She kneels before the towering pile of branches, needles, and glistening apparel that screamed “Beautiful!” at the top of it's lungs. The room echoed it's silent heaves, laden with as much mirth and glee to rise a city from its knees. But to it, she does not turn an ear.
Ornaments dripping off of plastic pine with golden cord, crystalline lights shimmering eerily above the circlet of holly and red ribbon cascading at every corner. The shine of every cherub's eye and the point of every silver-studded star pierces the air, and everything is perfect.
Outside, oblivious to the green and gold and silver and stone, the salting of snow about the road- not too much to cause discomfort, but just enough to dust the world. Carolers toting semi-sweet notes, of good tidings and joy and mistletoe, their clasped gloved hands bright colored against the white backdrop of sow. Their rosy cheeks and perfect rows of teeth gaping wide to form the words only the pristine windows and snow-laden homefront are attentive enough to hear. But still she does not cast a single thought to the sight. The perfection of the scene, cast by dim lighted candles and the firelight's glow, was not by what her tears poured.
Her hands and knees ached, bend down beneath the curtain of evergreen, hands held out among the sharply wrapped presents of glorious color. Between her cupped palms stood tiny old trinkets; an old crowned man robed in gold, beside two kneeling in purple, extended hands bearing richly wrapped gifts. Three shepherds huddle opposite, upturned bearded chins holding awe and joy for the lifted angel hanging over the scene. It's wings shimmer under the worn old luster of gold paint, and his face was cracked from the many ill-kept tumbles from the tree.
A blue-wrapped maiden kneeling, eyes smiling with the little pink-painted line of mouth. Her husband's hand was laid lightly on her shoulder, their faces all turned towards the babe.
The small wood carved manger- painted straw sticking out from beneath a sleeping child, who's serene face beholds no thought to the wonderland he sits among. The towering tree, crackling fireplace, holly and the snow continue without notice to this tiny silent scene beneath it's boughs.
But she notices. Tears stream down her cheeks as her fingers tenderly touch the seemingly soft wooden cheeks of the tiny child. It was small, old, silent... broken. But it's depth of meaning weighed her heart heavier than all the majesty of her surroundings- in fact, this, instead, was her majesty. The Majesty.
The child. The shepherds. The mother. The angel.
The kings- who traveled miles and deserts following the dim point of light in the sky, certain for the Son of God at the end of their journey.
The father- who by an angel, was told to leave his country, his home, and move to Egypt, and by his faith, obeyed.
The stable- rugged, wretched, rancid... but into it's arms did the babe enter the world.
The city- by its night lights the family was turned aside, though she was griping in pain from labor... full to the brim with people who were called to their hometown to be counted by the Emperor.
The soldiers- who were ordered to witness the slaughter of hundreds of newborn children by their own hand, seeking out the single child who was named the King of the Jews.
The night- silent though it began, brought about the outpouring of such glorious chorus from the heavens that those who could hear ran in fear.
This was the majesty. This was the story. But little it stood beside the presents, wreaths, carolers and the mistletoe. But still she knelt, eyes glistening, for she knew. She knew the story. She knew the majesty. And the expressionless, voiceless trinkets held lovingly between her fingers sang a song louder than anything else in the room. For they were the Majesty of the season.