I’m writing this while sitting on my couch staring at our Christmas tree. The radio is playing Christmas music. It’s beautiful classical stuff that’s driven by the voices of choirs resonating in cathedrals.

My wife is here with me, though she’s fallen asleep snuggled under a blanket with her mug of hot chocolate not even touched. I, on the other hand, am warm with the aforementioned chocolate.

My children are warm in their beds — lets call it, “nestled all snug in their beds.” All of them are resting peacefully after an adventurous day.

My brother and his wife came by for a wonderful visit earlier this evening. They’re in town for Christmas and it’s a treat to see them. It’s especially fun to see our girls having so much fun with them. It’s nice taking time to visit with loved ones that we don’t see often.

I can remember from my childhood sitting in a room lit by only a Christmas tree. It was a magical feeling: pondering the cold winter outside our house while we stayed warm inside; pondering the magical, mystical aspects of the Christmas story, with God sending a gift to humanity and angels announcing His kindness to shepherds in the field; the anticipation of the presents I would open on Christmas morning. Sitting here pondering my Christmas tree I’m connected to those far-away Christmas memories somehow.