never know precisely when it will arrive or what will produce
its spirit, but I can always be sure that it will happen.
parents. The day was frightfully cold, with swirls of snow
in the air, and I was looking out of the living room window
of my folks' home, which faces St. Mary's Church. Workmen
had just finished constructing the annual Nativity scene
in the churchyard when school let out for the day. Children
gathered excitedly around the creche, but they didn't stay
long; it was far too cold for lingering.
The wind lashed at her bare legs and caused her coat to fly open
in the front, but she was oblivious of the weather. All her attention
was riveted on the statues before her. Which one I couldn't tell.
Was it Mary? The Baby? The animals? I wondered.
wind quickly knotted her hair into a wild tangle, but she didn't
seem to notice that either. She had only one thought. Lovingly,
she wrapped her scarf around the statue of Baby Jesus. After
she had covered it, she patted the Baby and then kissed it on
the cheek. Satisfied, she skipped on down the street, her
hair frosted with tiny diamonds of ice.
Christmas had come once again.
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