Walking the Road

Last night we wandered through Road to Bethlehem and it felt like stepping into a story that’s been waiting for us.

There was something quietly magical about the whole evening. Not the loud, glittery kind of Christmas magic, but the soft, lantern-lit sort — the kind that settles into your chest and reminds you that wonder doesn’t always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes it walks beside you in the cool night air, wrapped in laughter and shared glances and long-told stories that somehow still feel new.

We took a friend with us, which made the journey feel even richer. There’s a particular joy in seeing sacred things through someone else’s eyes — the way the actors draw you in, the animals milling about as if they’ve been hired as holy extras, the little vignettes of ancient life unfolding like pages turned in real time.

We strolled.
We listened.
We laughed out loud together.
And in the quieter scenes, we found ourselves reflecting — not because we forced it, but because the story gently invited it.

Somewhere between the shepherds and the stable, I realised again how much I love these unhurried spaces. The ones that hold both joy and depth without making you choose between them. The ones where faith feels less like a task and more like a warm, steady presence walking just ahead of you.

The whole evening felt like a reminder:
that God meets us on the road, not at the finish.
In the wandering, not just the arriving.
In shared laughter, shared steps, shared awe.

And maybe that’s the gift I’m keeping from last night — this sense that wonder grows best when we don’t rush it. When we walk slowly enough for the story to breathe. When we let ourselves be found by beauty in unexpected corners.

It was a simple night.

But simple things, in Advent, tend to glow a little.

And we carried that glow home with us.