Ward Tanneberg gave me permission to share his Christmas post with you:

First Touch (a Christmas story)   I hold her for the first time in Seattle.          She is wearing white.          I take her hand and her tiny fingers grasp hold of mine.          Soon she closes her eyes and sleeps in my arms.          She is a dream come true.   THREE YEARS LATER we place a small basket on our living room floor, then kneel to gaze at its contents. She stares without comment or movement for a time. At last, reaching purposely over the edge of the basket, the girl who wore white touches her little brother’s hand for the first time. A smile replaces her serious look, her fingers now brushing against his cheek. She had known he was coming. Now he is here. His reality confirmed by a touch.   And just like that our family is complete.   Only a few things remain unfinished. Learning to          eat without spilling          crawl without bumping          walk without falling          share without fighting          catch without dropping          discover without wavering          read without hesitating          add without error          accept without judging. Little things like this.   I watch mother and daughter lean over the basket, touching his feet. The top of his head. His hands. A little smile forms across his tiny face. A new pair of eyes attempts to focus on the world ... his new world.   Then, in the midst of this wonderful moment, my thoughts scroll back the pages of time.          Weeks.                   Months.                            Years.                                     Centuries.   TO A DARK CAVE where straw is scattered over sawdust shavings on a stone floor. No squeaky clean delivery room here. It smells like animals, not baby powder. The only light is that of a candle, producing an eerie shadow-dance on the walls. The viewing room is a stable.   The man who just helped his wife deliver her first baby ... a boy ... wraps the child in a small blanket brought along for the occasion. Carefully he lays the newborn in the best available cradle ... a manger.   A smile replaces seriousness on the young mother’s face. She reaches out for her husband. Their lips touch. Gently he lifts her in his strong arms until she can reach across the manger’s edge. She strokes the baby’s feet. The top of his head. His hands. A little smile forms on his tiny face. A new pair of eyes attempts to focus on the world ... his world!   They had known he was coming. Now he is here. His reality confirmed by a touch.   Only a few things remain unfinished now ...[1]

[1] In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. ~John 1:1,14