I wonder what I would bring if I had been there.

If I had stood in the stillness of that holy night, drawn by the light of the guiding star, its glow soft and steady above the stable. The quiet breaths of animals resting in the earthy-scented hay. And there, in the manger, lay the King of kings—the Savior of the world, God in the flesh—resting in the simplicity of a borrowed bed. My heart would tremble at the wonder of it all, and I would ask myself: what gift could I lay at His feet?

I wonder if I would have brought gold, radiant and heavy, its brilliance proclaiming His royalty. Would I have dared to approach with such a treasure, saying, “This is for You, the King of kings, worthy of riches beyond imagining”? No. I am not a king. I have no wealth, no splendor to offer. My hands would not know the weight of gold, nor my heart the boldness to give it.

Would I have brought frankincense, sacred and fragrant, its smoke curling upward like a prayer to heaven? Would I have understood the meaning of such a gift, that this child is the meeting place of heaven and earth? Could I have offered something so holy, so fitting for worship, when my hands feel too ordinary and my offering too small for the magnitude of who He is? No. I am not steeped in the traditions of offering such sacred gifts, and my heart falters at the thought of presenting something so pure before Him.

And myrrh—would I have had the courage to carry myrrh? Its bittersweet scent fills my mind with thoughts I do not want to think. A gift that speaks of death, of sorrow, of a love that will one day pour itself out. Would I have dared to bring it to Him, this child lying so peacefully, knowing what it foreshadows? No. I am not a prophet. I do not see the road ahead clearly enough to offer a gift so solemn.

I wonder if I would have brought something simpler, something I could hold in my unsteady hands without fear of its worth. A loaf of bread, perhaps—plain and humble, but sustaining. Would He have accepted it? Or would it seem too small for the One who is Himself the Bread of Life?

Or maybe a seed. I imagine myself carrying it, cupped in my palm, its edges rough against my skin. A seed is fragile, unimpressive. It holds a promise, but only if planted, only if nurtured. I picture laying it before Him and whispering, “This is all I have, Lord. My life, small as it is. It’s Yours.” Would He have smiled at its simplicity? Or would it feel too insignificant for the One who breathed life into every tree, every flower, every blade of grass?

I wonder if I would have brought something deeply personal, something no one else could give. A journal, its leather cover worn and familiar, its pages filled with the secrets of my heart. My fears. My failures. My hopes. Could I offer Him such raw honesty? Would I dare to lay my soul bare before the One who already sees it? Or would I clutch it tightly, ashamed that even my offering feels unworthy?

I wonder if I would have come with nothing. No gold. No incense. No myrrh. No seed or journal or bread. Just myself, standing at the edge of that holy moment, empty-handed, my heart pounding with the weight of my unworthiness. Would I have hesitated, afraid to step closer, afraid to kneel with nothing to give?

And yet, as I think of that stable, I see how nothing about it was as it should have been.

He is the King of kings, yet He lay in the straw, His throne a manger, His court the quiet presence of animals. The One who spoke galaxies into existence chose to cry with the voice of a newborn. The God of glory wrapped Himself in flesh, not in robes of splendor, but in the humility of swaddling cloth.

Everything about Him speaks of grace, of humility, of a love so vast it turns the world upside down. This is the King who came not to demand, but to give. Not to claim treasures, but to be the treasure. He asks for nothing I could carry in my hands, and yet He asks for everything—my heart, my life, my trust.

And I wonder if He would have looked at me—not at my hands, but at my heart. Would He have seen the longing to give, even when the gift felt too small? Would He have seen the trembling surrender, the fragile hope that what little I had might somehow be enough?

I wonder what I would bring if I had been there.

I wonder...

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Author’s Note:

This piece was born out of a simple yet profound question: What would I bring to Jesus if I had been there at the manger? As I reflected on the gifts of the Magi—gold, frankincense, and myrrh—I realized their offerings were not just material treasures but deeply symbolic declarations of who Jesus is: King, God, and Savior. And yet, as I pondered my own response, I was struck by how inadequate my gifts might feel in the presence of such holiness.

This writing is not meant to answer the question but to sit with it—to embrace the vulnerability of wondering what we, with all our imperfections, could offer to the One who gave everything for us. It is an invitation to reflect on the majesty of Christ, His humility, and the beauty of a love so vast that it turns the world upside down.

If anything, this piece reminds me that what Christ asks of us is not perfection or wealth but our hearts. Whatever we bring—whether it is grand or small, polished or raw—He receives with grace because it is given out of love.

As you read, I hope you feel invited into the wonder and awe of that holy moment. May this reflection inspire you to consider what you might lay at His feet, not just at Christmas, but every day.

What gift do you think you would bring to Jesus? I’d love to hear your thoughts!