Christmas . . . I admit, I love this time of year. I love the traditions and everything that precedes the celebration of our Lord's birth. Somehow I always envision our family gathered around the Christmas tree, hanging ornaments gaily, sipping eggnog, the cozy fire in the background. Sounds like a magazine cover - just not my house! Oh, if was fun. And there were tears. Usually mine, as one of the ornaments shatters. With fourteen little hands, it's inevitable that something will happen. As I watched the crushed face of one of my girls, God reminded me again that it's not the ornaments that are precious. . .
However, there is one ornament that is given a place of honor on our tree. Front and center. Most would not think it worthy of such a spot. It's a plain, leather cross with minimal decor. 1992 is stamped at the bottom. It was one of the first ornaments Paul and I were given that first Christmas together. Made by the hands of my older brother, a testimony of God's amazing love and grace in the life of one undeserving. A reminder to me of His power and faithfulness. A "stone" that we set out in order to proclaim to the next generation that God is good and He does good. Jon and Linda survived a near fatal car accident that previous June and the cross was made in rehab. It is a reminder, as well, that same God who saved them physically and spiritually, is continuing to keep them and complete them. And me.
I love traditions, but only has they point to Christ.
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