Christmastime was always a magical time of year for me. The beautifully decorated shopping malls, with toys everywhere you looked, always fascinated me. And the houses, with the way their lights would glow upon the glistening snow at night, always seemed to calm me. But decorating the Christmas tree and falling asleep underneath the warm glow of the lights, in awe that Santa Claus would soon be there, was the best part of it all. As a child, these things enchanted me. Sure, the presents were great, but the excitement and mystery of Christmas; I loved most of all. Believing…that’s what it was all about. Believing there really was a Santa and waking up Christmas morning, realizing he’d come, as my sleepy eyes focused on all the fancily wrapped presents before me. Ah, to be a kid again. How wonderful it would be to relive the magic of Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, I have always been a kid at heart and a true lover of Christmas. But as we get older and we realize that Santa Claus and the North Pole were just stories our parents told us so we’d behave, Christmas starts to lose that magical feeling. No matter how much we might still love it, Christmastime just isn’t the same as when we were young. And at a time of all the aggravating shopping hustle and bustle, dents in the pockets, headaches, traffic jams and long lines, I begin to realize that God has sent me the most magical Christmas gift of all, a beautiful three year old whom I can relive Christmas in all over. Through my child’s eyes, I see myself each time his face lights up at the sight of Santa, and I feel his anticipation each morning as he faithfully opens up one more window on the Christmas calendar. Tonight, as we decorate the tree, I admiringly watched his tiny fingers delicately place each of the ornaments on all the same branches until they drooped to the floor. So proud of his work, I secretly placed some elsewhere, as to not hur...
