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The other night, I sat before the Christmas tree for a moment of quiet before bedtime. The kids were snug in their beds, and my husband was off letting the dog out and locking up.
I had a moment to think. And, this is what I thought. My mind scrolled through lists of things I had done that I wanted to do differently, and that I hadn’t gotten around to doing that I wanted to… But, I thought:
It’s too late.
Then, the absurdity of saying something is too late for Christmas struck me.
Surely, there are many things it’s already too late for, when it comes to little-c christmas {you know, the variety most of spend our December days bowing down to}.
But, friend, when it comes to the holy, God-conceived, glorious, Savior-variety Christmas, it is never too late. Ever. Not in December, not in January, not in June.
The real Christmas doesn’t depend on our perfect performance of a set of arbitrary tasks we’ve come to associate with little c-christmas {but that have very little to do with what happened in a stable in Bethlehem}.
Rather, capital-C Christmas depends only, beautifully, simply, on our imperfect acceptance of His perfect gift.
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