We put away Christmas today, two days early. You’re supposed to do that on Epiphany, January 6, the 12th day of Christmas, the day the Magi finally made it to the manger in Bethlehem.

I love the story of the Wise Men. The traditional names are musical, exotic, intriguing—Melchior, Balthazar, Caspar. I see them as beard-scratching professor-types with swarthy skin and kind eyes, imposing and dignified, commanding respect but not attention. The sort of guys you wish had taught your World Religions course. Imagine their surprise to end up in a stuffy cave with a too-young mother, her shell-shocked husband, and if tradition can be trusted, an odd menagerie of gawkers, both human and animal.

I love that Jesus came to the meek and smelly, and to the rich and learned.

God revealed, to all who will seek.

Wouldn’t it be nice to just stay there at the manger, serenely watching Mary and Joseph fall in love with their baby? But when God reveals something, watch out—Epiphany (like life) is multi-layered, gray, raw. The Wise Men sought Jesus; Herod responded by butchering babies. The Wise Men brought gifts and adoration; the little family had to sneak off to Egypt.

Meanwhile, back to real life in the bleak midwinter. Think I’ll burrow into my favorite poet’s lair and wait for signs of spring.

I dwell in Possibility—
A fairer House than Prose—
More numerous of Windows—
Superior—for Doors—

Of Chambers as the Cedars—
Impregnable of Eye—
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky—

Of Visitors—the fairest—
For Occupation—This—
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise—

(Emily Dickinson)