The imperfect Christmas unfolded like a crumpled piece of gift wrap–its bright colors diminished by the absence of a firstborn son and a father more dedicated to the child than the comforts of home. And I think of the journey he made yesterday in a quest to lavish love on one who may not understand–a love with its source from above…and within. A love patterned after the One who is Christmas incarnate.
That first Christmas? The One who is Christmas left His glorious home and chose mortal flesh; His immortal glory shrouded by helpless mortality. The God whose breath filled the lungs of the first Adam now inhaled–the unpracticed movement of the babe foreshadowing the shallow breathing of a soon-to-be Savior gasping on a crude, wooden cross.
That Christmas? God’s firstborn son had forsaken the comforts of His heavenly home. Stripped of His heavenly robes, the Christ lay helpless and shivering…cloaked in nothing more than rags. And I think of the journey he made in a quest to lavish love on those who may not understand–that the imperfect might one day be made perfect.
Verse for Reflection
For unto us a son is born; unto us a son is given… Isaiah 9:6