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Tuesday, December 12, 2017

May Your Christmas Be Small

“Remember I said we're bringing Christmas back? Christmas is back, bigger and better than ever before. We're bringing Christmas back."
 #45, December 4, 2017


May your Christmas be so small this year, that you experience it like Mary did over 2000 years ago. Tenderly holding five or six pounds of a warm baby boy, who was wrapped in brown flesh, swaddled in cloth, and safely tucked into the crook of his mother’s arms.

May your Christmas be so small this year, that it feels like the grains of sand you hold at the beach, each tiny particle, infinite in number, slipping through the cracks and crevices of your fingers. And you stand in awe of a Creator who numbers each tiny grain of sand and each gigantic star in the sky.

May your Christmas be so small this year, that it reminds you of the wafer and the communion cup, the tiny meal that is also an abundant feast. And as you receive the small bit of bread and consume the barely-there sip of wine, may you join in a community of remembrance and resistance.

May your Christmas be so small this year, that it resembles a tiny blade of grass or dainty weed growing in the cracks of a Brooklyn sidewalk. And like this seemingly insignificant piece of vegetation, may you withstand the heels which attempt to crush your spirit and your joy, living to thrive in even the harshest of circumstances.

May your Christmas be so small this year, that your only gift is a tiny candle you cradle in your hands. A flame so small, but so powerful, that it shines bright and brings warmth when held close; a tiny light that even darkness cannot consume.

May your Christmas be so small this year, that it is distilled to its purest essence: a divine love so generous that it takes the form of fragile, vulnerable, and helpless humanity. A love that comes in the flesh of a helpless baby and not a triumphant king. A love that must be nursed, nurtured, and cherished. A love so small that it gently infiltrates the unseen scars and wounds we carry, and begins to knit us back together again.

 © Yolanda Pierce