing of the Christ child more fully each day. Amen.

Darling?” she remarked. “When have I ever been that?” “Are you stating an objection?” “I…No.” Heavens he was in the strangest of moods tonight. “It’s new, that’s all. Normally, I’m your whore, or your mistress, or Miss Rushdale.” “Or my nightingale.” “Only if you’re feeling poetic.” “Then obviously you’ve found a way to inveigle your way into my heart and I’m growing soft and foolish as a result.” “What heart?” She crossed her arms. “Vaughan, if this is a plan to drive me away by being nice, it won’t work.” His smile dazzled her as it stretched wide his lips and lit the centres of his eyes. “It’s not a ploy.

The map might say we’re on a mountain in Tennessee, but for the first time in my life, I could swear I’m in heaven.

I raised my eyes to Heaven, praying for strength. Please God, help me so I don’t beg to lick his ass. Amen.

Where ever men go, in heaven, or earth, or hell they find themselves, and that is all they find.

So she was still single. She wondered sometimes if Blake was being deprived of male companionship solely because of her attitudes. It bothered her, but she didn’t want to change. “Snow is awesome,” he sighed, using a word that he used to denote only the best things in his life. Cherry pie was awesome. So was baseball, if the Atlanta Braves were playing, and football if the Dallas Cowboys were. She smiled at his dark head, so like her own. He had her slender build, too, but he had his father’s green eyes. Bob had been a handsome man. Handsome and far too brave for his own good. Dead at twenty-seven, she sighed, and for what? She folded her arms across her chest, cozy in the oversize red flannel shirt that she wore over well-broken-in jeans. “It’s freezing, that’s what it is,” she informed her offspring. “And it isn’t awesome; it’s irritating. Apparently, the electric generator goes out every other day, and the only man who can fix it stays drunk.” “That cowboy seems to know how,” Blake said hesitantly. Maggie agreed reluctantly. “I know. Things were running great until our foreman asked for time off to spend Christmas with his wife’s family in Pennsylvania. That leaves me in charge, and what do I know about running a ranch?” she moaned. “I grew up on a small farm, but I don’t know beans about how to manage this kind of place, and the men realize it. I suppose they don’t have any confidence in working for a secretary, even just temporarily.” “Well, there’s always Mr. Hollister,” Blake said with pursed lips and a wicked grin. She glared at him. “Mr. Hollister hates me. He hates you, too, in fact, but you don’t seem to let that stand in the way of your admiration for the man.” She threw up her hands, off on her favorite subject again. “For heaven’s sake, he’s a cross between a bear and a moose! He never comes off his mountain except when he wants to cuss somebody out or raise hell!” “He’s lonely,” Blake pointed out. “He lives all by himself. It’s hard going, I’ll bet, and he has to eat his own cooking.” He sat up enthusiastically, his thick hair over his brow. “Grandpa said he once knew a man who quit working for Mr. Hollister just because the cook got sick and Mr. Hollister had to feed the men.” Maggie glanced at her son with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “He probably fed them some of his

Christmas Eve, I give him packages which I open for him, since the bows and paper represent more labor than he could manage: music videos by the Nashville singers he thinks particularly sexy, fleece-lined slippers decorated with images of bacon and eggs, and a book about breeds of dogs. He says he wishes he had something for me to open, but I don’t want anything except to have him here. There’s nothing more he could give me than his life, right now, his being with me.

The Spirit of Christmas The Boys finished their cider and handed the vendor the cups, smacking their lips and wiping their mouths on their sleeves. The towering Vendor smiled down on them. “And a Very Merry Christmas to you two young Gents.” Jonas scowled up at him, “Christmas is a bunch of bunk, just meant for the rich. Come on Jamey.” Little James Nicholas tipped his hat to the Vendor and his eyes shined angelically when he replied, “And a Merry Christmas to you too Sir!” Jonas led the way as they raced the snowy sidewalks of New York. In his heart Jonas knew that they were late but the cider warmed him inside and he didn’t mind the risk. Mr. Angel watched them run, knowing his work was cut out for him. “Christmas a bunk, hm-mmm! I’ve some work to do with these lads and not much time to do it in.” He glanced up at the heavens calculating the time before Christmas. He then tipped his hat to the vendor as he munched the delicious cheese. The Cheese Vendor watched the kindly man depart, knowing there was indeed goodness abound in the world tonight. “Thank ye kind Sir!” The tall Toymaker waved back at him over his shoulder, while keeping the two young dashing lads in sight. “And may the Spirit of Christmas haunt your home with joy.” The Cheese Vendor chuckled to himself. “A joyful haunting? Be there such a thing?” Mr. Angel followed along after the boys. He passed a poor couple and thrust the bag of cheese into their hands. The Poor Man’s face shined with pleasure, “Thank you and bless you sir.” He nodded back at them with a smile. Ahead of him, Jonas and James rushed towards the corner. They raced past a fruit vendor and each of them snatched a piece of fruit from the boxes on display. The Fruit Vendor screamed after them, “Hey, you! Stop thieves!” A New York Policeman witnessing the theft and blew his whistle. Then he shouted after them. “Stop thieves!” He immediately took up the chase, through the down pouring snow. Mr. Angel could be seen in the background keeping pace behind the policeman. The two young boys raced along the sidewalk, twisting their way between passers-by, their eyes frantically glancing behind them at the large pursuing policeman. Suddenly Mr. Thorn, a large, burley man dressed in black blocked their way and took them both by the collars. “So there you are!” He snatched the apple quickly from James’ hand. “What have we here?” He was about to take a bite of it, when he saw the officer racing towards them. “It’s all right officer. I have the young scoundrels and I’ll make full restitutions for their thievery.” He quickly fished coins from his pocket and with a conning smile, put them in the hand of the frowning Policeman. “And a little extra for your trouble, my good man. It’s such a small crime and the criminals so . . . minor.” The burly policeman rocked back and forth considering and then grunted, after all it was Christmas. “Very well sir. I’ll give these to the Vendor but I catch either of you snatching again, it’s behind bars with you and a good strong workhouse. You got me!” Jonas glanced down at his worn out boots, his face red with shame. “Oh yes sir.” James followed suit and then glanced up into the gruff face of the law. “Sorry, we were just hungry!

