I grew up in Switzerland. When I was a child, Santa Claus came each winter on Dec. 6.
He visited each house, opened his big black book and read aloud all the good and bad things that we had done that year.
If our “good” outweighed our “bad”, we received some small gifts. If our “bad” outweighed our “good”, we got a few lumps of coal.
I was always amazed that Santa could know so many details about me.
For my family, and for most of our friends and neighbors, Christmas was a celebration about the Christ child — Christkind in German, Le petit Jésus in French.
Our family gathered together on Christmas Eve to celebrate his birth. We began with dinner — a whole ham wrapped in dough and baked.
After dinner we exchanged small gifts, mostly handmade.
As the oldest child in the family, it was my duty to open the Bible and read the Christmas story.
Each of us lit candles on the Christmas tree and together we sang Christmas hymns. Just before midnight, we bundled ourselves in warm clothing and set out for the church, where my father sang in the choir.
For me, Christmas is still about the Christ child.
It is a celebration about a baby, no ordinary baby but a unique being: the incarnation of God the Son became flesh; the light of the world, replacing darkness.
The Frenchman Placide Cappeau said it best in a poem, translated in a hymn by John Sullivan Dwight:
O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
‘Til He appear’d and the soul felt his worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! I hear the angels’ voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born;
O night divine, O night, O night divine!
Merry Christmas!