Gabriel said, "Your prayer has been heard."

This morning, I was sitting in a group of about a hundred kids listening to my friend Kim tell all of us about Zechariah and Elizabeth and the angel Gabriel. But actually, I wasn't listening at all. I was keeping an eye on a pile of kindergarten boys because Jackson kept standing up to look for Austin, and Ian wanted to go sit with his sister, and Marcel was big-eyed with shyness. I took Judah to the bathroom. I hovered near a clump of boys prone to mid-story wrestling matches.

I tried not to look at my watch and wonder for the hundredth time where Matt was. He is the small group leader for these little knuckleheads, and he was running a bit late getting to church.

I spotted a new-ish boy named Fisher. The large group room is dark, but I could see he was trying not to cry. I crawled over to him. "Hey, Fisher? Y'okay?"

Here came the tears. I said, "Hey, buddy, come with me. Let's go talk." I took his hand, and we walked out to the hallway. I knelt down and asked what was wrong. He gulped  and gulped, collecting his thoughts and finally bawled out, "I don't know where my class is."

Glory be, here came Matt. He immediately got down on his knees, and glancing at Fisher's name tag, said, "Hi, Fisher. I'm Matt." He shook Fisher's hand and told him how glad he was to meet him. "Fisher," he said. "Will you sit next to me in Large Group? I'd really like that."

And, just like that, all was well.

Later in the morning, I stopped by Matt's class to check in. Fisher and his friends had a roll of masking tape, and they used it to mummy-up my knees and waist and arms. They thought they were hilarious. Oh, the giggles and squeals over a middle-aged woman covered in masking tape. Parents looked a little perplexed when they picked up their boys. One asked if there was a connection between the tape and the lesson. "Nope! Just playing!" I replied.

I'm not good at playing. I married a man who is. He puts me on a bike and he holds up a funky-looking plant and earnestly asks, "Can we get this?" and he poses our dog and pretends he's judging her at Westminster.

And you know what else? Sometimes I feel awfully lost. He holds out his hand and asks me to sit next to him and tells me everything is going to be okay.

Today, we were watching the Bucs while I decorated the Christmas tree. We groaned when things didn't go well, and we cheered when they did. Near the end of the game, he beamed at me and said, "You're wonderful."

Crazy man. Yep. I am wonderful. Full of wonder, that is. How my life got here, I don't know. But I sit here looking at my half-decorated Christmas tree and my sleepy dog and my tall man watching his third football game in a row, hands resting on his tummy-full of ice cream.

And I know. I know. There is nothing I want for Christmas. Except a thousand more years of this.