John MacMurray


If He Only Knew How Happy His Smile Makes Me

A friend of mine recently posted a picture of his 10 month old son with this caption:

“If he only knew how happy his smile makes me.”

My heart lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Plaza in New York.

I know this feeling! I do! I know this joy, this pleasure!

So Good.

So True.

If you are even just a “so-so” mom or dad — you get it, you understand this young father’s wish. Really.

But then I thought, I wonder if God has ever thought the same thing about us? If they only knew . . . 

If they only knew . . . I love each and every one of you all the time, now and forever—whether you love me back or not.

If they only knew . . . I would never destroy that which I love.

If they only knew . . . I know your suffering. I know your pain. I know your loss. These things are not, and will never be, the last word— I am.

If they only knew . . . I am not a cosmic puppeteer, pulling the strings and rolling the dice with your life.

If they only knew . . . how happy I am when you are happy.

If they only knew . . . you cannot win my approval or affection by jumping through religious or moral hoops — I would never, ever require that from you. My affection is yours, freely and forever.

If they only knew . . . I see youI can’t take my eyes off you. I always see the absolute loveliness of every single one of you—even through the devastating mess of your self destructive blindness.

If they only knew . . . my passion for you is like a relentless fire that burns more intensely than all the stars I’ve set ablaze in the heavens.

If they only knew . . . how I would give anything for you to know the truth and freedom of who you really are.

If they only knew . . . I did—I’ve given you myself. I am yours.

If they only knew . . . to not judge the extent of my love by a quantity of money, a sphere of influence, peer recognition, or the adulation and praise of a crowd — whatever hand you’ve been dealt in this life.

If they only knew . . .The proof of my love is found in a baby, who was born to an inconspicuous middle eastern teenager some 2000 years ago.

Sshh . . .

Do you hear it? Distant voices, almost like a faint melody born on the wind . . . coming ever closer . . . rising to a chorus of beauty divine:

Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!
O night divine, the night when Christ was born;
O night, O Holy Night , O night divine!

If only knew . . . I would celebrate Christmas every day.

Merry Christmas

John MacMurray