Feeling Christmas

 Every Christmas the feeling returns, one I've felt since childhood.  As a young boy growing up in Germany, I went with my family to celebrate Christmas at my grandmother's house, which sits high on a hill in the town of my birth near the former East German border. My grandmother's home had splendid views of the scenic landscape. When the winter snow blankets the rolling hills, the scenery becomes dreamlike, as if living inside a snow globe.  Snowflakes twirl in the creamy light of the lampposts, the flurry of white flecks carpeting the countryside fairy-tale like.  Mounds of powder cover the streets and sidewalks near the home.  Down the hill sits a forest of pines and firs, thick, dense, the trees tall and stout, a formation of elegance, the branches laden with snow, bending.

I remember days of running with laughter, crisp, clean air surging through my lungs, the clear winter blue of the sky, my feet rising and falling in the white frost.  A feeling would envelop me, occupying the innocence of my childlike wonder, even as the iciness of the Cold War intensified in the backdrop of my world.  I could not explain the feeling or describe it.  I understood little about the emotion, except that it felt good, right, always surfacing at Christmas, a sensation part hope, part peace, feeling miraculous and timeless, returning year after year, at Christmas.

Across the years, I've found myself in numerous cities throughout the world during the Christmas season.  No matter where I've been, I always felt the feeling.  I recall a time in Munich ambling through the Christmas market – an annual event held in most German cities.  The market was teeming with booths offering everything seasonal.  Outdoor chandeliers, large and bright, hung suspended in the air spanning the Marienplatz, Munich's famed pedestrian zone.  The chandeliers were in the shapes of angels, bells, trees, wreaths, lighting up the night with thousands of white Christmas lights, transforming the city square into an imaginary wonderland.  Orchestras and choirs filled the air with Christmas music, as horse drawn carriages glided near with lovers snuggled tight.  Children stood in frozen wonder in front of stalls peddling teddy bears, toy Santas, hot cocoa, and holiday candy.  The scent of pine mingled with mulled wine vapors; the char of roasting chestnuts with bratwurst sizzling on griddles.  Stands sold fried potato pancakes, pretzel-shaped glazed doughnuts the size of the Berlin Wall.  Dozens of kiosks were titillated with the most mouth-watering desserts, every type of chocolate and cake imaginable.  And of course there were the stalls selling Gluehwein, beer, and a dozen varieties of hot drink to keep you warm.  Yet, trumping all this was that intimate feeling of childhood, of Christmas, of something magical.  Even the weather conspired to endorse the miraculous feeling I felt as an armada of clouds appeared from nowhere, sprinkling a sweet dusting of snow onto the spires and medieval beer halls of Munich.

Around the world, Christmas is celebrated, on every continent, even in nations where it's illegal to practice Christianity.  Regardless of the environment, a subtle message is seen, a tinge of the miraculous felt, as the feeling of Christmas hovers in every land.  The world is conscious of the miracle child of Bethlehem, allowing thoughts of the miraculous to infiltrate the finite orbit of our lives, providing us with a sense of what can be, of impossibility occurring.  A feeling churns inside of us during the Christmas season, one uncommon at any other time of the year.  Even if you don't believe in the Christmas miracle, the divinity of Jesus, you remain conscious to the possibility of a God who exists.  Your spirit connects with that force of possibility, of something miraculous being available to you.

A miracle is the supernatural occurrence or intervention of God that transcends human or logical reasoning.  At different times in our lives, we require these supernatural manifestations.  When there's no way out, when human reasoning offers no hope, a miracle is needed.  And this is precisely the message found in Christmas, the feeling that seizes us.  Our hearts unite with a possibility of the miraculous occurring in our lives.  Feeling Christmas is feeling the miraculous, linking us to an act deemed impossible: A virgin giving birth.

The miracle of the first Christmas was not an end unto itself, nor was it temporal; it was a miracle of permanence, providing a foretaste of what God can do in our very lives.  Christmas reiterates the miraculous: God amongst us, His miraculous power available in every situation we face in life.  So even in prison, I encounter the feeling from my childhood at this Christmas season.  I feel it when I move, when I think. I feel it when I kneel, praying for those I love, my girls, my family, my friends.  I feel it when I stare at a razor-wired fence, holding onto promises spoken, the miracle God will provide.  I feel it at this very moment, in the stillness of the room in which I write. 

Night has fallen, bringing closure to another day.  Around me, the spirit of the season is on display. Snowflakes hang from pipes and light receptacles are masked in the colors of Christmas.  Hues of red and green fill the room.  Pillars are swathed in holiday gift-wrap, in loops of garland.  A fireplace sits in the corner, fabricated from cardboard, burning logs in the hearth.  The mantle bears stockings, the red bricked chimney stretches to the ceiling.  Along the far wall, window panes are colored in paintings.  Santa distributing toys.  Rudolph guiding a sled to earth.  Tweety Bird in a Santa hat.  Pooh Bear sledding down a hill.  Smurfs in green, aiding elves.  A Christmas tree twinkles nearby, branches bejeweled with ornaments, tinsel, multicolored lights draping the limbs.  Frosty the Snowman stands guard, button eyes, carrot nose, a broomstick in hand.  I wave. I think he waves back. A familiar feeling overtakes me. A miracle occurring.

        I close my eyes.  The room transforms itself into a classroom, my youngest daughter at my side, us united, hands clasped, together in the folds of Christmas, her face beaming with delight.  She leads me to her desk, her steps eager and jumpy, her heart drumming, picks up a gingerbread man and candy cane.

        "Look Daddy, I made these."

        I see the excitement in her eyes, the wonder of creation.  I feel the sensation she is feeling, flaunting her craftsmanship, her gaze alive with the miraculous, so proud, a thought becoming matter, an idea budding into a miracle.

        "Those are amazing, sweetie.  So amazing.  Wow."

        A bright smile adorns her face, and right there in that smile I see everything that is important in life, more important than anything in the world.  Her mother and grandparents applaud her efforts, sing her praises.  Her two older sisters come bursting into the classroom, dressed in layers, scarves draping necks, gloves warming hands, festive knit caps crowning their heads.  They scream with glee.

        "Shelby!"

        "Look at that amazing candy cane!"

        "That gingerbread man is awesome!"

        Shelby basks in the attention, the affirmation she is feeling, the goodness.  Her sisters embrace her achievement, sustaining her childlike thoughts, aiding her to believe she has just created the most remarkable gingerbread man and most beautiful candy cane in history.  She feels something she should feel, a feeling every child should feel.  Something miraculous.

        Loved.  Adored.  Special. Treasured.  Wonderful. 

        The Feeling of Christmas.