The richness of Handel’s Messiah rolled over me in crescendoes. It filled my house with its heavenly music. Christmas isn’t Christmas without it.
“Mom, we lost baby Jesus again!” my frustrated daughter shouted from the living room.
The words were weighty in a house decorated with glittering candles, lighted tree and music in the background.
I knew exactly what she meant. The wooden set, simple in design with painted faces and unrefined figures was meant be childproof. I wanted our children to reenact the story, imagine the scene, and become participants of so-long-ago. The creche had accomplished just that, but the problem was, we often came up short with its pieces.
I sighed, wiped my hands against my apron and headed over for the Jesus search. While we lifted cushions and bent low to peer under furniture the words, “We lost baby Jesus again,” troubled my heart.Was the Majesty of the Person rather than the magic of a season foremost in our family’s Christmas?
“For unto us a child is born unto us a Son is given,” Handel’s chorus drew me again to Jesus, the central figure of my frantic attempts to make the season special.
And there He was, a minute piece of wood carved onto a round base stuck under the stuffed chair.
“Here He is!” I pulled Jesus out triumphantly and held Him up for my daughter to see.
We centered Him in His proper place within the nativity set while the music soared.
“And His name shall be called, Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”
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