This past weekend we took Ian to the Way of Lights at Our Lady of the Snows. It took an hour of waiting in mile-long traffic, but thankfully the mini-van in front of us had a late showing of The Incredibles. Plus, I don’t know that Ian really knew or cared about the difference between Christmas lights and headlights.

The weekend before, Ian had sat on my lap (in the back) while we drove (ever so carefully) between the Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club parking lots. He loved it. Who wouldn’t prefer sitting on a father’s lap after being strapped to a carseat for two years? We told Ian that he could sit on Daddy’s lap again when we went to see Christmas lights, and any time he saw anything resembling a Christmas light he would ask, ‘Daddy’s lap?’

We finally reached the entrance to the Way of Lights, and my agility in unbuckling Ian from his seat was matched only by his speed in leaving it. He settled himself in my lap, and suddenly I remembered the year before: my face nuzzled against his head, Ian’s eyes opened wide and watching the lights with enough enthusiasm for both of us. Which was good, because I kept forgetting about the displays.

That night, Ian only had eyes for Bethlehem. He kept pointing at the city, its bright, yellow walls and turqoise-domed roofs shining through the trees. There was no sign of Wayne Newton. ‘Beth…le…hem! Beth…le…hem!’

And so this is Christmas. My son, my lap, driving slowly through the Gospel in fifty words or less, holding hands with my wife.