Every December, I retrieve a worn box from the basement containing a creche with clay figures Tava brought from Mexico. As I arrange them, I play my favorite Christmas music—James Taylor at Christmas—and reflect on the story set in a humble manger: the miracle of Mary’s baby, fully human and fully God, and the wide-eyed shepherds who came to worship. In this nativity set, the shepherds are absent, but they have left their little lamb to hold their place. 

The wise men appear with their gifts, though in the Gospel account, they visited Mary and Joseph later at home (see Matthew 2). An ox and a ram rest nearby, and though the scripture doesn’t specify animals, we can easily see them fitting into the manger scene. But then, there are the whimsical figures—a giraffe peering over Joseph’s shoulder and a baby elephant at the infant King’s feet—as if they belonged there. 

At first, it’s easy to dismiss the elephant and giraffe as not part of the historical account. But viewed allegorically, we might see ourselves in those out-of-place creatures—for who of us is worthy to stand before the God of Heaven? We are more out of place in God’s throne room than a giraffe in a manger. Yet because Jesus was born and offered His life as a sacrifice, we are invited into a relationship with an open door to God. 

Scripture describes this access: “...in Jesus Christ our Lord and through faith in Him, we may approach God with freedom and confidence” (Ephesians 3:11-12).

With that access in mind, the question naturally arises: how should we respond to Him? The last stanza of the old Christmas Carol “In the Bleak Midwinter” answers that question simply for me: 

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. 

If I were a wise man, I would know my part. 

What then can I give Him? 

I must give my heart.

My favorite version of that song is by James Taylor. You can hear it here.

At the Top of the Pillar

At the top of our front porch pillar is a colorful nest where five baby phoebes peer down silently as I pass. They stack together like spices in a pantry, and with their insatiable appetites, both parents work in tandem to provide a steady stream of food.

Early in the morning, I hear the male phoebe's song from across the yard. Perched on a bare yucca stem, he scans the ground for a fat bug to feed his nestlings. He swoops down, flying low like a crop duster, and pivots to catch his plump prey. After admiring his kill for a moment, he flies up to deliver a meal to the hungry chicks. Following him, the female wrestles with a butterfly to provide dinner for the voracious nestlings. Not all of their prey submit willingly. 

By this afternoon, three of the nestlings had climbed out of the nest and onto the pillar ledge, creating some breathing room in their stifling quarters. They won't be here much longer. At least then, the butterflies will be able to breathe a little easier.