It was Christmas Eve. We sat in semi-darkness in the living room in my grandparents’ house on Hunter’s Run, all of us sitting in chairs and on the soft blue carpet, more or less in a circle: Grandmother, Granddad, Dad, Mom, Tim, Josh, Nathaniel and me. The only lights were those from the Christmas tree. We had come from church and our fingers and noses were still chilled from the brisk Pennsylvania air. The exhilaration of singing carols with a brass ensemble coursed through me, but I was content to be home now, waiting. I was fourteen, but our tradition of opening one present on Christmas Eve and saving the rest until Christmas morning still had me grinning with anticipation. But before we could do that Dad began talking to us in a thoughtful voice, asking us if we knew the word “incarnation.” Sure, I knew it. It was one of those words we tossed about in church. Salvation, incarnation, revelation . . .I didn’t need to r...