I don't know about baby Jesus, but I don't think my kids were ever tender and mild. The noise level around them bounces between rowdy and ear-splitting. When G was a toddler, my sister phoned, heard the background noise and asked "oh, do you have some kids over for a playdate?" and I said "no, it's just G. By herself." Once R came on the scene and had to compete for airtime, things really got loud.
Which is why we rarely bring our kids to church services. But for Christmas, we steel ourselves for wriggling and whining and audible complaining, in the hopes that something beautiful will sink in. This year, as we were getting settled (ie, scuffling) in the pew, the pastor came up to 3-year-old R and said "Come with me and you can hold the baby Jesus." G, who a moment earlier had proclaimed "I do NOT want to walk with the other kids" in the processional shot up like an arrow. "Can I come? Wow, R gets to hold the baby Jesus! I want to see!"
If we had known this would happen I would have been a nervous wreck. Our kids only know how to run pell-mell. There is no other speed for moving. The most common directive in our house is "Be careful! Don't drop it!" And now they were responsible for the holy infant.
There they came, walking, no, PROCESSING, down the aisle - little R holding baby Jesus gently in her cupped hands, looking...awed. G, guiding R with a hand on her shoulder, beamed. If it's possible to beam with pride while also looking completely humbled, that's how they looked. They laid the baby in the manger into the stable gently, so gently. Tender and mild. Both of them. All of us. A Christmas miracle.
A blessed Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
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