One of my favorite memories growing up is Christmas at my grandparents’ house. It was just twenty-five minutes from ours, but it felt like another world—filled with aunts, uncles, cousins, and celebration.
When the house grew loud, I would slip away to my grandparents’ bedroom at the end of the hallway. From the doorway, there was always a soft glow spilling into the hall, cast by a special lamp my grandmother lit in the evenings. Her home was filled with decorations gathered from different countries where my grandfather had been stationed while serving in the Army.
I remember small gold-foiled snowflakes and three delicate gold-foiled angels in her bedroom. I would run my finger across them, amazed. Until then, the only foil I knew was silver, the kind used in the kitchen. Gold felt warm and inviting.
But it was sound that I treasured most. From that quiet room, I could hear laughter drifting from the other end of the house and the records my grandfather played—Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra—Christmas songs filling every space. I would sit on her bed and simply listen.
As a child, it felt like everything was right in the world. We were celebrating the birth of Jesus. There was peace shaped by love, harmony held together by love, and joy that overflowed from love.
Today, those three little gold-foiled angels sit in my bedroom, reminding me each Christmas that Christ still meets us in quiet places—and that His love is the source of the peace, harmony, and joy we long for.
Sitting At His Feet 