My favorite parts of the Christmas season are the family gatherings. Each year my grandmother hosts a Christmas celebration at a church house near her home. We get together, hear a few words from my grandma, watch the great-grandkids and a few of the rest of us share a song or a talent, and stage a nativity pageant.
The tradition is similar for the Dorton clan. We were excited to include Abigail in the nativity scene. We had borrowed a cow outfit from my sister, Marian, for halloween. We were just able to squeeze Abigail into it and she was so inocently cute that my daddy-heart melted.
Abigail's cousin, Samuel, was also a cow. As a matter of fact, there were no sheep. If we are to accept the Dorton account of the Savior's birth, the shepherds were in fact cowboys; or, more correctly, a single cowgirl, driving their herd of cattle to the inn to see the holy Child.
I had once fallen out of love with the Christmas holiday. I can't exactly say why. But watching my little child dressed as a cow, lying on her tummy, and grazing on a burp cloth, stirred something in me that I was missing. Her eyes will gaze at our tree in wonder. She sings carols with us with innocent abandon. She snuggles close and wants to be held, and for some reason, it feels more like Christmas than I have ever known.
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