How silently, how silently The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive him still, The dear Christ enters in.5

I am no longer my own, but thine. Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt. Put me to doing, put me to suffering. Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee, exalted for thee or brought low for thee. Let me be full, let me be empty. Let me have all things, let me have nothing. I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal. And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, thou art mine, and I am thine. So be it. And the covenant which I have made on earth, let it be ratified in heaven. Amen.2 HOW

Then Bill Anders spoke, not just to CapCom, to all the world listening to his words from so far away. “For all the people on earth,” he said, his emotions unmasked, “the crew of Apollo 8 has a message we would like to send you.” A brief pause, and then Anders stunned his audience as he began reading from the verses of the book of Genesis: “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth . . . ” As Anders concluded the fourth verse, Lovell read the next four. Borman concluded by beginning his reading of the ninth verse, and then sent to the world a special Christmas message: “And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you—all of you on the good earth.” Later, Borman would add a passage that would be repeated by the men who would venture to the moon, words spoken with stark emotion, sometimes with tears. As Apollo raced around the cratered world below, Borman watched the earth “rising” above the lunar horizon. “This is the most beautiful, heart-catching sight of my life.” Suddenly

Kiss me, Joseph Carrington…” She muttered her orders against his mouth, and he obliged. By heaven, he obliged with everything in him—but not with force. He

I’m trying to decide which part of me is the most frozen,” Westhaven replied. “It’s a toss-up between my bum-fiddle and my nose.” “I lost awareness of my nose before we hit London.” Westhaven glanced at Val’s gloved hands. “Your fingers are not in jeopardy, I trust?” “Heaven forfend! Ellen would be wroth, which I cannot allow.” “I cannot allow much longer in this perishing saddle.” “We’ve

He kept moving, not reclining on his side of the bed but shifting and rocking the mattress as he maneuvered himself to Louisa’s side. “Hello, Husband.” She was on her back. He was plastered against the length of her, a particular part of him prodding her hip. “Greetings, Wife, and as much as I admire the embroidery on your nightgown, I will wish that article of clothing farewell without a pang—at your earliest convenience.” She covered her face with both hands. “Must you sound so merry?” “A merry season is upon us.” He peeled her hands away and kissed her nose. “‘Oh why does that eclipsing hand of thine deny the sunshine of the Sun’s enlivening eye?’” “You have that Wilmot fellow on the brain.” “No, I do not. I have something else entirely—someone else—on my brain.” He spoke gently, but there was happiness for him in what he contemplated. Louisa could hear it in his voice. “Joseph, there are things we must discuss.” He untied the top bow of her nightgown. “We can discuss them naked.” A second bow came free. “We can discuss them tomorrow.” A third, a fourth. “We can discuss them naked tomorrow, but, Louisa, you are my lawfully wedded wife, and the time has come for me to pleasure you to the utmost, which I am enthusiastically willing to do.” Those were not lines penned by any long-dead earl. More of Louisa’s bows came undone, until there were no more bows to undo. Joseph pulled the covers up around her shoulders and slid a hand across her bare belly. “I did not feel the cold in Surrey, Louisa, not as long as I thought of what these moments with you might hold.” God in heaven. “Joseph, what am I supposed to do?” He shifted back to regard her, his dark brows drawing down. “You do whatever you please, with one exception.” He kissed her collarbone, a sweet little tasting that might have involved the tip of his tongue. “You do not think your way through this, Louisa Carrington. A plague on me if you’re able to cling to ratiocination at such a time. You put your prodigious mind with all its thoughts, languages, ciphering, and blasphemy aside, and let the damned thing rest while I love you.” The

We were in desperate straits. Christ came to “ransom captive Israel” and to “disperse the gloomy clouds of night.” In our insolence, we were “doomed by law to endless woe” and were necessarily and justly consigned to “the dreadful gulf below.” But this darkness we had created was invaded by the heavenly host, “Rank on rank the host of heaven spreads its vanguard on the way,” and the night above the shepherds lit up as though a lightning bolt had refused to go out, had refused to stop shining. The road was weary, but now we may urge others to “rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing.” We needed this salvation just as He gave it. “O Savior, King of glory, who dost our weakness know.” The God who knows our frame timed it perfectly. And so the ache was healed. “In Bethlehem, in Israel, this blessed babe was born.” This was “Israel’s strength and consolation,” He was the “dear desire of every nation.” “Now He shines, the long expected,” and “glories stream from heaven afar.” All creation is summoned to rejoice. He is the “high born King of ages”—“Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing.” Nothing whatever is excluded; we invite “all that grows beneath the shining of the moon and burning sun” to join in our praise. This gospel is proclaimed, and the antiphon is sung by the “mountains in reply.” All of it bursts forth—both “heav’n and nature sing.” This is right and fitting because “he comes to make His blessings flow, far as the curse is found.” All cursed things may sing this blessing.

I always remember your own grandmother, she continued, nodding her head, old Mrs. Taylor. She died on a Christmas Night. Oh, I said shivering. I wouldn't like to die on a Christmas Night. A good night to die, she smiled; they say that the gates of heaven are open on Christmas Night.

As she passed Nick’s Bar & Bistro, she felt a moment’s longing, wishing she could stop for a reassuring hug that she knew would be fast in coming. But even more than his comfort, a few hours sleep was in order. She parked outside the Inn, dragged her large suitcase out of the trunk and wheeled it into the lobby. When she stepped up to the check-in counter, a young woman smiled. “Ms. Braxton. Geoff let us know you were on your way. We’ve given you a room on the second floor. Room 204. Just need your signature and a credit card.” “Thanks so much. Everyone in this town is so welcoming.” She forced a smile. “Never seen anything like it.” “My name is Helen Watson,” the young girl replied. “I’m from Nebraska, and I’ve been here for two years. The friendliness is genuine, and it doesn’t get old.” As Jennie’s mother had said, the Inn was small, but charming—English Tudor in style both inside and out. The lobby had a tartan carpet, four plaid high back chairs next to a hearth and fireplace. The walls were decorated with hunting scenes and floral gardens. A small bar was tucked away in the far corner of the

THE HEAVENLY CHRISTMAS TREE I am a novelist, and I suppose I have made up this story. I write “I suppose,” though I know for a fact that I have made it up, but yet I keep fancying that it must have happened somewhere at some time, that it must have happened on Christmas Eve in some great town in a time of terrible frost.

