My poor darling children have none of this, thanks to me.  I, like many of my generation, have largely rejected organized religion.  Unfortunately, I now understand hypocrisy and oppression and believe that the church is guilty of all the sins it forbids.  But what do we do about our spiritual longings?  How do we find meaning and impart that meaning to our children who are daily bombarded with despicable messages from our commercialized world?  For meaning surely does exist.  

I am at a loss when it comes to recreating Christmas magic without a little baby Jesus to help me.  And I can't just pull him out of a box in the attic and blow the dust off of him so he can lay in his manger Christmas morning.  My parents did this, and it was okay, because we knew all about him, every day of every year, so it didn't smack of phoniness like it does when I try to bring him into the Christmas mix.

I have no answers.  My children sense my sadness around Christmas, and they know it has something to do with religion.  But it doesn't really.  It has to do with meaning, significance, all things lofty and sublime.  It has to do with my remembered feelings of joy and sheer awe at the birth of the Savior.  It's the Christmas spirit that, without a miracle, my children will never know.