I felt privileged last night to attend the “Carols and Candlelight” Christmas Eve service at our church.
I felt joyful during the singing of the carols.
I felt grace listening to the beautiful singing of others.
I felt blessed to live in a country where I can worship freely at the church of my choosing.
I felt cheerfulness listening to the performance of the hand bell choir.
I felt a sense of community, seeing so many friends and neighbors at the service.
I felt true happiness, attending this service with my mother, my husband, and my children by my side.
I felt a sense of awe, watching all two thousand candles being lit in the darkened sanctuary.
I felt humbled by the sacrifices made by Christ on my behalf.
I felt grateful. Period.
::moment of reverent silence::
I felt curiosity, wondering if I’m the only person there who has to remind myself each year not to say “shit” out loud if the candle burns down and drips wax on my finger.
And then, near the end of the powerful service, I felt touched by the real meaning of Christmas. I listened to my son sing along during the final carol and realized that despite his voice, he was allowed to participate in honors choir. That, my friends, is the true miracle of the season.