Each year I wait for it. The one little sign that Christmas is truly here. I don't see it on the pinched, anxious faces of people at the mall or scurrying down busy streets. I don't see it in the yards bulging with a gaudy, over-blown excess of decorations and flashing lights. I see it in the wreath hung on a church door. I see it in the snow falling down, even if it doesn't stick. I see in the glimpse of one small pine tree lit with a few strings of lights at the end of a long country driveway. I see it in the apples hanging like golden ornaments on a leafless tree. I see it in a little child, singing a Christmas carol, his face lit up like a bright candle. I see it when looking up in the sky at a cold winter moon.
I haven't seen it yet this year. I'm waiting.
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