There is a lot to celebrate about that little Babe who was laid

Title: The Light in the Straw

Host: The snow fell softly that evening — thin flakes drifting through the cold air, catching the faint glow of streetlamps like falling embers from a quiet fire. In the window of a small church, a wooden nativity scene flickered under the warmth of a single candle. The figures were simple — Mary, Joseph, and the tiny Child — yet something about them drew the eye, as though the stillness itself was sacred.

Inside, the church hall was dim but alive with soft light. A faint smell of pine and candle wax lingered. Rows of empty pews stretched like open arms.

Jack sat near the front, his hands clasped, his coat draped over the bench beside him. The only sound was the creak of old wood and the occasional rustle of snow against the stained-glass windows.

Jeeny entered quietly, shaking the snow from her coat. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her eyes bright but calm — the kind of brightness that comes not from cheer but from understanding.

She approached, sat beside him, and for a long moment, they said nothing.

Jeeny: “Monica Johnson once said — ‘There is a lot to celebrate about that little Babe who was laid in a manger. Christians celebrate Christmas because they are thankful for the promise of salvation, which was delivered in human flesh and named Jesus.’”

Jack: (after a pause) “Salvation in human flesh.” (smiles faintly) “That’s quite a way to say that God came disguised as a baby.”

Host: His voice was low, reverent but skeptical — the tone of someone who wanted to believe but didn’t know where belief ended and need began.

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it. Power wrapped in weakness. Eternity small enough to hold.”

Jack: “And yet, the world still breaks itself trying to understand it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not meant to be understood. Maybe it’s meant to be received.”

Host: The candlelight shimmered on the nearby altar, reflecting off the gold trim of the Bible resting open there. The pages rustled softly as though stirred by invisible breath.

Jack: “You really believe in all this, don’t you? The manger, the star, the angels singing to shepherds?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “Even when the world doesn’t look saved?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Jack: “That sounds like faith.”

Jeeny: “It’s gratitude disguised as hope.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it pulsed with warmth. The faint sound of the wind outside was like the echo of an ancient hymn — steady, invisible, eternal.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, Christmas was simpler. Lights, laughter, presents. No theology. Just warmth. Somewhere along the way, it became noise — shopping, politics, performance.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we traded mystery for spectacle. The world wants grandeur. God chose humility.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Think about it — the Creator of galaxies born among animals, the sound of heaven replaced by a newborn’s cry.”

Jack: (softly) “A fragile God.”

Jeeny: “No. A reachable one.”

Host: The light shifted as a passing car threw a brief beam through the window, illuminating the manger scene near the altar. The baby’s tiny face — carved of simple wood — glowed for a moment, then faded back into shadow.

Jack: “It’s strange. The older I get, the less I want explanations, and the more I want meaning.”

Jeeny: “Then Christmas is exactly what you need.”

Jack: “Because of what it promises?”

Jeeny: “Because of what it reminds us — that the infinite chose to meet us where we were.”

Jack: “Even when we didn’t deserve it?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The fireplace in the corner crackled faintly, the flames throwing slow, dancing shadows along the walls. The warmth reached them — gentle, fragile, like grace itself.

Jack: “You know what I envy about believers like you? You have somewhere to put your gratitude. For the rest of us, it just floats around, untethered.”

Jeeny: “Gratitude always finds its home, Jack. Sometimes in prayer, sometimes in kindness, sometimes in tears. You don’t have to know where to send it. You just have to mean it.”

Jack: “That sounds... freeing.”

Jeeny: “It is. That’s what the manger means — freedom wrapped in flesh. Love choosing proximity instead of distance.”

Jack: “And people turned that into a holiday of shopping lists.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Well, even love gets commercialized. But the light still shines beneath it all. You can’t outspend a miracle.”

Host: The candle near the front flickered again, casting long, trembling beams across the room. For a brief moment, the cross at the altar glowed softly, reflecting the flame.

Jack: “So what exactly are we celebrating then — the birth of hope?”

Jeeny: “The arrival of empathy.”

Jack: “Empathy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. God didn’t stay distant. He entered hunger, fear, laughter, loss — all of it. To show us He understood.”

Jack: “So Christmas isn’t about escaping the world. It’s about finding holiness in it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the real miracle. Not that heaven touched earth, but that it stayed.”

Host: Her words landed like snowfall — soft, light, unassuming, yet full of quiet power. The wind outside howled once, then stilled, as though the night itself paused to listen.

Jack: “You know, for someone who doesn’t preach, you do it well.”

Jeeny: “I’m not preaching. I’m remembering.”

Jack: “Remembering what?”

Jeeny: “That love began small — and still changes the world the same way.”

Jack: “Through small acts.”

Jeeny: “Through small people.”

Host: The clock above the door chimed softly, marking the hour. Each note echoed through the room like a heartbeat — steady, measured, full of presence.

Jeeny reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a tiny ornament — a fragile glass star. She placed it gently on the pew between them.

Jeeny: “I carry this every Christmas. My grandmother gave it to me before she passed. She said, ‘It’s not to remind you of the star over Bethlehem, but of the one inside you.’”

Jack: (staring at it) “And you believed her?”

Jeeny: “I do now. It took time. You can’t rush faith. It grows in silence, like seeds under snow.”

Jack: “So you think there’s something divine in everyone?”

Jeeny: “Something divine trying to wake up, yes.”

Jack: “And Christmas is the alarm clock.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: The snow outside had thickened now, blanketing the world in silver quiet. Through the church window, the lamplight shimmered on the flakes — fragile, glowing, unrepeatable.

Jack: “You know, I came here tonight to be alone. I thought Christmas didn’t mean anything to me anymore.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now it feels... smaller. But truer. Like maybe it was never about meaning, just presence.”

Jeeny: “Presence — that’s the word. That’s what that little Babe was. Presence made flesh.”

Jack: “A reminder that even in chaos, love still shows up.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The candle flame fluttered and steadied once more. The room seemed to breathe — alive with quiet warmth, with awe, with something both fragile and eternal.

Host: And as the two sat there in the soft silence, the world outside fading into snow and peace, Monica Johnson’s words found their heartbeat:

That there is indeed much to celebrate about that little Babe in the manger —
not for what He owned, but for what He gave.
Not for how high He came from, but for how low He was willing to go.

That salvation did not arrive with thunder or crown,
but with the soft cry of a child who would one day teach humanity
that the greatest power is found in compassion.

The candlelight flickered.
The snow fell.

And for one quiet moment,
two souls — and perhaps the world —
remembered what it means to be saved
by love that stoops low enough to touch straw.