Mr. Harrison glanced up, as if entreating the heavens, then grimaced. “The Yuletide season has officially started.” He pointed to the crossbeam over the antechamber, where a swag of mistletoe had been hung. “Louisa and Joseph are quite enamored of all things—” Whatever nonsense Jenny had intended to spout one minute before Elijah Harrison trotted out of her life, she forgot as he put a gloved hand on her shoulder. “It’s a harmless tradition,” he said. “One I’ve had occasion to appreciate.” With that, he kissed her, and not on the cheek as a proper gentleman ought. He touched his mouth to hers softly, a lingering, gentle kiss that conveyed… something. Regret perhaps, at having to face the miserable winter day. Before he drew back, he whispered, “You’ll want to look at the sketchbook I used, and, Genevieve?” He bore the scent of rosemary and lavender, and he was leaving. “Mr. Harrison?” “You draw wonderfully. Be proud of yourself.” He gave her cheek a quick buss and passed through the door. Jenny held his compliment close to her heart—the real compliment, the one he’d whispered. She held his kisses closer.

Karl opened his eyes wider, and Wells questioned: “Why, you don’t suppose the Bible will be taken to Heaven, do you?” Mr. Keith laughed a little. “Well, as to that, I don’t know as it would be a very interesting book in Heaven. We shall probably not care much more about it than we would for a good guide book about Europe, after it had shown us the way there, and we were perfectly familiar with the country and had not the least desire to go from it to any other country. I meant that it was the only book which told us anything about the other world where all our life is to be spent, except the very little bit that we spend on this side. It is strange to be so taken up with the things we are to use here, that we forget all about what we are here for, and forget to get ready for our journey; now isn’t it?

Christie,” said Mr. Keith, “come here and tell us what you would do if you were told to choose one book out of all there were in the world, because the rest were to be burned.” “Why!” said Christie. “How dreadful! Oh, I would take the Bible, of course.” “Why ‘of course?’” “Oh, because it is the only book that shows us the way to Heaven; and we could get along without knowing anything else, if we knew what was in the Bible; and if we knew all that there was in all the other books, and had no Bible, in a little bit of a while what good would it do us?” “Sure enough; but do you believe these boys don’t think so!” Christie turned on them two troubled eyes. Wells laughed, but Karl said stoutly, “Why, we didn’t say any such thing!

lot. But she never could keep off the hard drugs, she was hooked. She’d be off for a year and then bingo. She got through the Plague, but when she was thirty-eight she got a dirty needle, and it killed her. And damn if her family didn’t show up and take me over. I’d never even seen them! And they put me through college and law school. And I go up there for Christmas Eve dinner every year. I’m their token Negro. But I’ll tell you, what really gets me is, I can’t decide which color I am. I mean, my father was a black, a real black—oh, he had some white blood, but he was a black—and my mother was a white, and I’m neither one. See, my father really hated my mother because she was white. But he also loved her. But I think she loved his being black much more than she loved him. Well, where does that leave me? I never have figured out.” “Brown,” he said gently, standing behind her chair. “Shit color.” “The color of the earth.

Dr. John G. Jackson quotes Kenneth R.H. Mackenzie as follows: “From the woolly texture of the hair, I am inclined to assign to the Budda of India, the Fuhi of China, the Sommanoacom of the Siamese, the Xaha of the Japanese, and the Quetzalcoatl of the Mexicans, and the same, and indeed an African, or rather ‘Nubian’ origin.” Most of these black gods were regarded as crucified saviours who died to save mankind by being nailed to a cross, or tied to a tree with arms outstretched as if on a cross, or slain violently in some other manner. Of these crucified saviors, the most prominent were Osiris and Horus of Egypt, Krishna of India, Mithra of Persia, Quetzalcoatl of Mexico, Adonis of Babylonia and Attis of Phrygia. Nearly all of these slain savior-gods have the following stories related about them: They are born of a virgin, on or near December 25th (Christmas); their births are heralded by a star; they are born either in a cave or stable; they are slain, commonly by crucifixion; they descend into hell, and rise from the dead at the beginning of Spring (Easter), and finally ascend into heaven. The parallels between the legendary lives of these pagan messiahs and the life of Jesus Christ as recorded in the BIBLE are so similar that progressive Bible scholars now admit that stories of these heathen have been woven into the life-story of Jesus.

We are no different today, friends. We get caught up in the season, busily making preparations for Christmas. We decorate, bake cookies, shop, and wrap presents, and yet we aren't truly ready. We aren't waiting with great expectations. Our hearts aren't prepared to receive this holy guest, this heavenly visitor.

They shared an image of the American Christmas--riches, reconciliations, tears, snow, success, sentiment, furs and firs, the shop windows shining like Heaven and everything good for sale.

On Christmas Eve, 1968, the Apollo 8 astronauts—Frank Borman, James Lovell, and William Anders—became the first human beings to see the far side of the Moon. The moment was as historic as it was perilous: they had been wrested from Earth’s gravity and hurled into space by the massive, barely tested Saturn V rocket. Although one of their primary tasks was to take pictures of the Moon in search of future landing sites—the first lunar landing would take place just seven months later—many associate their mission with a different photograph, commonly known as Earthrise. "Emerging from the Moon’s far side during their fourth orbit, the astronauts were suddenly transfixed by their vision of Earth, a delicate, gleaming swirl of blue and white, contrasting with the monochromatic, barren lunar horizon. Earth had never appeared so small to human eyes, yet was never more the center of attention. "To mark the event’s significance and its occurrence on Christmas Eve, the crew had decided, after much deliberation, to read the opening words of Genesis: "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth . . . ." The reading, and the reverent silence that followed, went out over a live telecast to an estimated one billion viewers, the largest single audience in television history.

We hear of a death; we think of a loss. Not so in heaven. When heaven sees the breathless body, it sees the vacated cocoon and the liberated butterfly.

Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” —Matthew 5:16 (NRSV) For more than a year, I’ve dedicated an hour a day to an eight-year-old neighbor with special needs. She’s afraid of my cat, so we play outside. Last spring I stood at the bottom of the front steps and waved my hands like a choir director. “This Little Light of Mine,” she belted from the landing. Then, “Miss Evelyn, now you!” We switched roles. Later I donned her backpack, and she walked me to the bus stop. Oh, what are the neighbors thinking? On summer days, in the only available shade, we strewed the public sidewalk with puzzles and pencils. Like a gatekeeper, she asked every pedestrian, “Where are you going?” Most people smiled; everyone gave us a wide berth. In the fall, we crossed the street to collect acorns and rake leaves before the maintenance crew swooped in. Over the seasons, it’s become increasingly obvious that the neighborhood sees her need and notices our routine. Late August, as I walked around the block, a man I hardly knew handed me a bagful of school supplies “for that girl you work with.” Remembering the kindness, she and I signed a handmade Christmas card to “Mr. and Mrs. Neighbor” and slipped it inside their mail slot. A few days later I found a package at my door. “Miss Evelyn, Merry Christmas.” The signature on the card cited the house number of the strangers. I unwrapped a selection of fruits and a necklace that left me speechless: a delicate gold cross. So this is what the neighbors think. Lord, my neighborhood needs this little light of mine. Help me to let it shine. —Evelyn Bence Digging Deeper: Mt 5:13–16; Lk 8:16–17

