In the Ozarks, they say that on January 5, 

Old Christmas Eve, at the stroke of midnight, 

well water turns to wine, and critters can talk. 

God blesses them with this ability 

so they may worship the Christ child. 

Imagine a single minute of speech, 

a single minute to express adoration for the living God. 

Not just the camels and donkeys of Bethlehem, 

not just the Wise Men, but coyotes and bobcats, 

moles and armadillos, wild turkeys and white tailed deer, 

earwigs and crickets, skinks and little brown bats, 

house sparrows and channel cat. 

Some old timers claim to have seen herds of Angus 

kneel down in the pastures at exactly midnight, 

bellowing their praises to Him. 

Imagine throats and tongues accustomed to lows and grunts, 

hisses and chitters. Imagine those without even vocal cords, who,

the rest of the year, rely on clicking teeth or tymbals or rubbing fins together,

getting one minute to say Rejoice. 

One minute for the shepherded to sing the shepherd’s jubilee. 

One minute when the silent night is no longer silent at all. 

They say that man will never bear witness to such a wondrous din. 

They say that on Old Christmas Day, dawn breaks twice, 

once for mankind, and once for the covenant reborn,

and they say that the elderberry blooms even through the ice, 

and from the hives the bees buzz a carol that can be heard 

for quite a stretch in any direction. Voices raised, 

flying as the crow flies, season of lights reflected in their shining eyes, 

prayers dropping like seeds from furry underbellies 

that will blossom come spring. 

Here, where the forests and mountains remind us 

that we live by each other’s grace. 

We are not trees but a forest. 

We are not trees but a single leaf on the branch of this forest.

One of the oldest carols still sung is “The Friendly Beasts,”

no nativity scene complete without them. 

The shepherd is also the lamb, the holy not separate 

from snout and horn and hoof, God not above sacrifice. 

So we give, yes, but better still, to take that minute. 

Remember the afterbirth and the bed of hay. 

Remember the frost after it’s melted, 

the hearth fire’s lingering warmth. 

Remember the rest of the year, whether or not 

you can see or hear it, it’s all still here--

God always within shouting distance.