“Little is the Lord,
and greatly to be loved.”
–Bernard

This is part of the reason
Christmas so appeals to me:
God comes in complete innocence and purity,
complete weakness and vulnerability.

I might paraphrase Bernard and say:
“Helpless is the Lord
and gently to be loved.”

And so, to delight his infant eyes,
lights and shiny objects;
to soothe his newborn ears,
music rich, low and calming;
to ease his newborn nose,
the scent of pine and cinnamon and sage,
reminders of the rich earth and its yield,
of this place he’ll call home.

And so we prepare our home
for the arrival of the child.

We don’t prepare
for the arrival of a theologian
with books and long tables and study lamps;
we don’t prepare for priests and pastors
with a grandly outfitted worship space;
we don’t prepare for kings and presidents
with limos and red carpets and spotlights.

No.
it’s God who comes,
and God’s a baby boy
who needs our hands to hold him–
our gentle hands
to soothe his crying, change his diapers,
our steady hands
to hold the bottle, rock the cradle,
our warm skin
to hold against his
when he’s cranky, tired, inconsolable.

Don’t drop him.
Don’t raise your voice.
Don’t leave him unattended.

This is God who needs us
or he will perish.

So, for as long as we can,
we will protect him,
keep him from the anger, hate, spears, thorns of the world.

As any parent would.

Our home at Christmas–
a nursery/halfway house on the road to reality,
coming way too soon.
The baby won’t realize it,
but this stop on his way
honors him,
announces what he will become and do,
for the world, yes,
but also for us and those we love,
have loved,
will love…
including you.

Photo and text copyright 2026 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.