That winter the fever of mass murder, atheism and reckless spending in Paris seemed to be approaching its climax. At Christmas the obscene and diseased journalist, Hebert, presided over the Feast of Reason in Notre Dame, where a whore was elevated at the high altar amid Rabelaisian rites. In the prisons thousands of innocent men and women, flung there by some Party sadist's whim, fed out of troughs on offal or were driven in droves chained like cattle through the streets. (1) To decent English minds it seemed unthinkable that men could survive who broke every law of God and man, who robbed and murdered and blasphemed, who denied justice, pity and humanity itself in their ruthless search for power. “From the nature of the mind of man and the necessary progress of human affairs,” Pitt declared in Parliament, “it is impossible that such a system can be of long duration.” “Surely,” cried the high-minded Windham, “Heaven will presently put a whip into every honest hand to lash these villains naked through the world.

Advent and Christmas are about a new world. They are thus intrinsically about eschatology. Recall what we said about this word in Chapter 3: eschatology is about the divine transformation of our earth. It is not about some mass immigration from a doomed world to a blessed heaven. Rather, it is about the end of this era of war and violence, injustice, and oppression. It is about the earth’s transformation, not about its devastation. It is about a world of justice and peace.

You just let the tears come, ma'am. You got every reason under heaven to be cryin'. And just cuz don't mean you don't trust the good Lawd no more either. Jesus knows that.

Death done well is a life gathered at the edges, wrapped neatly and packaged to be unpackaged in eternity.

The cathedral towered over it all, benignly great in this quiet weather, the sound of the bells falling gently from the height of the Rollo tower. At evening, when dusk fell, men looked up and saw light shining from the windows of the choir and heard music, for the choristers were practicing for the carol service. Michael seemed dreaming. So many Christmases had gone since he had stood here looking out to the edge of the world, looking down at the city, looking up to heaven. So many Christmas Eves he had stood waiting through hours of snow and storm, of wind and rain or of rapt stillness bright with moon and stars, waiting for the mid-course of the night when he should lift his fist and strike out on the great bell the hour of man's redemption.

Rejoice!” sang the angels, helping the shepherds and the rest of us understand that joy is almost never the result of what we have in life but rather how we look at life. Something wells up within us when we catch just a glimpse of a corner of heaven, even amid the ordinariness or pains of our existence?

Those first few seconds were heaven, and it was no different with Caleb. And then it really hit her. Another man. Not-her-husband, was inside her. His thick, proud, powerful member was thrusting within her warmth, pushing past her lips and sliding up and in, inch by inch as she moaned and quivered. And then Marisa’s hand was pulling her closer, and she looked to the side and met her friend’s wide, wild eyes, filled with naughtiness and pleasure, and she bucked and laughed and moaned.

DECEMBER 22 Parallel Universes Doubt, for me, tends to come in an overwhelming package, all at once. I don’t worry much about nuances of particular doctrines, but every so often I catch myself wondering about the whole grand scheme of faith. I stand in the futuristic airport in Denver, for example, watching important-looking people in business suits, briefcases clutched to their sides like weapons, pause at an espresso bar before scurrying off to another concourse. Do any of them ever think about God? I wonder. Christians share an odd belief in parallel universes. One universe consists of glass and steel and wool clothes and leather briefcases and the smell of freshly ground coffee. The other consists of angels and sinister spiritual forces and somewhere out there places called Heaven and Hell. We palpably inhabit the material world; it takes faith to consider oneself a citizen of the other, invisible world. Occasionally the two worlds merge for me, and these rare moments are anchors for my faith. The time I snorkeled on a coral reef and suddenly the flashes of color and abstract design flitting around me became a window to a Creator who exults in life and beauty. The time my wife forgave me for something that did not merit forgiveness—that too became a window, allowing a startling glimpse of divine grace. I have these moments, but soon toxic fumes from the material world seep in. Sex appeal! Power! Money! Military might! These are what matter most in life, I’m told, not the simpering platitudes of Jesus’ teachings in the Sermon on the Mount. For me, living in a fallen world, doubt seems more like forgetfulness than disbelief. I, a citizen of the visible world, know well the struggle involved in clinging to belief in another, invisible world. Christmas turns the tables and hints at the struggle involved when the Lord of both worlds descends to live by the rules of the one. In Bethlehem, the two worlds came together, realigned; what Jesus went on to accomplish on planet Earth made it possible for God someday to resolve all disharmonies in both worlds. No wonder a choir of angels broke out in spontaneous song, disturbing not only a few shepherds but the entire universe. Finding God in Unexpected Places (34 – 35)

The next gift came from a Jewish teenager named Miriam, who was known to her family and friends as Mary. Her Christmas present was selflessness, the complete surrender of ego and will needed to bring Heaven down to earth.

Remember that there is more than one way to express your hostility to God’s rule. The irreligious person explicitly asserts his or her independence from God: “I want to live any way I want to live!” But the religious person much more covertly asserts his or her independence from God. The religious person says: “I am going to obey the Bible and do all these things, and now God has to bless me and give me a good life.” This is an effort to control God, not trust him. When you obey God in order to earn God’s blessing and heaven, then you are, as it were, seeking to be your own savior. Both of these strategies are hostile to God. They don’t allow him to be either your sovereign or your savior.

Yes, the manger signals something about this baby, but it is not simply his poverty. By being placed in the manger, he is revealed as both the rightful son of Adam charged with caring for his creation and also the eternal Son of God who created them and who provides for them. So instead of filling the manger with hay or corn, he fills it with himself (p. 80).

