Walking Christmas morning

     For the past several years, it has been my practice to take a pre-dawn walk on Christmas morning through the rural neighborhood in which I grew up.
     It is the best time of the year to be walking.  The world’s usual frantic pace has temporarily slowed and automobile traffic is light—practically nonexistent if you go early enough.  There is a special serenity in the air that is uncommon on other days.
     I recall one such morning a few years ago.  The sun was just beginning to rise and a nearly full moon hung brightly above, covered by a thin veil of cirrocumulus clouds.  The sky appeared red and rippled like the chiseled muscles of an athlete’s abdomen.
     An eerie vapor floated upward from the chilly waters of tiny Bonnie Brook and I could hear the gentle current gurgling around small stones, fallen logs and beds of still-green watercress.
    Some homes remained dark and still, while others were lit by multi-colored Christmas lights that flickered through tightly closed draperies.  As usual, I saw no one, but knew there were children smiling and giggling inside the warm structures, as they discovered the toys and gifts that mysteriously appeared overnight.
     Passing by the green two-story house where I spent my formative years, I thought about the many happy Christmases spent within those walls—waking early to run down the long wooden staircase with my older sister to see what jolly old Santa left behind.
     There was unfettered magic in finding the red-and-white stockings our mother made hanging on the oak-trimmed wall, stuffed with pencils, candy and assorted other goodies.
   I have often wondered how many other Christmases were celebrated in the same small rooms during the early 1900s, when others lived in the house and farmed the valley floor.  Who were the rosy-cheeked children of those days, giggling with delight at the things they found under their yuletide tree?
     I contemplate these questions each year and try to imagine youngsters from another era running down the same stairway in the pre-dawn hours to see what St. Nicholas had left for them.  My own father was one of them, having lived in the house himself as a child.
     Each year about this time, my mind generally wanders back to some of the childhood gifts I remember most—toy cars and trucks, BB-guns, assorted games, a 15-pound bow and matching arrow set, miscellaneous clothing, toy rifles and pistols, and lots of Hardy Boy mystery books.
     On my walks, I often hum a few bars of “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,” or some other Christmas song, as I continue up the road.  When I cross meandering Spring Brook, I usually stop to look into the clear, cold water.
     There are greater gifts than the ones we find under our Christmas trees, I remind myself, then offer a small prayer of thanksgiving for the narrow trout stream, the snow, and life itself.
     A half-mile further—past the local rod and gun club—I will pause again and gaze up a long driveway toward the tiny house where my grandfather lived until his death more than 45 years ago.  I remember sledding with my cousins and neighborhood friends on the steep slopes behind the house.
     Across the two-lane road, there was once a jet-black horse that stared at me from behind a dark wooden fence.  He always seemed to be curious and I could see his warm breath in the cold morning air, streaming from his wide nostrils like smoke from the fire-breathing dragon in a child’s picture book.
     “Hello, Mr. Horse,” I said each year.  “Happy Christmas to you.”
     The horse, of course, always ignored my greetings and continued to stare at me in silence, as if trying to figure out why anyone would be walking alone on such a cold winter morning.
     Along about this time, the sun usually appears and the moon fades into the daylight, so I start  back toward where my walk began.
     During the good years, there is plenty of fluffy white snow to muffle sounds and enhance my morning walks.  On those days, the landscape glistens in the early morning sunlight like billions of tiny diamonds spread out as far as I can see.
     It is on these peaceful mornings that I most keenly sense the presence of God in my life and treasure the incredible gifts I have received during the many Christmas seasons I have enjoyed.
    Among them are the sun, the moon, the sky, and the Michigan landscape.  Also, the friends and loved ones that have passed through this rural neighborhood and enriched my life.  And all the living creatures that share the bountiful land with us.
     Topping the list, of course, is a tiny infant born a couple thousand years ago in a crowded Bethlehem stable, which is what Christmas is really all about.
     “How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given,” the old song goes. “So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his Heaven.”
     One year, as I ended my holiday walk and looked across the valley for the last time, I saw a small herd of white-tailed deer prancing through a stand of tall pine trees.  They were quite playful that morning and seemed to be celebrating Christmas in their own special way.
     Maybe they sensed the spirit of their creator moving across the land—much as I do each year as the Christmas dawn breaks.
     “Oh morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth,” I sing from childhood memory, “And praises sing to God the king and peace to men on earth.”
     Merry Christmas, my friends, and a splendid new year full of heavenly hope and love.