Snow falls this hallowed eve, blanketing the earth with mounds of white, muting sound and creating the kind of silent night we sing about this time of year. Two thousand years after the extraordinary night Christ was born, we slip on our coats and mitts to trudge down the hill to our stone-steepled church in the square. Others join the nighttime parade, their voices mingling with the hundred-year-old bells clanging carols through the frosty air. The stained-glass windows glow with rich, subdued colour, the panes depicting the promise of God’s embracing love.
As we descend the hill, snowflakes—each one its own miniature miracle—drift down from darkened sky, insulating the earth in quietness. Holiness. Sacredness. Hushing us like a baby in his mother’s arms. Silently covering the darkness with white as though mimicking what the Christ child born this night came to do. The miraculous night when heaven held its breath as the event that changed everything unfolded on earth.
Inside the church, our voices rise in greetings amid the flicker of candles and excitement. Centuries later, and even now, this is no ordinary night. Though not visible, the anticipation is palpable, as though the choir of angels’ voices echoes through time to mingle with the organ and our feeble attempts of praise. We stand beneath the nave’s beams, hewn by those whose faith preceded ours, our hearts kindled by His love, sinners made sacred by the Son.
On a night like this, when snowflakes fell and cattle called, God sent His Son to us. A night where pitch black fields, stretched before shepherds minding their sheep, were illuminated by God’s glory. When angels appeared and spoke to trembling humans to tell them of Christ’s birth. When a radiant light directed the star studiers to an unlikely town and baby. When a young, ordinary woman gave birth to the Saviour of the world in a room shared with animals. A night that changed everything. The night when the Promised One came to us.
An ordinary night turned holy night that left its mark on the world—by the calendar and the years—but also on our hearts. Once we experience such pure love—God’s love—we cannot be the same. Deep within us, like the illuminated shepherd’s field, we too are brightened by His love. Transformed by Love in human form, born that sacred night. His life that gives us life is a gift we tightly embrace.
Indeed, the greatest gift we will ever receive came in the form of a baby who reached through time and hearts and hurts to find us, and who entered our human existence to live alongside us. To do for us what we could never do for ourselves. To die in our place and rescue us.
Even now, the babe wrapped in blankets wraps his love around us. His love is infinitely enough—everything we search for and all we ever need. A purifying, sacrificial love that made a way for us to the Father and seeks to live with us. Love that never leaves us nor forsakes us. No other love can compare to this.
This Christmas, as we gather in churches and around tables and trees, may we thank God anew for the miraculous gift of Jesus, the divine gift of His love, and the gift of abundant life we have in Him both here and now and in the life to come. May we allow this season to kindle our faith, embrace God’s love more fully, and freely share that love with those around us. May we collectively praise God with arms and hearts open wide for what He did on the night that changed everything.
You’ve heard me bemoan it before, my propensity to be imperfectly tidy. I admire organized living environments, but, being a recovering perfectionist, I’ve never quite managed the feat. 
This past weekend we made our annual trek to the Christmas tree farm. My husband is a pro at determining whether the tree is a suitable height to fit beneath our 10′ ceilings. This is important because trees always look a lot smaller in the field… until you get them home.