Advent Day 23: Home

“…Everyone had to travel to his own ancestral hometown to be accounted for. So Joseph went from the Galilean town of Nazareth up to Bethlehem in Judah, David's town, for the census.            As a descendant of David, he had to go there…

The night sky was almost purple and the stars were about as visible as I remember ever seeing them here. Back in Tennessee, when I lived in the country I would go out on clear winter nights and I could easily see the Milky Way. But here, 12 miles south of Philadelphia, you don’t normally see this many stars at night.

I was looking skyward for a long time and thinking about how, when I was a boy, I would always look for the Christmas star as the holiday drew nearer. I never understood that the star was an anomaly and that God had done that on purpose to guide folks to His son. I thought it came with the tinsel and the tree ornaments.

Tonight as I gazed skyward, from the small deck next to the apartment, I was caught up in those memories. Home was a long way away on this night. Even though I was home at the time. Since my divorce in 1999, I alternate Christmas holidays with my daughter’s mom and so I only see Morgan every other Christmas. And this was not my year with her.

Christmas rarely has felt normal for me since the divorce. I am very much a traditionalist at Christmas and being an intact family really mattered to me. It still does and I hold out hope that one day I will be part of a family again. I still have a lot of Christmas left in my soul.

This night though, I was lost in thought about this season. All that it used to mean and which of those things still remain now that adulthood has taken over and life has taken her best shot. What is it about Christmas that I miss the most? What were the things that made it such a favorite holiday?

The easy answer, I supposes, would be the Christmas presents. That’s the part that every child loves, (and most adults if we’re honest). But there was always so much more to this season than just unwrapping gifts on Christmas morning. As I sat there in the little plastic chair on my rooftop deck, wrapped in a blanket against the December chill, it was that which I longed for. Those memories and that feeling…that thing in your heart that started feeling really great around Thanksgiving and built to a crescendo until December 25 and came in for a soft landing at New

Years.

Some of the answers were easy. Christmas was the one time when there was any sort of prolonged peace in my house. Everyone got along for the entire month of December. It was about the only time we did anything as a family. We put up the tree, decorated the house. One tradition we had when I was very young was going to Philadelphia by train the day after Thanksgiving.

Every “Black Friday” my mother, my brother, my Aunt and Cousin and my grandmother would board the train in Ridley Park. We rode the 15 miles or so to Suburban Station on the North side of City Hall on Broad Street. Then we’d walk down to the Wannamaker’s Store on Broad and see the wonderful light display with a spine tingling narration by the great John Facenda.

It’s old and outdated not but it still operates during the season and families still bring their kids there to feel the same magic we felt and our parents and grandparents before them felt.

When we were kids, there was a wonderful monorail that circled the toy department of Wannamaker’s. The toy department was that big. Your parents would put you on the monorail and you would be up there at ceiling height, circling aisle after aisle of toys while they went and did some secret shopping. Then they’d get you and take you to get your picture taken with Santa and you’d walk around the toy department for hours wanting everything you saw.

We’d walk down the block to Gimbels and see their walk-through Christmas land display and by 6 p.m. we were exhausted and our heads were spinning from trying to process so much Christmas magic.

Sometime in early November the “Sears’ Christmas Wish Book” would arrive by mail and my brother and sister and I would take turns going through it and writing our initials next to what we hoped Santa would bring us. For me it was GI Joes, slot cars, and sports equipment.

Christmas Eve would find us usually at my grandmother house in Philadelphia. My grandfather would usually be dressed in a sweater and looking his best and smelling like Aqua Velva. My grandmother would be teary eyed when we walked in the door. She was a Christmas lover too.

In later years we moved the Christmas Eve party to our house in Wilmington. Open house, come as you are, and stay as long as you want. People would come and go throughout the evening. I would usually sneak off for a few hours to visit with some other families who also had Christmas Eve parties. Christmas Eve wasn’t Christmas Eve unless I saw the Winward’s for a while.

There was almost a hint of sadness to the night. Deep inside I knew that in a day, or two or a week, the world would go right back to what it was for the other eleven months of the year. We wouldn’t be getting along nearly as well, we’d hardly do much of anything together, and life would just roll on. But for this one night, there was a palpable magic in the air.

As I got older, got married, divorced and settled into adulthood, I found myself missing those Christmas Eve gatherings more and more. When I was introduced to most of my father’s family about four years ago, I was invited to the Christmas Eve (Festa Dei Sette Pesci) Feast of Seven Fishes. Nobody eats for the holidays like an Italian and my family does it best.

