Max Lucado is a well-known and beloved author as well as a minister at Oak Hills Church. Please see the Max Lucado website for additional stories, books, and other inspirational links.
I stumbled upon this gem many years ago when feeling sad and letdown at the end of a busy but happy Christmas season. It has now become an annual tradition to re-light the candles of our Advent wreath at the end of Christmas Day and read this story, which always makes me weep at the line "In the emotion of the father who is too thankful to finish the dinner table prayer." I have not been able to find it online again, but reproduce it here with all credit to Reverend Lucado.
Christmas Night
by Max Lucado
It’s Christmas night. The house is quiet. Even the crackle is gone from the fireplace. Warm coals issue a lighthouse glow in the darkened den. Stockings hang empty on the mantle. The tree stands naked in the corner. Christmas cards, tinsel, and memories remind Christmas night of Christmas Day.
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| Christmas night (Shutterstock 1505198771) |
Cranberry sauce. “Thank you so much.” “You shouldn’t have!” “Grandma on the phone.” Knee-deep wrapping paper. “It just fits.” Flashing cameras.
It’s Christmas night. The tree that only yesterday grew from soil made of gifts, again grows from the Christmas tree stand. Presents are now possessions. Wrapping paper is bagged and in the dumpster. The dishes are washed, and leftover turkey awaits next week’s sandwiches.
It’s Christmas night. The last of the carolers appeared on the ten o’clock news. The last of the apple pie was eaten by my brother-in-law. And the last of the Christmas albums have been stored away, having dutifully performed their annual rendition of chestnuts, white Christmases, and red-nosed reindeer.
It’s Christmas night.
The midnight hour has chimed, and I should be asleep, but I’m awake. I’m kept awake by one stunning thought. The world was different this week. It was temporarily transformed.
The magical dust of Christmas glittered on the cheeks of humanity ever so briefly, reminding us of what is worth having and what we were intended to be. We forgot our compulsion with winning, wooing, and warring. We put away our ladders and ledgers, we hung up our stopwatches and weapons. We stepped off our racetracks and roller coasters and looked outward toward the star of Bethlehem.
It’s the season to be jolly because, more than at any other time, we think of Him. More than in any other season, His name is on our lips.
And the results? For a few precious hours our heavenly yearnings intermesh, and we become a chorus. A ragtag chorus of longshoremen, Boston lawyers, illegal immigrants, housewives, and a thousand other peculiar persons who are banking that Bethlehem’s mystery is in reality, a reality. “Come and behold Him,” we sing, stirring even the sleepiest of shepherds and pointing them toward the Christ Child.
For a few precious hours, He is beheld. Christ the Lord. Those who pass the year without seeing Him, suddenly see Him. People who have been accustomed to using His name in vain, pause to use it in praise. Eyes, now free of the blinders of self, marvel at His majesty.
All of a sudden He’s everywhere.
In the grin of the policeman as he drives the paddy wagon full of presents to the orphanage.
In the twinkle in the eyes of the Taiwanese waiter as he tells of his upcoming Christmas trip to see his children.
In the emotion of the father who is too thankful to finish the dinner table prayer.
He’s in the tear of the mother as she welcomes home her son from overseas.
He’s in the heart of the man who spent Christmas morning on skid row giving away cold baloney sandwiches and warm wishes.
He’s in the solemn silence of the crowd of shopping mall shoppers as the elementary school chorus sings “Away in a Manger.”
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Emmanuel. He is with us. God came near.
It’s Christmas night. In a few hours the cleanup will begin—lights will come down, trees will be thrown out. Size thirty-six will be exchanged for size forty, eggnog will be on sale for half price.
Soon life will be normal again. December’s generosity will become January’s payments, and the magic will begin to fade.
But for the moment, the magic is still in the air. Maybe that’s why I’m still awake. I want to savor the spirit just a bit more. I want to pray that those who beheld Him today will look for Him next August. And I can’t help but linger on one fanciful thought: if He can do so much with such timid prayers offered in December, how much more could He do if we thought of Him every day?
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To continue your Christmas celebration through all twelve of the traditional days, see the "Christmas Is a Season" section of my Christmas Resource Guide.
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