It’s Christmas Eve. I am 5 (or 8 or 10). My father has read “The Night Before Christmas” to my brother and me. We’ve hung our stockings and put out a plate of cookies, and now I’m lying in bed, awake, filled with a sense of wonder and anticipation, laced with a giddy sense of mystery.
He’s coming. That magical guy.
I speak, of course, of Jesus.
Wait! Don’t stop reading. This is not a piece about the true meaning of Christmas and putting Christ back in it, I swear. In fact, it’s sort of the opposite.
You can read the rest of this short essay, about how I find the sacred in Christmas as a former Christian, over at Cognoscenti, our NPR station’s blog.
Merry Christmas, friends. (And happy, quiet, relaxing 25th to those who don’t celebrate the holiday.)