Our text makes two powerful demands clear, helping us to understand the true nature of the Advent event. It is not the miserable, weak, anxious Advent of popular “Christian” celebration, which we are so often contented with and which Christ deplores. The two demands are clear: “Look up. Raise your head.” Advent makes people whole: new people. We can also become new people in Advent. Stand up, look up, your view is too much down towards the earth, fixed upon the superficial changes and happenings of this earth. Look up, you who have turned away disappointed from heaven, see this Advent word. Look up, you whose eyes are heavy with tears and who mourn that the earth has snatched everything from you. Look up, you who are so heavy laden with guilt that you feel you cannot look up. Look up, your salvation draws near. When you look up, things look quite different from what you have seen day by day, more real, far greater, and more powerful. If only it were true. Be patient. Wait for a little while longer. Wait and something quite new will come over you. God will come. Jesus comes and takes up his abode with you and you become a redeemed people. Look up, stand, and watch. Keep your eyes open, waiting for the approaching deliverance. Lift up your heads—you army of men and women, bowed down with sorrow, demoralized, without hope, you defeated army of drooping heads. The battle is not yet lost. Lift up your heads. Yours is the victory. Take courage. Have no fear, no anxiety, no sorrow. Courage! Make the victory sure. Be strong, be able. Here there is no reason to droop your head, no more doubts, no uncertainty of the way. Freedom, salvation, and deliverance come. Look up; raise your heads. Be fearless and strong! Because Christ comes.

let the reader look at the singular practice still kept up in the South on Christmas-eve, of kissing under the mistletoe bough. That mistletoe bough in the Druidic superstition, which, as we have seen, was derived from Babylon, was a representation of the Messiah, "The man the branch." The mistletoe was regarded as a divine branch --a branch that came from heaven, and grew upon a tree that sprung out of the earth. Thus by the engrafting of the celestial branch into the earthly tree, heaven and earth, that sin had severed, were joined together, and thus the mistletoe bough became the token of Divine reconciliation to man, the kiss being the will-known token of pardon and reconciliation. Whence could such an idea have come? May it not have come from the eighty-fifth Psalm, ver. 10,11, "Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have KISSED each other. Truth shall spring out of the earth [in consequence of the coming of the promised Saviour], and righteousness shall look down from heaven"?

Three windows. And in the third, high in the top storey of the solid, snow-hushed house on this hill at the edge of Christmas the most extraordinary face of all: a visage of curious alloy: earthly wisdom and heavenly innocence, grief like a stone and humor like flame; a face of age and yet of ageless youth. Marya Alexander, mother of Nell Dance, sits in her flowered rocker by the glass and sees through it the soft, white onslaught of the snow and read within each intricately. Jeweled flake the timelessness of Time itself and of loss and of love and of love’s ending. Upon her old spectacles perches a small gold parakeet and she puffs now pensively upon a cigarette and blows the ghost of smoke against the enchanted window pane and witnesses there, for an instant, the misted image of faces long lost beneath so many snows, and smiles to herself at the knowing that Christmastide and a good heart’s breath against a cold pane are enough to bring lost faces back in evergreen eternity.

Christmas in those Catholic days was merry because the Queen of Heaven and Mother of the Infant King was honored in a thousand cathedrals and little parish churches. Mary was as near to the land which was her dowry as any mother should be to the Christmas of her beloved children. Naturally, inevitably the Mother brought with her the Infant whose birth had raised her to the highest dignity among womankind.

Buddha, who lived over 500 years before Jesus, was born of the Virgin Maya, which is the same as Mary. Maya conceived by the Holy Ghost, and thus Buddha was of the nature of God and man combined. Buddha was born on December 25, his birth was announced in the heavens by a star, and angels sang. He stood upon his feet and spoke at the moment of his birth; at five months of age he sat unsupported in the air; and at the moment of his conversion he was attacked by a legion of demons. He was visited by wise men, he was baptized, transfigured, performed miracles, rose from the dead, and on his ascension through the air to heaven, he left his footprint on a mountain in Ceylon.

Red and green, blue and yellow, weird fantastic shapes and colors, jiggling and winking and blaring in and out, each one trying to offer a mightier attraction to the eye than the other. Christmas signs. What a travesty on Christmas! The birth of the Savior of the world mixed up with advertisements of beer and toys! Christmas commercialized! She sighed over the way the world was going. Yet Christmas had always been to her the crowning joy of the year. The time when human love and beauty reached up and touched heaven, and earthly hates and passions were forgotten for a little while because of the long-ago birth of the Christ child.

The Government liked them because they willingly accepted governmental constraints and controls, for the world economy was gradually pulling itself back together. People were even talking about the Gross National Product again, and President Merdle had predicted a return to normalcy by Christmas.

Horizontal comparisons tend to stimulate self-righteousness. Think of the contrast between the words of the Pharisee and the tax collector in Jesus’s parable in Luke 18. He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt: “Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.’ But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.” (Luke 18:9–14) In comparing himself to other people who are obviously more sinful than he is, the Pharisee essentially tells God that he doesn’t need him, and he surely doesn’t need his forgiveness. How ironic it is to tell the One to whom you are praying that you don’t need him. How strange is it to turn prayer into an argument for your independence rather than a humble confession of personal need. The argument of the Pharisee has two parts. First, he compares himself to others, and then he offers evidence that he is really quite righteous. Sadly, in this man’s prayer, he is participating in his own deception—​​​a deception that will be his doom. The tax collector does just the opposite. Why is he so quick to cry out for God’s mercy? He’s quick to do so because he’s looked into the mirror of God’s Word. You cannot read God’s Word without becoming deeply aware that you are a person in desperate need. You cannot read God’s Word without being confronted with the sin that lives in your heart. You cannot read your Bible without facing the fact that you constantly fall beneath God’s wise and holy standard. You cannot properly celebrate the Christmas story without also being willing to receive its clear and loving rebuke.

Millions of people every Christmas sing, “Jesus, our Immanuel,” but are they really with him? Do they know him or do they only know about him? Jesus literally moved heaven and earth to get near us—what should we be doing now to truly be with him?

In the Hosanna acclamation, then, we find an expression of the complex emotions of the pilgrims accompanying Jesus and of his disciples: joyful praise of God at the moment of the processional entry, hope that the hour of the Messiah had arrived, and at the same time a prayer that the Davidic kingship and hence God’s kingship over Israel would be reestablished. As mentioned above, this passage from Psalm 118: “Blessed is he who enters in the name of the Lord!” had originally formed part of Israel’s pilgrim liturgy used for greeting pilgrims as they entered the city or the Temple. This emerges clearly from the second part of the verse: “We bless you from the house of the Lord.” It was a blessing that the priests addressed and, as it were, bestowed upon the pilgrims as they arrived. But in the meantime the phrase “who enters in the name of the Lord” had acquired Messianic significance. It had become a designation of the one promised by God. So from being a pilgrim blessing, it became praise of Jesus, a greeting to him as the one who comes in the name of the Lord, the one awaited and proclaimed by all the promises. It may be that this strikingly Davidic note, found only in Saint Mark’s text, conveys most accurately the pilgrims’ actual expectations at that moment. Luke, on the other hand, writing for Gentile Christians, completely omits the Hosanna and the reference to David, and in its place he gives an exclamation reminiscent of Christmas: “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” (19:38; cf. 2:14). All three Synoptic Gospels, as well as Saint John, make it very clear that the scene of Messianic homage to Jesus was played out on his entry into the city and that those taking part were not the inhabitants of Jerusalem, but the crowds who accompanied Jesus and entered the Holy City with him.

