Close to the Ground

By Minister Dearest Price

Christmas didn’t begin with sparkle.

It began with skin warmed by sun, history in the bones, and survival in the breath.

A young girl carried a promise in her body before the world was ready to honor her.

She knew how it felt to be watched, questioned, and misunderstood,

to carry purpose quietly while mouths kept moving. This serves as an example of every load we carry will not be understood.

“And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” — Luke 1:38

Yet Mary stood on business. She said “yes”without protection, without guarantees, without likes or applause.

Just faith.

That kind of faith knows how to stand tall even when the room gets cold. No baby showers, no big celebrations.

The man beside her chose responsibility over reputation.

He stayed when leaving would’ve been easier.

He covered what God had called.

“Joseph… being a just man… was minded to put her away privily.” — Matthew 1:19

Sometimes love means carrying weight quietly.

And when it came time to give birth, the doors were closed.

No space.

No welcome.

No comfort.

But life arrived anyway.

“And she brought forth her firstborn son… and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.” — Luke 2:7

A feeding trough.

Straw.

Smells undesired for birthing a baby.

That’s how greatness enters sometime,

low to the ground, close to the earth, unbothered by luxury.

The announcement didn’t go to the polished or the powerful.

It went to people who knew night work, tired backs, and watching over what little they had.

“And there were… shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.” — Luke 2:8

They were alert in the dark because that’s when danger comes.

They knew how to listen in silence.

They knew how to survive.

When the light broke through, fear followed,

because sudden change always feels like threat before it feels like blessing.

“Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy.” — Luke 2:10

Joy came not to erase hardship, but to sit right next to it.

And this was realistic,

because the salvation of the world arrived crying, hungry, and needing to be held.

No crown.

No speech.

Just breath and need.

God chose tenderness over toughness.

Dependence over dominance.

“For unto us a child is born.” — Isaiah 9:6

That child grew up close to the ground,

touching the sick, feeding the hungry, speaking truth without softening it, turning tables when necessary.

He knew what it meant to be watched, doubted, followed, and feared.

He understood bodies under pressure and souls under weight.

Christmas is the reminder that light survives in darker places.

That warmth holds when the world feels uneasy.

That hope is passed hand to hand, story to story, generation to generation.

It’s in the laughter that rises from deep places.

In the music that carries memory.

In the faith that refuses to disappear.

Christmas is God choosing to dwell among people who know endurance.

People who know how to wait, how to laugh through pain, how to love big.

“And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.” — John 1:5

The light still shines.

Still warm.

Still Ours.