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It's almost two a.m. On the average Christmas Eve (now evolved into morn) I've barely been in bed for half an hour, but I've already looked at the clock at least three times. Wild with anticipation, not for what might lie under the tree for me, but for the joy I hope to see on the faces of my children.

In a few short hours I will hop out of bed. Probably on the pretext of needing to visit the restroom or to fetch a drink of water. And my slippered feet will deliberately pound the wood floors--that just happen to be right over the boys' bedroom--just a little too loudly. I might shut the cupboard door a bit too forcefully. Knowing full well if I can accidentally wake up at least one or two, the excitement will spread through the house. Children will raise their sleepy heads and soon--quite soon--the moment of truth will arrive.

I lay there as the minutes tick by. Exhausted, but still wide awake. Will they be happy?


Tonight I wonder: Was it possibly the same for our Creators?

Did they tremble with anticipation as they raised the mighty mountains of the Wasatch front, wondering who would be the first to glance up and stare in awe at their beauty?

Were they secretly pleased at how lovely Bridal Veil falls turned out when it was all up and running and could they not wait for someone to notice?

Did they take their first whiff of fresh lavender and almost clap their hands--barely able to stand it till one of us finally inhaled the earthy fragrance?


Can they hardly contain their joy each time they send down a marvelous sunset? Do they possibly ask, "Won't so-and-so really love this one?"