Epiphany. In Latin it meant coming. But in our house, it has come to mean going. January sixth is the day we traditionally untrim the tree and undeck the halls.

     It’s a tradition based more on practical considerations than any spiritual content. By the twelfth day of Christmas, the tree is barely taking in any of its water and is quickly giving up its needles. The holiday visitors have already come and seen the house decorated. And as thoughts turn to the activities of the new year, Christmas items begin to be an anachronism.

     But the untrimming procedure gives us one more opportunity to ponder the special significance of some of our ornaments.

     Here is the manger music box I gave Carol when we were both in High School. It’s older than our marriage, but like it, the manger has managed to last all these years, - if not in the perfect running condition of its youth. We’ve learned not to wind it up any more. It has its own idea of the proper meter for “Silent Night,” first rushing through “SilentNightHoly-NightAllIsCalmAllIsBrightRoundYonVirgin-MotherAndChild,” then suddenly slowing to a crawl for “Ho . . . ly . . . In . . . fant . . . so . . . ten . . . der . . . and . . .” until it finally places interminable rests between all the remaining notes. We’d be sitting in the darkened living room admiring the soft glow of the tree lights and suddenly the manger would plink “mild” and then wait another half hour before rendering “Sleep.”

     Here is the little wooden heart, inscribed “Merry Christmas from Lucky.” The neighbors’ cat exhausted its nine lives many Christmases ago, but his gentle face continues to look out from his perch on our tree, reminding us how fortunate we are to have such good neighbors.

     Here is the ornament a student gave me three decades ago, gaudily bedecked by her mother with fancy ribbons and bugle beads. Because of this gift, I am reminded of Karen every year, even though I’ve forgotten all her classmates, whose gifts of aftershave and chocolates were consumed long ago.

     Here are the new hand blown glass crowns Carol discovered in a store last year. We purposely leave the “made in Czech Republic” tags attached, because they represent her newly kindled interest in her ancestry.

     Here are the few old ornaments we saved from my parents. Sort of tarnished and definitely out of style, for many years we relegated them to the back branches of the tree. Fortunately, we knew better than to throw them away, and now being older we recognize their real beauty and give them a place of honor each year.

     Here are the six porcelain angels that Carol grew up with, the little pipe cleaner dolls her aunt made for us, the balls, bells, bears and birds, each with a story to retell us every year at Christmas.

     Each one, we now carefully wrap and box and put away. Next year, in mid December they’ll reemerge and remind us again of friends and family, memorable moments and rich heritage.

traffic tied in knotted snarls
stores filled with bustling elbows
rushing pushing
Emmanuel

streets, slick with dried oak leaves
air brisk
cold sleety drizzle
God With Us

family evicted from SRO
worn clothes, empty stomachs
huddled in alley behind WalMart
Emmanuel – God With Us

single mother beside hospital bed
hoping they can diagnose
her son’s seizures
Emmanuel

beloved husband, father,
grandfather-to-be
in out-of-town hotel with whore
God With Us

widower alone at night
remembering her gentle whisper
as TV choirs blare
Emmanuel – God With Us

All this took place to fulfil what the Lord had spoken by the prophet: "Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and his name shall be called Emmanuel" (which means, God with us). (Matthew 1:22–23)

He ran the streets of Nazareth,
played and fell, skinned his knees,
climbed tamarisk trees,
picked fresh figs to eat
just like his brothers.

He sat and read and wondered,
asked his mother questions
about the sky, wind, and foxes,
and how he was born
just like his brothers.

He hid behind the wood pile,
worried daddy Joseph,
jumped out laughing,
ran away before he caught him
just like his brothers.

He watched men fighting over food,
women slighted at the well,
neighbors arguing about fenceposts
and strangers beaten on the road
just like his brothers.

. . . like his brethren in every respect. (Hebrews 2:17)

Before the clocks of time began to tick
before the Son saw shadows on the earth
he saw his birth in Bethlehem
and told his prophets so.
But did he know that stable cold would make
his thin unswaddled legs begin to shake
that hunger pangs would make his tummy hurt
and riding on a donkey all the way
to Egypt he’d get cranky?
Did he know that?

When he made all the wonders of the world,
he heard his father say it was good.
But did he know he’d laugh rolling on the grass
giggle as pomegranate juice ran down his chin
or smile, watching two young lovers take their vows?
Did he know that?

Oh, sure, the source of life could heal the sick,
the blind, the lame, the deaf, and raise the dead.
But long before his eyes could shed a tear,
did he know when a loved one dies,
he’d have an emptiness inside
that nothing fills?
Did he know that?

He knew from all eternity the names
of those who would leave all to follow him.
But did he know the heartache he would have
when friends grow weary, disappoint and tire
or simply walk away?
Did he know that?

And Jesus increased in wisdom. (Luke 2:52)

Another baby boy was born
in Bethlehem that Christmas morn.
His birth, no angel choir told.
No royal wise men brought him gold
or myrrh or frankincense to hold.

The searching shepherds would have found
no manger here; but all around
the little one, a family stood
and marvelled how the Lord God should
have blessed them with a gift so good.

His father dreamed of years to come, –
his boy would grow up strong and some
day himself a father be.
But in these dreams he didn’t see
An angel warning him to flee.

An angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, "Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, . . . for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him." . . . When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah: "A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more." (Matthew 2:13, 16-18)