My Very Own Miracle.
An afternoon spent at the temple of Mammon otherwise known as Ealing Broadway Shopping centre. The place was packed with harassed shoppers carrying huge bags full of boxes, presents and toys. It was more like a dodgem stall than a shopping centre as we blundered into other people, caught by huge bags twisted round hands white with the imprints of thin, cruel handles. Parents dragged small children through the shops, with admonishments of not to touch, not to stray, not to wander. Teenagers hung round corners, chatting with their friends and young lovers scowled with frowns of disappointment as their beloveds didn't telepathically pick out what they wanted for Christmas.
The windows were bright with sale signs, reduced signs and so-called great bargains for Christmas. A feast of joy and birth has become almost completely overcome by mercenary greed or so I thought. For today, I saw a miracle of sorts, an event that brought home to me what Christmas is really about.
In the centre of the mall corridor, surrounded by shops, a little girl was being dragged by her parents. She must have only been about three and was completely oblivious to the chaos around her. Her eyes were fixed on the blue flashing lights twisted round a wreath of holly on the roof. She pointed, she stared and she gasped at what, for her, was sheer beauty. Her parents, harassed by an undone shopping list told her off for dawdling and I? I smiled at her. Her complete fascination for the ordinary decorations made me think that this is really what Christmas is about. The wonder, whatever religion you are, for the beauty that Mankind can create. The astonishment at a miracle, which must have been what those wise men felt, so long ago.
For me, it took a child to show me the way. Today, that unknown child, that little toddler was my guiding star and my very own miracle.