Getting It Right" Your ankles make me want to party, want to sit and beg and roll over under a pair of riding boots with your ankles hidden inside, sweating beneath the black tooled leather; they make me wish it was my birthday so I could blow out their candles, have them hung over my shoulders like two bags full of money. Your ankles are two monster-truck engines but smaller and lighter and sexier than a saucer with warm milk licking the outside edge; they make me want to sing, make me want to take them home and feed them pasta, I want to punish them for being bad and then hold them all night long and say I’m sorry, sugar, darling, it will never happen again, not in a million years. Your thighs make me quiet. Make me want to be hurled into the air like a cannonball and pulled down again like someone being pulled into a van. Your thighs are two boats burned out of redwood trees. I want to go sailing. Your thighs, the long breath of them under the blue denim of your high-end jeans, could starve me to death, could make me cry and cry. Your ass is a shopping mall at Christmas, a holy place, a hill I fell in love with once when I was falling in love with hills. Your ass is a string quartet, the northern lights tucked tightly into bed between a high-count-of-cotton sheets. Your back is the back of a river full of fish; I have my tackle and tackle box. You only have to say the word. Your back, a letter I have been writing for fifteen years, a smooth stone, a moan someone makes when his hair is pulled, your back like a warm tongue at rest, a tongue with a tab of acid on top; your spine is an alphabet, a ladder of celestial proportions. I am navigating the North and South of it. Your armpits are beehives, they make me want to spin wool, want to pour a glass of whiskey, your armpits dripping their honey, their heat, their inexhaustible love-making dark. I am bright yellow for them. I am always thinking about them, resting at your side or high in the air when I’m pulling off your shirt. Your arms of blue and ice with the blood running to make them believe in God. Your shoulders make me want to raise an arm and burn down the Capitol. They sing to each other underneath your turquoise slope-neck blouse. Each is a separate bowl of rice steaming and covered in soy sauce. Your neck is a skyscraper of erotic adult videos, a swan and a ballet and a throaty elevator made of light. Your neck is a scrim of wet silk that guides the dead into the hours of Heaven. It makes me want to die, your mouth, which is the mouth of everything worth saying. It’s abalone and coral reef. Your mouth, which opens like the legs of astronauts who disconnect their safety lines and ride their stars into the billion and one voting districts of the Milky Way. Darling, you’re my President; I want to get this right! Matthew Dickman, The New Yorker: Poems | August 29, 2011 Issue

Emily, I am confident, would not be able to resist telling her own tale on a snowy Christmas Eve, regardless of Colin’s feelings on the subject. She would, however, wait until the boys were just a bit older before sharing it with them. Heaven knows what it might inspire Henry to do.

Ah, that was the hardest thing to relinquish! Vigor of mind. The material things were not hard to give up, but memory, intellect, even perhaps at last the power to pray, those most precious treasures that had been symbolized by the books upon his shelves, from these it would be hard to part. Being human, he was feeling slightly sorry for himself at the moment and he found himself praying that he might never part from them, that he might die before that final stripping. Then, as he turned north at the corner of the lane and the cold wind struck him, he remembered the season. Christmas Eve. The Child in the manger had not only stripped Himself of the glory of heaven but of His wisdom too. The doing of the will of God had caused Him to lie there possessing neither memory, intellect nor the power to pray.

The Puritan preacher Richard Sibbes put it this way: God hath joined these two together as one chief end and good. The one, that he might be glorified. The other, that we might be happy. And both these are attained by honoring and serving him. . . . Thus our happiness and God’s chief end agree together. . . . What a sweetness is this in God, that in seeking our own good we would glorify him.1 Here today the sweetness of God is visiting us again, as with the shepherds so long ago. He is calling us to receive with thankful joy our Savior. He is calling us to join in the heavenly celebration, that we might be happy as he is glorified. God has come to us in Christ to bring glory to himself in the highest as he grants us peace here in our lives. What can we do but rejoice?

the Son of God was coming to earth—a King entering His domain! In heaven, angels do God’s bidding and offer ceaseless worship. How appropriate that heavenly servants be given a part in preparing the way for the Savior’s birth!

Ma’am,” he said solemnly to Miz Demetrice, “you shine as luminously as the lone star that warms our daily hearths and brightens our heavenly bodies.

You are made of the dust of this earth, and you are made of the happiness of heaven, and you are flesh and you are spirit, and you are of two worlds longing for the home of forever and Him.

Christmas is not about tinsel and mistletoe or even ornaments and presents, but about what means will we use toward the end of a peace from heaven upon our earth. Or is “peace on earth” but a Christmas ornament taken each year from attic or basement and returned there as soon as possible?

All promised him to me: The heaven's edge, dark and kind, And lovely Christmas sleep And multi-ringing Easter wind, And the red branches of a twig, And waterfalls inside a park, And two dragonflies On rusty iron of a bulwark. And I could not disbelieve, That he'll befriend me all alone When on the mountain slopes I went Along hot pathway made of stone.

The emotional roller coaster of that Christmas morning is a lighthearted and fun picture of a hard reality. God often withholds, or even takes away, something from us in order to give us something far greater. Our Father in heaven knows all our needs, has plans for us we never could have imagined for ourselves, and wields the whole universe for our good. But doing what’s best for us often requires causing us some pain or discomfort first, like drilling a cavity or resetting a bone. God’s love can be unpleasant, even excruciating in the moment, but it always steers us through every dark valley to unparalleled life and joy. It also saves us all kinds of grief and pain in the future.

