This is the season where everything is meaningful. Christmas’ every trapping and trimming seems full of incredible gospel truth. That moon in the sky? Perhaps Mary and Joseph walked under such a moon. The last leaves rattling on the trees? All of nature is trembling in expectation. Gifts? Jesus is the gift. Trees? He was nailed to one. Carols? Angels rejoiced that night in Bethlehem with songs we can only dream of.
There are moments when I feel silly for being so caught up in a season–moments when I catch myself tearing up at commercials or at pictures on Christmas cards. Those are the moments when I start to reprimand myself for being overly emotional or too caught up in the things of this world. But when I scold myself, I hear another, smaller voice reminding me that Jesus loves the little children. He loves the ones who run to him with abandon and rejoice in all the beauty and wonder he has to offer.
Isn’t that truly what Christmas is about? Becoming a child to celebrate a child. If at any point I am to assign deeper meaning to things–isn’t this the season to do it? If I look at the garlands and ribbons and bows and see Christ and his birth and all it means, am I not setting my mind on the things that are eternal? The truth is, when I see my Christmas tree, I am really seeing Christ’s eternally beautiful birth and his eternally significant death. When I hear the carols, I am really hearing God’s everlasting promise to love his people and rescue them. What could be more perfect?