It gets tougher every year to ring in the good news about Jesus with dignity and style. This year in the Northland, the big trend is to have those little deer on your lawn, the ones made of wire with thousands of little white lights illuminating the entire outdoors.

I would love a herd of those deer nestled among my evergreen trees. But when I look at the expense and the work of stringing about 60 yards of electrical cord to my outdoor socket, it drives me toward despair.

I would like to bake some holiday cookies. I’ve got the cookbooks, the cutters and all the ingredients, but when I see how complicated cookies have become, I give up the spirit. I could frost them, but all that sprinkly stuff might slide off and onto the floor, and think of the housecleaning.

It has come to me that Christmas is not about all these things — the planning and the execution of decorating and baking. Rather, it is about surprises, accidents of joy and serendipitous moments. Those are the secrets of a great Christmas, and all the rest is just window dressing on plastic.

I know there are people who are passionate about Christmas, and they plan for December all through the year. I give my blessing to those dear people because I believe they make someone happy with all that work and fuss. I sincerely want them to continue, because they make Christmas a brighter holiday. But I can’t join the frenzy.

Here is a small story to illustrate my point. I remember a Christmas when I gave my younger brother a Bible. It was probably a cheap Bible, because I didn’t have much money, and I was sure he wouldn’t appreciate it. He was in one of those vulnerable times of life with a multitude of questions and a girlfriend whose first name was misery. I thought he was acting like a hotshot punk who had no desire for the good life. But I also suspected he was a pretty good kid, and I figured the Bible was worth a try. When he opened it, the book stopped him in his tracks. He lifted it as if he were weighing something valuable in his hand. Then he placed it on the floor, but every once in a while, he would look at it out of the corner of his eye.

Later that evening, Larry and I walked to a footbridge that spanned a small stream near my parents’ home. I swear it was like a picture on an old-fashioned calendar: snow falling in large flakes gently to earth, church bells ringing, a full moon lighting the outdoors, people strolling by as worship ended and two young lads leaning against a railing with tears in their eyes.

We stood there like men, saying nice things for a change. We snuffled a little, but there was no weeping as one would in grief. We were not saying goodbye; we were embarking on a new journey. We stayed there for about half an hour until our tears dried, and then went home to more complicated lives.

Today, neither of us is a Bible expert, but that brief encounter enlivened us and set us on a straighter course. That is the magic of Christmas.

Here is the secret for a great Christmas: We must empty ourselves of all expectation and desire. For instance, why do we always expect that Uncle Bluto will tell bad jokes and get a little tipsy on the Christmas punch? Why can’t we let Uncle Bluto open his bag of memories and tell great stories?

Why do we always desire delicious pie? We expect that people will devour every morsel as if they were gluttons on a binge. Will it matter if the mincemeat pie is not very good or that the turkey is a little dry? Does it matter to people living in an affluent land where too much food is left over? Of course not. What matters is that Christmas brought someone joy.

I remember a Christmas morning when not many people were in church. One couple sitting off to the side was worshiping with heads bowed. I tried to preach joy, but I wasn’t connecting with this elderly couple.

After worship, the man came to my office, his face stained with tears. He told me about his son living on the streets in a nearby city. A month earlier he had found him ill-fed, dirty, confused and lost to an ordinary life. “There had always been trouble between us,” he said. “He always disagreed with me, we always fought. But this time we talked, and I told him I loved him. His mom, too.”

Then he pushed the last words out: “This morning he died.”

A few days later we buried him, and it struck me that Christmas was happening before our eyes. An old man’s words of love coming before a son’s death and giving the entire event a shine from God. It was a moment when a lost son and an angry father could see beyond their hurt.

This world is host to many people who feel lost and many who have been found by pure accident. That’s what we have to face anew each year — that much of our good fortune is serendipity — a discovery of fortune and grace that comes to us purely by accident. And each year we have to face it anew. We have to learn that it is the accidents, the surprises, that bring us joy.

Serendipity can’t be planned. It can only be enjoyed. As you wait during the next weeks for Christmas, may you find a surprise just for you.

Clark D. Morphew