This is the one thing I managed to keep. I’d rather give it to you privately, since I have nothing for the others.” Hesitantly she took the object from his open palm. It was a small, exquisite black cameo rimmed with pearls. A woman on a horse. “The woman is Athena,” Devon said. “According to myth, she invented the bridle and was the first ever to tame a horse.” Kathleen looked down at the gift in wonder. First the shawl…now this. Personal, beautiful, thoughtful things. No one had ever understood her taste so acutely. Damn him. “It’s lovely,” she said unsteadily. “Thank you.” Through a glaze of incipient tears, she saw him grin. Unclasping the little pin, she tried to fasten it to the center of her collar. “Is it straight?” “Not quite.” The backs of his fingers brushed her throat as he adjusted the cameo and pinned it. “I have yet to actually see you ride,” he said. “West claims that you’re more accomplished than anyone he’s ever seen.” “An exaggeration.” “I doubt that.” His fingers left her collar. “Happy Christmas,” he murmured, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. As the pressure of his lips lifted, Kathleen stepped back, trying to create a necessary distance between them. Her heel brushed against some solid, living thing, and a sharply indignant squeal startled her. “Oh!” Kathleen leaped forward instinctively, colliding with Devon’s front. His arms closed around her automatically, even as a pained grunt escaped him. “Oh--I’m sorry…What in heaven’s name--” She twisted to see behind her and broke off at the sight of Hamlet, who had come to root beneath the Christmas tree for stray sweets that had fallen from paper cones as they’d been removed from the branches. The pig snuffled among the folds of the tree skirt and the scattered presents wrapped in colored paper. Finding a tidbit to consume, he oinked in satisfaction. Kathleen shook her head and clung to Devon as laughter trembled through both of them. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, her hand resting lightly at the side of his waistcoat. His smiling lips grazed her temple. “Of course not, you little makeweight.” They stayed together in that delicious moment of scattered light and fragrant spruce and irresistible attraction.

Happy Christmas,” he murmured, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. As the pressure of his lips lifted, Kathleen stepped back, trying to create a necessary distance between them. Her heel brushed against some solid, living thing, and a sharply indignant squeal startled her. “Oh!” Kathleen leaped forward instinctively, colliding with Devon’s front. His arms closed around her automatically, even as a pained grunt escaped him. “Oh--I’m sorry…What in heaven’s name--” She twisted to see behind her and broke off at the sight of Hamlet, who had come to root beneath the Christmas tree for stray sweets that had fallen from paper cones as they’d been removed from the branches. The pig snuffled among the folds of the tree skirt and the scattered presents wrapped in colored paper. Finding a tidbit to consume, he oinked in satisfaction. Kathleen shook her head and clung to Devon as laughter trembled through both of them. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, her hand resting lightly at the side of his waistcoat. His smiling lips grazed her temple. “Of course not, you little makeweight.” They stayed together in that delicious moment of scattered light and fragrant spruce and irresistible attraction. The entrance hall was quiet now; the guests had proceeded en masse to the drawing room. Devon’s head lowered, and he kissed the side of her throat. “I want you in my bed again,” he whispered. Working his way along her neck, he found a sensitive place that made her shiver and arch, the tip of his tongue stroking a soft pulse. It seemed as if her body had become attuned to his, excitement leaping instantly at his nearness, delight pooling hotly in her stomach. How easy it would be to let him have whatever he wanted of her. To yield to the pleasure he could give her, and think only of the present moment.

God is the end. I look into the myriad multitudes of the stars that shine like radiant beams of florid hopefulness, pinholes into heaven itself, and see that as God is my origin and the meaning to each day and each moment, so God will be my ending. I do not need to describe it or explain it, and even if I did it cannot be so reduced. But I do believe it. It is my pulse. It is simply this: my life is an offering of praise to the wonderful God who made life possible.

Heaven is where Christmas came from. And if we give it permission to do so, someday it will take us back there with it.

because Christians believed that the death of a holy person was a new birth in heaven, and they honored that date.

THE PILGRIM'S WANTS.' "'I want a sweet sense of Thy pardoning love, That my manifold sins are forgiven; That Christ, as my Advocate, pleadeth above, That my name is recorded in heaven. "'I want every moment to feel That thy Spirit resides in my heart— That his power is present to cleanse and to heal, And newness of life to impart. "'I want—oh! I want to attain Some likeness, my Saviour, to thee! That longed for resemblance once more to regain, Thy comeliness put upon me. "'I want to be marked for thine own— Thy seal on my forehead to wear; To receive that new name on the mystic white stone Which none but thyself can declare. "'I want so in thee to abide As to bring forth some fruit to thy praise; The branch which thou prunest, though feeble and dried, May languish, but never decays. "'I want thine own hand to unbind Each tie to terrestrial things, Too tenderly cherished, too closely entwined, Where my heart so tenaciously clings. "'I want, by my aspect serene, My actions and words, to declare That my treasure is placed in a country unseen, That my heart's best affections are there. "'I want as a trav'ller to haste Straight onward, nor pause on my way; Nor forethought in anxious contrivance to waste On the tent only pitched for a day. "'I want—and this sums up my prayer— To glorify thee till I die; Then calmly to yield up my soul to thy care, And breathe out in faith my last sigh.

Thank the heavens above for Mrs. Hopkins, Lauren thought. If she didn't watch Kristen before and after school every day, she couldn't have taken that job at Woodlawn Industries as a customer service representative. She'd still be waitressing and paying baby- sitters top money just to make ends meet. At least now, she had a chance to make something for herself and Kristen. The Woodlawn position offered her the chance for advancement and training she never would have gotten if she'd remained at the restaurant she'd worked at since leaving home.

two girls descended the stairs and burst into the kitchen where Mrs Spencer was placidly ironing Rebecca’s best skirt. She looked up and smiled as her daughter entered the room. ‘Going out?’ she queried. ‘You’ll come in after five minutes out there like a pair of drowned rats.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘Cassie’s going, I’m staying,’ she said decidedly, and turned to take Cassie’s navy mac from the peg on the door. ‘Want to borrow a brolly? Heaven knows we’ve got enough of ’em.’ ‘No thanks; the rain won’t melt me,’ Cassie said gaily. She

He is my Savior. He is my friend. He was born in a manger. And died for my sins. He still lives in heaven above, Looking down on us. He loves us so much, Even if sometimes we’re dumb. And so, we celebrate Christmas every year, Loving God and bringing holiday cheer. But we often get so mixed up in the spirit, We don’t realize what makes Christmas. It’s not about the eggnog, presents, Reindeer, or even elves. It’s about God who sent His One and only Son, Jesus for us. So, whatever you do this year, Remember Christmas is about Jesus, Not Santa Claus and Reindeer. Merry Christmas, Dear!

There is a knock at the door and Mom answers it. “Hi, Joe, how are you doing?” “Terrific, I hope you have enough room in your refrigerator for this big bird! The Blisses send their best wishes.” Joe, a very thin wiry man, came close to stumbling over the threshold as he juggled the big, cold, slippery bird through the living room ‘round to our kitchen and into the refrigerator. “Thanks Joe, Happy Thanksgiving to you and all your family. Can you stay for a cup of coffee and some warm cookies?” “No thanks, I’m pressed for time and have a few more stops to make. I’ll see you at Christmas time.” We always saw Joe Lynch every Thanksgiving and Christmas making his rounds with the gift Turkeys from the Blisses. One year we saw him in the grocery store and he asked my Mom, “How many pounds should the bird be this year?” Whether Thanksgiving or Christmas, the gift birds were always appreciated and would always be stuffed with Grandma’s secret recipe dressing passed down from her family in Argentina. One of the secret ingredients is Gulden’s mustard. It just wouldn’t be the holidays without that heavenly aroma teasing our senses for hours.

