Christmas is a time of contrasts. Humble shepherds precede regal wise men. A brilliant star illumines a crude manger. Visitors seek to worship Jesus, while Herod seeks to kill Him. When Mary and Joseph take Jesus to the Temple for dedication, Simeon's prophecy of the glory of Jesus' life is complemented by the allusion to His tragic death.
Inside a modern home, a gaily decked evergreen defies the mud and bare branches outside. The muffled cries of thousands crushed under oppressive governments in many parts of the world confront our glittering festivities. Suicides multiply at Christmastime; yet the angels sang, "Peace on earth ... goodwill to men."
Four year ago I only wanted to see the bright, living side of Christmas. That year, I brought my newborn baby boy home from the hospital on Christmas Eve. My husband had trimmed the Douglas fir tree with colored balls and blinking lights.
In the darkness I held my baby and watched the blinking lights dancingingly reflected on the ceiling. We had set up a crib in our box of a living room. The one bedroom, where we slept, was too cold for the baby. The warmth of my bundle and the thrill of the lights lifted me above mundane concerns. In the magic of that moment, I felt part of the mystery and sacredness of life. I could almost hear the angels singing and the heavenly bells ringing.
Did Mary sense the same holy presence as she held her newborn and gazed into the night sky at the display of heavenly light? Did she rejoice for the gift of life God had given? Did she wonder what her Child would become when He was grown? Did she pray passionately that He would follow God's way?
Earthly, motherly thoughts, but significant. My son's Christmas birth awakened in me a sense of wonder at the miracle of life and God's love. To think that another baby had been born 2,000 years ago who embodied the eternal, holy God!
Through His birth, Jesus entered human existence. Through His death, we may enter His eternal, exalted existence. Mary probably puzzled at Simeon's words prophesying Jesus' death. She couldn't know then that it was His victory in death as well as in life that brought such joy in the heavens and caused His birth to be celebrated for centuries afterward.
This Christmas my son is four, and we celebrated his birthday. But this year has added a new dimension to our Christmas experience. Five days ago my mother died.
Mother had always made Christmas special. But this year--watching her cancer-ravaged body weakening--I thought the preparations and celebrations seemed out of place, all wrong.
Mother, however, delighted in the gift-selecting, music, and decorating. She laughed with her grandchild. She exuded love more deeply than ever. In spite of losing control of her body and suffering constant pain, there was somehow an inner intense strength about her, as one sees in a runner nearing the goal. She loved life and did not want to die while still in her forties, but she departed with a smile on her face, her eyes focused straight toward heaven. I could almost hear the angels singing and the heavenly bells ringing.
I thought of Mary again. As she watched Jesus die a tragic, painful death, did she despair? Or did the memory of the miracles surrounding His birth and life give her hope? Life won out. His death brought our spiritual birth.
This Christmas Day, we celebrated the Christ child's birth with gifts and festive food, scripture and prayer. Then we drove up a snowy hillside to the flower-covered grave site. The contrast of the red-rose-and-holly-covered grave to the icy, brown hills spoke to my warring emotions.
There, in the pain of death's separation, in my heart was born an awareness of the vitality of Christmas that I will carry with me forever. Looking up, I noticed the first twinkle of an evening star. Our hope still shone! The realities of pain, suffering, and death are inescapable. But they will end in miraculous everlasting life because of the shining hope of Christmas.
With my growing son by my side, I tossed my head back, drew into my warm lungs the chill air, and smiled through my tears.
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Published in Standard and The Lookout
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Copyright © 1982, 2006, Catherine Lawton