It was the usual mayhem of opened plastic totes, lids tossed aside and Christmas decor spilling onto the floor. A just decorated tree and mantel already changed the entire look of the room. Awash with color and lights, every inch announced the arrival of the season. Three little boys added intensity with high pitched squeals, sliding across the floor and vibrating sparkle.
I can’t wrap my mind around the incarnate Christ. I can’t articulate the fullness of God-Man or the first quivering breath of a baby Jesus. When I contemplate God born of a virgin, born with the velvet skin of a baby lying in a manger, I come up short with finite descriptions for infinite truth.
This year the wonder of Baby Jesus arrives with even greater breath catching contrast. It breaks into the gloom and fear of 2020 with hope and joy. It shouts victory over darkness and death.
“Grandma,” he shouted because his volume is set on mostly very loud.
I turned and came near to where he stood. A play nativity set with its cute little figurines scattered the floor. In his tiny closed palm he held something tenderly, like a child would hold a baby chick, protecting, sheltering, not squeezing too tightly.
“Grandma, I know what this is,” he whispered.
And then he opened his palm and in a little plastic manager of hay was the sculpted figure of Baby Jesus.
“What is it?” I asked.
Eyes big as saucers, mouth wide in awe, he leaned forward so his nose almost touched mine. Two words from a three-year-old defined an ever indescribable, immense, too magnificent, wonderful, beyond description, far above understanding, unreachable reality.
“Baby God,” he said.
He looked down at the imitation treasure he held and then raised his eye to mine.
And from a store bought toy cradled through the pure imagination of a three-year-old, I rejoiced in priceless Christmas wonder.