Heaven is breaking into our world.

Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of our Christmas associations and of the lessons that they bring, expands! Let us welcome every one of them, and summon them to take their places by the Christmas hearth. Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy, to your shelter underneath the holly! We know you, and have not outlived you yet. Welcome, old projects and old loves, however fleeting, to your nooks among the steadier lights that burn around us. Welcome, all that was ever real to our hearts; and for the earnestness that made you real, thanks to Heaven! Do we build no Christmas castles in the clouds now? Let our thoughts, fluttering like butterflies among these flowers of children, bear witness!

No matter who your earthly family is or how they failed you, your heavenly Father will never deny you nor forsake you.’ That made me think about why Jesus was born.” “ ‘Because he will save his people from their sins,

The paper looked a lot like the “lists” he would give us for birthday or Christmas presents he wanted, I thought. And I was almost right. “What’s this?” I asked, with the sort of sing-song voice a father gives to a child when he’s been handed an art project. Samuel said, “Those are all the toys at the store that I also want to take to heaven with me when I die.” I could hardly think of the words to say. Later that night, I lay awake in the bed, and said to my wife, “Do you realize what a failure I am as both a father and as a theologian? I basically lied to my son about the eschaton, and simultaneously taught him to store up on earth the treasures he wants to take to heaven. That’s the exact opposite of what Jesus taught. That means that, in terms of parenting, I am literally anti-Christ.” Maria laughed, and said that I should wash the imaginary “666” from my forehead. But I still slept uneasily, knowing that for all my self-image as a man of gospel courage, my Christian conviction couldn’t stand up to a toy owlet.

The kingdom of heaven is nonviolent, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be opposed with violence by those who seek to shape the world through lethal force.

Actually, they weren’t just men. They were gods! My brain instantly lit up like a Christmas tree while my libido had already taken a leap of faith straight into their laps.

— I listen to In the Wee Small Hours from start to finish twice. I wonder if Jen would like it—whether she’d find it too depressing or whether she’d like its sentimentality. It’s weird not being in our subculture of two any more. There was Jen’s culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she’d already learnt she loved before we met me. Chorizo and Jonathan Franzen and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Big dogs and Greek islands and poached eggs and tennis. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the words absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP Sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. Chicken bhuna, strange-looking cats and always having squash or cans of soft drinks in the house. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, fried eggs, ten hours’ sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. Never missing dental check-ups. Sister Sledge (my mum). Watching TV even if the weather is nice. Cadbury’s

Hush! Wait. What’s the rush? Why do we try to outguess God? He will come when he comes But nobody knows Jesus said: I don’t know when. Even the angels in Heaven don’t know. Only God. Hush!

Then, note, if angels shouted before and when the world was made, their hallelujahs were more full, more strong, more magnificent, if not more hearty, when they saw Jesus Christ born of the Virgin Mary to be man’s redeemer—“Glory to God in the highest.” What is the instructive lesson to be learned from this first syllable of the angels’ song? Why this, that salvation is God’s highest glory. He is glorified in every dew drop that twinkles to the morning sun. He is magnified in every wood flower that blossoms in the copse, although it live to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness in the forest air. God is glorified in every bird that warbles on the spray; in every lamb that skips the mead. Do not the fishes in the sea praise him? From the tiny minnow to the huge Leviathan, do not all creatures that swim the water bless and praise his name? Do not all created things extol him? Is there aught beneath the sky, save man, that doth not glorify God? Do not the stars exalt him, when they write his name upon the azure of heaven in their golden letters? Do not the lightnings adore him when they flash his brightness in arrows of light piercing the midnight darkness? Do not thunders extol him when they roll like drums in the march of the God of armies? Do not all things exalt him, from the least even to the greatest? But sing, sing, oh universe, till thou hast exhausted thyself, thou canst not afford a song so sweet as the song of incarnation. Though creation may be a majestic organ of praise, it cannot reach the compass of the golden canticle—incarnation. There is more in that than in creation, more melody in Jesus in the manger, than there is in worlds on worlds rolling their grandeur round the throne of the Most High. Pause Christian, and consider this a minute. See how every attribute is here magnified.

All Christmas afternoon I had the joy of locating geographical spots my mom would call out . . . Singapore, Latvia, Montreal, New Zealand, the Amazon, Moscow, Delhi. It was more torturous for this thirteen-year-old than three days in a Siberian Gulag. It wasn’t until several years later that the significance of that gift finally dawned on me. Now it’s a powerful metaphor for the all-encompassing vision that God had for the world at Christmas—the mission He would give to me: God elevated him to the place of highest honor and gave him the name above all other names, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue declare that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. PHILIPPIANS 2:9-11

You should get a pet.” Penelope gazed up at the heavens for strength. “What would be the point of a pet?” Virginia sighed happily. “Something to love.” “I told you,” Penelope said. “I don’t believe in love.” “Something to love you.” Virginia opened her eyes and clapped her hands with excitement. “I have an extra bird.” “I do not want a bird,” Penelope said quickly. “Do not give me a bird.” Virginia narrowed her eyes. “Are you afraid the bird won’t like you?” “I don’t care if birds like me.” “Are you afraid the bird won’t choose you?” Virginia insisted. “I do not want any bird to choose me.” “Everyone cares when they’re not chosen.

I’d move heaven and earth to make sure Millie had the best Christmas ever. Enough that she’d forget all this shit with the pub and her stupid boss. One where I’d end up with the one thing I’d been dreaming about since high school. I didn’t need gifts of socks and jocks or aftershave of questionable quality, just Millie. If I could make her mine, I’d never ask Santa for another thing.

Two rows of straight Jacobean chairs stood facing each other. On one side were the men; on the other the women. When the house was full, with all the guests, servants, and visiting servants, there was a goodly company. The service always ended with the same hymn, called the Benediction hymn, sung kneeling: Father give us now Thy Blessing, Take us now beneath Thy Care; May we all enjoy Thy presence. And Thy tender mercies share. Guard us through this night from danger, Keep us in Thy heavenly love; Through our life do Thou be near us, Then receive us all above.

Sleeping under the stars isn’t so bad,” Jones exclaimed, waving his hands dramatically toward the heavens. “They’re God’s own nightlights.