In my case and at this time, it had to do with my writing and speaking career and the promotion it requires, but it tended to cast its glow on everything. I had ceased to look up and started to look around at those whose gifts I admired. I had started to think "If I was just a bit younger, a bit funnier, a bit more outgoing, a bit more assertive." —you know how it starts. Then Christmas was just about upon me. Now the greenish hue began to spread. "If I was just a bit more organized, a bit more on the ball, if I just would be one of those people who planned ahead, if I would only come up with the perfect ideas sooner than the night before, if only I would be better at seeing the whole picture," and on and on.
Christmas Eve came. I had been asked to give a short meditation for the choir before we gave our program for the gathered worshipers. I had been almost too busy to find something meaningful and I really didn’t feel that good about what I had come up with ("Last minute again," I thought.)
We gathered at the front of the sanctuary for a last run-through of the parts in which we were the least secure. Then— Bo-oing!! A few lines from one of the songs hit me right between the eyes. I don’t have the words right in front of me to quote them exactly, but the gist was that the wise men gave Jesus their riches and gold, the oxen and asses gave him their hay—and both gifts were equally accepted. (Emphasis on the equally.)
The choir congregated in the upper room where we were to meet. I didn’t even get my notes out. I just shared what had been revealed to me and noted that right now, we had a gift of music to give to Him and prayed that is what we would do that evening—give what we had to give to Jesus.
Christmas is past, but the thought with which that hymn gifted me still gives me a different perspective that continues to permeate all I do. I pray that it will keep on accomplishing its transformation throughout 2009.