When I was a kid, my family had a peculiar Christmas tradition. The tree never appeared until Christmas Eve after all the kids were tucked in bed. Santa, apparently moonlighting as an interior decorator, did all the heavy lifting overnight. The catch? We were banished to bed at an unreasonably early hour—practically before the sun had finished setting—and heaven forbid we stumbled downstairs and spooked Santa mid‑tinsel toss.
By morning, the house had undergone a full HGTV holiday
makeover. A towering tree glittered with tinsel icicles (the kind made of lead,
because nothing says “Merry Christmas” like mild poisoning). Beneath it
sprawled an American farm village, heroically encircled by my grandfather’s
1940s Lionel train, which ran endless laps like it was training for the Polar
Express Olympics.
And then there was the creche. An antique even back then, it
featured the usual suspects: angel, shepherd, cow, donkey… plus, for reasons
never explained, a World War II GI accompanied by a German shepherd.
(Apparently Bethlehem had a draft.)
The three magi, however, were always late to the party. On
Christmas morning, they started out across the room, looking like they’d taken
a wrong turn at Albuquerque. Each day they shuffled a little closer, inching
their way to Bethlehem like they were following GPS with bad reception. They finally arrivid at the manger on
January 6th, just in time for the Feast of the Epiphany and for the
whole display to be packed away. Timing is everything.
Of course, the actual magi didn’t exactly have a smooth trip
either. They followed a star expecting
splendor: a prince in a palace, courtiers at his side, servants ready to
anticipate his every need, and maybe a buffet spread. But the star led them elsewhere—to a
backwater town of farmers and shepherds where the soil was stubborn and meadows
few, to a carpenter’s fixer-upper in a land where trees were scarce. Instead of a prince kept warm in velvet, they
found a poor child cradled by a young mom juggling the hard chores of survival,
a child who looked like he needed diapers more than incense. Not quite the Ritz. I picture the magi standing there, gifts in
hand, glancing at one another, and thinking, “Well, this is awkward. Should we just Venmo them a few gold coins
and call it a day?”
But wisdom is more than foresight. And the magi were wise. They had the ability to see meaning in the
commonplace, in the unexpected, in the awkwardness.
And generosity is more than wealth.
It is the courage to give as if the recipient were worthy of a crown.
So, they offered their treasures anyway.
