The nativity set is as old as I am, and one of the few things from my childhood that remain. That, and me, and my little sister’s ornaments. When I found out that the wise men came almost two years after Jesus’ birth, I began putting them across the room from Mary, Joseph and the empty cradle during advent, uniting them on Christmas morning. How strange those Magicians must’ve looked to that little boy walking shyly towards them and their magic.*
I was probably too old to believe in Santa Claus, but my mother was so persuasive with her, “Santa doesn’t come to those who don’t believe” bit. The last time she said that was before the Christmas morning when I found dad’s pocketknife inside of the empty train car, carefully placed there to hold it to the rails. Either Santa was a thief or he was my mom and dad. I walked into the kitchen, pocketknife in hand, and thanked my mother for the magic.
In a dream, the Magi were told to keep the little boy’s whereabouts a secret. They moved lightly, not because the gifts were gone, but for the magic that had come to them. To keep the fearful king off their trail, they went home by another way. Home felt different to them when they returned, more magical somehow, as it did for me.
My parent’s magic trick gives me now what it gave me then: an enchantment for life and all of its aliveness. In the tradition of magic, childlike wonder never ends, amazement abounds, and hearts quicken. Daylight shimmers differently, as does the twinkle in the new star rising. I come home every Christmas, each year differently, and leave a little more thankful for the magic within me.
