With the holiday almost upon us, I thought I would share with you this Christmas poem from my poetry/devotional book The Grace of Rain. 

What are your favorite Christmas memories? What images, smells, and sounds stand out in your mind?

For me, its bubble lights, hot cider, Bing Crosby and White Christmas. For a little boy like me, who did get a BB gun when he was very young, there always is the movie A Christmas Story, and the warning, “you’ll shoot your eye out,” which I never did. I do hope you relive many of your fondest Christmas moments this year and find your way Back to Joy.

By the way, if you’ve seen A Christmas Story, you will relate to the first two lines of the poem— Ralphie was my initial inspiration for this piece.



Down the stairs
my nephew flies.

The day is here,
it’s finally arrived.
He knew it would, he had no doubt.
He knows what Christmas is all about.

He weaves his way through hips and thighs,
lifted elbows and judging eyes.

For him, all other celebrations,
they’re practices
and preparations,
little Christmas imitations.

Knees hit the carpet before the tree,
small eyes and fingers darting free.

At times it must have seemed far off,
this little guy, he never scoffed.
Distracted perhaps by summer and school,
then pumpkins, turkey and the weather got cool.

Colors flashing as tags are read,
sifted, sorted and stacked instead.

Then browns and golds turned reds and greens—
colors, smells, sounds and scenes.
Christmas had come, the world made sense.
The rest of the year was mere pretense.

He sits back and grins– job well done.
Then turns and strains to find his mum.

I’ve seen him at birthdays, at school and at play,
nothing compares to Christmas day.
But it’s not just the presents, and not just the day;
the whole season affects him in such a deep way.

His smile returns as our eyes meet.
He motions for me to have a seat.

Where have I lost
that kind of joy,
and traded away
what I had as a boy?

My magic childhood Christmas dreams,
the confidence that there was more,
they grew into ambitious schemes,
that once achieved became a bore.
Each successive toy began
to gather dust and grime.
Mistaken for the source of joy,
they could not bear the weight of time.
But Christmas holds the promise still,
the reason we all yearn for more.
Gifts of this life cannot fulfill,
to point the way is what they’re for.
When they no longer have to bear
the weight of all our longings,
gifts can be enjoyed and lead to where
in Christ are true belongings.

We adults,
we stand around,
while children live
where joy is found.

I gladly put my coffee down
and joined my nephew on the ground.