Wonder...

I have a secret: even though I’m fully grown, I still run for the swings when children aren’t watching. I let myself swing with wild abandon — feet soaring, arms loose, heart light. There’s something sacred in that moment: a breath of freedom, a memory of simpler skies, a laughter that feels like air.

All through the year, I hold to those glimpses of wonder. I believe we were never meant to outgrow it entirely. There’s something about being open — not just seeing, but feeling and experiencing — that honours a part of us often silenced by “grown-up expectations.”

For me, Christmas amplifies that soft hum of wonder into a chorus. It reminds me of another Someone who welcomed the child-like faith, who invited little ones to come close. Someone who leaned into humanity — not as a distant sovereign, but as a neighbour, a babe, a light stepping softly into the world.

At Christmas, wonder isn’t optional. It’s built into the story itself. Wonder came down and dwelt among us. That means the small surprises, the quiet glimmers, the gentle miracles of everyday life — they aren’t accidental. They’re part of the tapestry.

So I hold wonder more closely in December. I let lights and decorations and carols stir something ancient and alive inside me: a readiness to hope, a readiness to delight, a readiness to believe in softness, surprise, and grace.

Maybe that’s what faith feels like when it remembers its childhood face.
Not brittle. Not jaded. Open. Curious. Awake.
And perhaps, just for a season, it’s easier to let that wonder bloom.

But my prayer is sort of wild and hopeful: that I don’t pack it away when the lights fade. That I carry it — like an extra scarf — into the rest of the year: the everyday, the dull grey days, the ordinary Tuesdays, the routine of life.

Because wonder — it’s a birthright. It’s the gentle pulse behind the stars, the hush between breaths, the miracle hiding in everyday moments if we only open our eyes and hearts wide enough to see.