Many churches have early evening "family services" on Christmas Eve, so that young children don't have to stay up for "Midnight Mass." That's a mistake, I think. Children who stay up past midnight are less likely to awaken before the dawn on Christmas Day.
Not that I minded the soft, "Merry Christmas, Aunt Linda," even at 6:30 a.m. The whole family congregated in the family room, where we opened our stockings. This was followed by the joyful ending of Jotham's Journey, with all five candles of the Advent wreath alight. Some have faulted the book for mixing a fictional tale with Bible truths, but—as with all good historical fiction—this story returns the shining wonder to events tarnished by distance and sanctimonious repetition.
After breakfast we exchanged gifts by the Christmas tree. Of course the boys eagerly sought out the gifts with their names on them, but it was encouraging to see them still more eager for others to open the gifts (many handmade) from them.
In the quiet of the afternoon, between games and books and Lego creations, we listened to a new CD, the American Boy Choir's Carol. Their rendition of Donald Fraser's This Christmastide (Jessye's Carol) transported me to a time in my life where I had caught a glimpse of heaven amid the sin-stained realities of this world. It was an experience of music, worship, and church body life that I now know was a rare and brief gift. The experience is gone, but the gift remains.
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