The first one I ever attended was the best. I was sitting with cousins I had only recently met and with my Uncle Fran and it felt like I was part of something I’d been yearning for my whole life. It was as if a hole had begun to fill in my soul somewhere.

That is the yearning I felt this night. I was missing all that had gone before and all that might still be. There is something about my hometown at Christmas. Philadelphia really gets it right.

There is a wonderful tradition of music. WMMR is the leading AOR station in the city and at Christmas they really caught the spirit. I remember wonderful songs like Bowie and Bing singing “Little Drummer Boy and “Peace on

Earth”. Or The Waitresses “Christmas Wrapping.” “Run Run Rudolph” by Chuck Berry. But I always knew it was officially Christmas when two songs played. When I first heard Bruce Springsteen’s raspy intro, “It’s all cold down along the beach…and the winds whippin’ down the boardwalk…” Nobody does “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” like The Boss.

And the most poignant and emotional moment for me would always come when Pierre Robert, MMR’s midday jock, would play the only known version of Allan Mann’s amazing “Christmas on The Block.” The first time he played that song and told the story of the blind couple portrayed in the lyrics, I wept openly. It moves me like nothing else. Because it so perfectly captures the truth that Christmas is what you see in your heart about the holiday…not what the world shows us in decorations or newspaper advertisements.

Memories were flooding my heart now. The houses along Boathouse Row, Christmas caroling on my street, climbing up on the rooftop with sleigh bells so Morgan would think Santa had arrived, the lights at Longwood Gardens, the massive pipe organ at Wannamaker’s, cookie trays from Termini Brothers bakery. There were things about this holiday that marked my soul and I was missing them badly.

Little things that you don’t think about until you miss them and need them. The way a Salvation Army band sounds on a street corner. Or the way the bell sounds when you have dropped a few dollars in change into the kettle. The way little kids sing their songs at their Christmas programs…off key and staccato but precious and beautiful.

For me, towering above all the Christmas memories was always one. It’s that moment during A Charlie Brown Christmas when Charlie Brown senses he has lost his cast and they aren’t listening to him as director of the Christmas Pageant and he is feeling his mounting disillusion with Christmas (ever the amazing introspective nine year old) and he cries out in frustration “Isn’t there anyone…who knows the real meaning of Christmas?”The answer comes from his best friend Linus. “Sure Charlie Brown,” Linus says, “I can tell you the true meaning of Christmas.” And then he walks to center stage asks for a spotlight, and quotes line by line the Nativity story from the book of Matthew. Every year that plays out on national TV and every year…even at 49…I will get tears in my eyes and I will know…Christmas has arrived on schedule. And just in time.

"Where we love, is home. Home; that our feet may leave, but not our hearts." -Oliver Wendell Holmes

Advent Day 19: The Prodigal Son visits the baby Jesus

     “When he was still a long way off, his father saw him.

His heart pounding, he ran out, embraced him, and kissed him.”

       I still don’t understand -not nearly- what is happening with this advent calendar, or what God is doing, or how it is that I am finding myself in a dirty cave, in the presence of God in the flesh, on the night of the nativity.

      But I am. It seems like each day opening the calendar door has been a new and breathtaking face to face meeting with the God I’d always hoped would be there, but somehow never was.

       For the last 20 days or so, I’d been conversing with Mary and Joseph and they would ask me questions about “where I’m from”. Not wanting to try to explain what I can’t comprehend myself, I simply told them I was from a place very far away, (which is true…in a cosmic sense) and that my country was very different from Nazareth and Bethlehem.  

       I suppose I had this on my mind when I decided to sit down and open the door on the advent calendar tonight. I had been playing checkers with Morgan earlier that day and there was a checkerboard and checkers in a box on the table near the chair I sit in when I read. I sank down into my chair and drew a breath. It had been a long day…not particularly emotional but long. I sat the box containing the checkerboard and checkers on my lap and then I opened the little leather door on the calendar.

       Not much was happening. Mary and Joseph had just eaten something for dinner and she was cleaning their meager dishes and Joseph was holding Jesus while making cooing sounds and smiling involuntarily at his little boy. He reminded me of me, when Morgan was born. Jesus made little or no reaction…an occasional spit bubble and a faint wisp of a smile…but mostly he slept. He had eaten not 15 minutes before my arrival and Joseph began burping him.

