The closer we get to December 25th, the louder Christmas gets. Bing Crosby paints a picture-perfect holiday season. His deep timbre rouses images of glistening snow, jingling sleigh bells and rosy-cheeked children.
And I love it.
But my visions are more complicated than twinkling lights and fireside moments. 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 when my loved ones and yours might wake to discover a covering of white that erases a lifetime of stain.
A Christmas when the silent night was broken by a baby’s cry. When a teenaged mother wondered at the God-child she held in her arms. When this truth is embraced by all who hear it proclaimed.
I am praying for a Christmas when I truly appreciate how one holy night fulfilled ancient prophecy and 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 way Crosby’s song warms me like an afghan on a cold winter night. I love the emotional swell in my chest when the cast swings open the stage doors to reveal the delicate flakes drifting to the ground. I watch the holiday classic every single year.
But, 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. I want a Christmas that turns my eyes from the what to the who, from what is under the tree, to who died on the tree. To the One whose gift makes my Christmas white. And I bet, deep down, so do you.
Stacey Weeks is a freelance writer from Brantford, Ont. This article first appeared on her blog, “It’s Personal,” on Dec. 12, 2013.