The crisp winter air nipped at my nose as I walked home, the scent of pine and woodsmoke hanging heavy in the twilight. Christmas Eve. The city hummed with a frenetic energy, a stark contrast to the quiet contemplation I craved. This year, Christmas felt… different. A shadow of doubt, unwelcome and persistent, had settled over my usually joyful anticipation. It wasn't the usual pre-holiday stress; it was a deeper unease, a questioning of the very essence of the season. This year, I needed a Christmas miracle.
My thoughts drifted to C.S. Lewis, whose works had been a source of comfort and inspiration for years. His exploration of faith, doubt, and the profound mysteries of life resonated deeply with me, particularly around this time of year. He understood the complexities of belief, the wrestle between reason and wonder. And perhaps, I thought, his writings held the key to unlocking the Christmas spirit I felt slipping away.
What is a Christmas miracle, really?
This question, echoing Lewis's own intellectual honesty, became the central theme of my Christmas Eve reflection. Is it simply the appearance of a perfectly wrapped gift under the tree? The sudden reconciliation of warring family members? Or is it something far deeper, a shift in perspective, a transformation of the heart? Lewis, I believe, would argue for the latter.
Are Christmas miracles real?
The cynical voice inside me whispered, "Of course not. It's just a story." But Lewis's words, echoing in my mind, countered that cynicism. He didn't shy away from the intellectual challenges of faith. He wrestled with doubt, and in doing so, illuminated the very nature of belief. A Christmas miracle, in the Lewsian sense, isn't about suspending disbelief; it's about opening oneself to the possibility of something extraordinary, something beyond the confines of our limited understanding.
How can I experience a Christmas miracle?
This was the question that truly mattered. I realised I had been looking for miracles in the wrong places—in external events, in tangible manifestations. Lewis's stories often show that miracles are not always flashy displays of power, but rather subtle shifts in perception, acts of love, and moments of unexpected grace.
As I walked, I noticed the small things – a child's laughter echoing through the frosty air, the warm glow emanating from a family's Christmas tree visible through a window, the quiet dignity of an elderly woman humming a carol to herself. These were the small, everyday miracles that, in their quiet beauty, held a profound truth. They were reminders of the inherent goodness in the world, a goodness that transcends the skepticism and doubt that had plagued me.
What are some examples of Christmas miracles?
Reflecting on Lewis's work, I recalled his stories of unexpected kindness, of forgiveness found in unlikely places, of transformations of heart brought about by seemingly simple acts. These were the miracles that resonated most deeply—the quiet acts of love and compassion that transformed lives, often unseen, yet powerfully felt. They weren't flashy displays of power, but rather subtle shifts in perspective, acts of love, and moments of unexpected grace. The miracles were in the moments of connection, in the shared humanity, in the simple act of believing in something greater than oneself.
That Christmas Eve, I found my miracle not under a tree, but in the quiet understanding that Christmas isn't about a singular event, but a continuous unfolding of grace, a persistent offering of love and hope. It's about the willingness to believe, to see the miracles in the everyday, and to share the light of that belief with others. And in that sharing, in that act of faith, I found my Christmas miracle – a renewed sense of wonder and a deeper understanding of the true meaning of the season. It was a miracle inspired by the spirit of C.S. Lewis, a testament to the enduring power of faith and the enduring magic of Christmas.