       I was sitting cross legged on the dirty straw and smiling a very goofy smile. The kind you suddenly become aware of after a few vacant moments. I was smiling because the thought occurred to me that here was a man younger than me, holding God, and trying to get him to burp. I was certain it couldn’t get any more wonderful than this, when Jesus emitted the loudest burp I’d ever heard. Joseph looked at me a smiled broadly. It was perfect…across time and history men will still be men. Here we were, unable to even explain each others presence in this moment and yet hearing his newborn son burp bonded us at some eternal, male-oriented level.

       Joseph placed Jesus in the feed trough and he fell fast asleep. He came over to where I was sitting and asked me about the box I was holding. I opened the box and showed him the checkers game I had brought with me. Inside of ten minutes I had taught him the game and we entertained ourselves for about an hour. Mary had finished what she was doing and joined Joseph on the floor of the cave next to me. Joseph was fascinated by the plastic checkers. “What sort of tree were these made from?” he asked me. I smiled to myself. How would I answer that? How could I explain what plastic even was to this man? So I told him it is from a special plant that grows in my part of the world. He seemed reasonably pleased with that answer and we played for a few more minutes.

       At some point I noticed Joseph had an odd, quizzical look on his face. He stopped playing and looked toward the opening to the cave. He had his head tilted back as if he had smelled something. No sooner had I recognized this then he sniffed dramatically and said “Do you smell that?”  “Smell what?” I asked him “Pig! I smell pigs,” he said with his nose turned up. “Pig manure to be exact,” he added with disgust. Now, I realized that a pig was anathema to an observant Jew, but I didn’t realize until that moment just how much disdain they held pigs in until I saw Joseph’s revulsion at simply the scent of a pig. He literally looked as if he would curl up and die. I still didn’t smell anything that stood out as a worse odor than the smell of dirty sheep that this cave had held since the first day I arrived here.

       It was a full two or three minutes after Joseph smelled him coming, that the stranger showed up at the mouth of the cave. He was a young man…barely more than a teenage kid it seemed. But when he poked his head in the cave, he instantly seemed to age before my eyes. There was a no light in his eyes, no youthful exuberance. There was only shame and embarrassment and a hesitancy to enter…or even to speak.

       Joseph was cautious at first, he was about to turn this young man away because the odor betrayed the fact that he had been in contact with pigs and Joseph was an observant Jew. Having him enter the cave would defile the only shelter they had, and with nowhere else to go, Joseph didn’t want to risk it. Until this moment I had not interfered in the interaction of any visitor, but something about this kid seemed very familiar and I just knew he was supposed to be here.

       Joseph was about to stand, and I got the sense he was going to turn the kid away. I put my hand on Joseph’s arm and whispered, “Joseph…you might have to trust me on this one. I think this young man belongs here. Let him come in.”  Joseph looked at me startled, but suddenly, as if something tugged at his soul, he relented. “If I have to go through this cave and clean it because of this, you are helping me,” he whispered. He had a half smile on his face and I realized he had the same feeling about this young man…he needed to be here.

       Mary bid the young man enter the cave. Now, I grew up in a city, but I’ve been to farms and I’ve been around farm animals. I have never -not in my life- smelled anything that rivaled the stench of pig manure that emanated from his ragged clothing. The only thing that was close was the rancid, nauseous aroma of a chicken coop. I’d thought a chicken coop was the single worst thing I’d ever come across until I got a whiff of this kids clothes.

       He was sheepish and humble…a broken man at all of maybe 22 or 23 years old. He was stooped over, and not because of the low height of the ceiling. It was because he carried a burden of guilt and shame and brokenness that weighed him down and slumped his shoulders. He would rarely make eye contact with the three of us and when he did, his eyes quickly darted left and right and never held our eyes for more than a few seconds. This was a kid who had truly seen way too much in a brief period of time…and regretted almost all of it.

       He didn’t say much. Joseph asked his name and he spit it out in a shamed whisper, like he really didn’t want us to know who he was. He was a filthy mess. He had mud…and God knows what else…caked to his worn-out shoes and up his legs. He wasn’t dressed nearly warm enough for the winter night and he hadn’t had a bath in a long time. His hands were dirty, his face was dirty, his hair was wild and unkempt. His lips were chapped and peeling and his stomach growled so loudly I thought maybe a small mountain lion was outside the cave.

       He tried to be polite but it was apparent he would rather not interact with us…or with anyone else. He was perhaps the most shame-filled man I’d ever seen. And the most broken. He stood silently for several awkward moments after Joseph asked him a few questions. He answered dutifully and I suppose it was Aramaic he spoke when Joseph asked him his name because I didn’t recognize it at all. His eyes were puffy and there was a wide, white ring around each eye amid the dirt on his face. This man had been crying a long time.

