Monday after Christmas, most of our children said goodbye, first Sam and Cait, then Rose and Tom and dear baby Ellie and Tim. I went out the door into the cold and waved as the passengers of the double cab pickup waved and the driver honked. Both Jonathan and I were in tears and Hannah caught Jonathan crying.
We had to hug each other and try to laugh instead of cry.
Being together again had meant so much, especially with the uncertainties looming over us right now.
This post I found was just beautiful.
From a Grandparent's Post
"After Christmas, He Remains” 
After Christmas,
when the songs grow quiet
and the world moves on,
Jesus remains.
The lights dim.
The decorations wait to be put away.
The house settles into stillness.
And there He is—
not leaving with the season,
not fading with the celebration,
not wrapped up and stored away.
He is still here.
Born not for a moment,
but for forever.
Not for a holiday,
but for every ordinary day
that follows.
The manger reminds us
He came quietly.
Without applause.
Without announcement.
Into the middle of a broken world
that didn’t fully notice
what had arrived.
And the day after Christmas
feels a lot like that.
Less noise.
More truth.
A sacred hush
where faith doesn’t shout—
it rests.
Jesus didn’t come
to stay in the glow of the tree.
He came to walk with us
when the lights are gone,
when joy feels thinner,
when the heart is reflective
and the year ahead feels unknown.
After Christmas,
we remember why He came.
To dwell with us.
To carry what we cannot.
To remain steady
when everything else moves on.
The gifts are opened.
The tables are cleared.
But the promise stays.
Emmanuel—
God with us.
Not just on Christmas morning,
but on December 26.
And January.
And every quiet, ordinary day
that needs His presence
more than celebration.
After Christmas,
Jesus remains.
And somehow,
that is the greatest gift of all."
No comments:
Post a Comment