The closer we get to Christmas the louder it gets. I can almost hear Bing Crosby crooning away. His deep timber rouses images of glistening snow, jingling sleigh bells, and rosy-cheeked children.
And I love it.
But my dreams are more complicated than pretty ideas of snow and sleigh bells. They don’t revolve around Santa slipping down the chimney or leaving out cookies and milk. They are more than dreams. They are prayers.
I’m praying for a white Christmas. A Christmas where my loved ones and yours might wake to discover a covering of white sent to erase a lifetime of stain.
A Christmas where the silent night is broken by a baby’s cry. Where a teen-age mother wonders at the God-child she holds in her arms. Where this truth is embraced by all who hear it proclaimed.
I praying for a Christmas where I truly appreciate how one holy night fulfilled ancient prophecy that led to a cross. How that innocent baby grew up and died, making it possible for me to be declared white as snow.
My white Christmas.
Don’t misunderstand. I love the warmth that comes when Crosby sings. I love the emotional swell in my chest when the cast swings open the stage doors and reveals the delicate flakes of white drifting to the ground. I watch the holiday classic every single year. But really, deep down, I want more than that. I want more than a cup of warm cocoa in front of a blazing fire.
I want a white Christmas that means something. And I bet, deep down, so do you.