It floated gracefully from the sky like the dusting of powdered sugar over gingerbread. An unexpected snowfall lightly sprinkled the tops of branches and rooftops giving our little yard the look of a finely crafted Christmas card. I could hardly pull myself away from the windows. We opened every curtain and watched in wonder as our surroundings were transformed.

The only fear was the possibility that the Christmas play would be canceled because of weather. Since two of our grandchildren would be in the pageant I sent a text to our daughter to make sure it was still on. I waited for her reply with coffee in one hand and a good book in the other. Eventually she wrote back.

“What about it?” she asked. “It’s still tomorrow at 11am.”

It seemed she thought I asked a strange question. Later I found out that while her father and I were enjoying a quiet Saturday watching it snow, she had helped with the final rehearsal of the play, hosted a missionary couple from Italy, helped her husband while he smoked a boatload of pork shoulders, and entertained a pile of folks who dropped by to pick up the meat they ordered. Their missionary friends made pizzas and the house exploded with children, food, friends and probably more than a little chaos.

I remembered similar chaotic days when David and I were younger. Kids from the youth group knew where to go for food and fun. The trampoline had no side guards and in the summer included a sprinkler underneath. That thing was slick! More than one kid was launched into space from our backyard. We weren’t real smart. But we sure had a lot of fun.

Currently a dusting of snow invites quiet and rest. Back in the day it meant sledding until our toes fell off from the cold; vats of homemade hot chocolate for the masses; plastic slip sheets from a warehouse on which we flew down the hills; old towels piled at the door to catch some of the mud; and a fire in the woodstove so hot we had to open windows to keep from passing out.

We used to ache from falling off the trampoline or rolling from a sled. Now my hip hurts from sleeping in the same position too long. Like the little drummer boy I look toward heaven and wonder if I have anything good left to offer the babe in the manger. As quick as I asked the question the Lord gave a beautiful reply in the book I was reading on our snow day.

“Give Jesus the gift the angels gave Him, the gift of praise.” –Max Lucado, Because of Bethlehem

Think of it! The ones who surround the throne of Heaven and know Him best used their voices to bring Him glory at His birth.

Can we not do the same?

Though our surroundings change and our strength grows small, God Himself has provided something we can offer back to Him. That’s the best gift anyway; the one born not of pride from what we’ve accomplished, but from a heart filled with praise and thanksgiving.

This Christmas season may we cry out with Mary, who obviously had a little chaos going on in her own life: “Oh how my soul praises the Lord, how my spirit rejoices in God my Savior!” –Matthew 1:47

I think the Lord will be well pleased with His present.

After all, it is the gift the angels gave!

Lynna Clark lives in Salisbury. Read more at Lynna’s Wonderful Life at wordpress.com