Christmas is a wonderful time of year, based upon a wonderful time for a birth. Clear skies, winter burn and here I crouch under a German tree. This year’s crop may have come from the edge of the Mid Atlantic. The tips of the pine are dangling a bit lower than last week when my holiday season arrived, from roof top to a metal guided stand. Sap and slobber can break the resolve of any dried-out branch or the intentions of any well-conditioned hand. Clearly, we would be right at home in the fields of the Tar Heel State. But stickiness and residue do not make for comfortable bedding or for a flock of sheep to remain intact. Personally, I have adapted quite well to where the roots and the water conflux. It is not a perfectly executed illustration, but Bethlehem has its issues too. There should always be room at the Inn and modern-day peace should always triumph over ages of open ambivalence. This is why I leave the ornaments alone. Sure, dangling tin and blown glass are easy to annoy and even easier to bump when pressed. Still, the lower that I crouch, the cozier I feel. There was and always will be safety in a manger. Since, I have never witnessed a sermon, neon colors will have to serve as good tidings from the spirit and the wind. The lights shine brightest, as the Holy World lays us down. Confinement can be a straw bed, and history, an understanding next of kin.