       After a few moments, it was Mary who offered him an audience with the baby. “I suppose you’ve come to see our son.,” she spoke softly. Mary responded to the kid as only a mom would do. I watched her observe him carefully. She was no doubt noticing the brokenness and hurt in this boy. Where Joseph and I saw him as a young man who had apparently taken some wrong paths, Mary saw him as a child. There was tenderness in the few words she offered him.

       The young man stiffened as Mary spoke. “Yes ma’am. I don’t know why. I saw a star a week ago and I left the pigs…” He stumbled at the words that fell out of his mouth and tried to put them back in like marbles spilled on the floor. “…I left my job and followed.” The kid was trembling with nerves and, I thought, he was shivering against the cold. It was warm in the cave but he’d been on the road for a week and it was apparent he had no real clothing to protect him from the elements. It was winter, after all. “I walked a long way…I don’t know how far really. I was in another country when the star appeared. I don’t know why, but I just felt I had to be here.”

       “Where are you from?” Joseph asked, “Perhaps I know your family.” The young man bristled at this. I don’t know if Joseph saw it but I did.  That, was the one question the kid did not want to answer. “Oh no sir…” The young man sputtered, “…I doubt you know them. I mean, maybe…but I don’t.” Again, for the second time, I interfered. Joseph was standing next to me and I leaned over and whispered “Let it go, he is embarrassed.”   

       Joseph never turned his head toward me but I saw his jaw flex and he nodded slowly so only I could see it. He was in agreement and he spoke again. “You’ve come to see our child.  Come with me son. I’ll introduce you.” I don’t know if Joseph heard from God internally or if he was simply picking up on the same sense I had, but he instantly became tender and gentle toward this young man. As if he suddenly sensed the immense hurt and burden of shame this kid was carrying.

       Joseph put his arm around the pig manure and sweat-infused, ragged cloak the kid was wearing. I thought he would collapse into Joseph’s arms right there. I think it was a combination of the complete absence of one more moment’s strength, the incredible shame he was carrying, and the amount of time it had been since anyone, anywhere had touched him in kindness.  He had grown very old in a very short time, it seemed. He was a beaten and broken man.

       Joseph walked him over to the trough and knelt down next to him. “Do you want to hold him?” Joseph asked tenderly. The young man thought for a minute and answered “Yes sir, but I don’t think I should. To be honest, I’m so tired…so weary. I don’t have the strength to lift him. I think I’ll just touch his hand, if that’s okay.”  I saw Joseph clench his jaw again and quickly wipe a tear from his eye. His voice broke a bit and he said “Of course son, do as you wish. I’m going to tend to his mother and leave you here. His name is Jesus.  I think you should talk to him. There is something about this baby…”     

       Joseph didn’t go any further with this thought. The young man was slumped down almost in a heap. He had reached in to the trough and touched Jesus’ tiny hand and he was silently sobbing. He was so thin and so gaunt and his clothing was so ill fitting on his feeble body that he looked like a pile of filthy rags on the floor. He wept in silence for a long time.

       He spoke in a faint, tired whisper…like it was all the energy he had to force a word out. “I remember when I was not much older than you are. I remember being a baby,  being a little boy.” The young man paused a long time. I saw him shivering and trembling and I wondered if it was the chill of the cave of if it was something else…maybe the weakness that his broken body labored under. Maybe the memories and the shame he carried into this place. Maybe something else altogether.

       “Jesus…” he continued, “I am so ashamed. I have done so many terrible things. I have…” His voice trailed off. He put his hand over his mouth and a pained wail rose from the heap of clothing and dirty skin. He looked like he was going to throw up. He lay in a tangle of rags and pig manure and cried out years of hurt. He spoke some more, telling his story to Jesus between sobs. Apparently, he had wandered. He had left his family home and made his way to a foreign country and that’s where his plan fell apart.

       He had gone to seek his fortune and to make a name for himself. His dad was a prominent man back home and the boy felt the need to escape the large shadow he cast over his sons. The kid had gone away to become a man. Somewhere along the way the plan backfired. The weeping young man spoke of losing all his money. He spent furiously in the first few months on the road. His business plan failed and he lost everything. It took a while,  his father had given him much to get his start.

       Maybe the thing that hurt him most was the life he’d led in that distant land. There were women,  not ladies but women. There were friends who he’d not known very long but who laughed at his jokes and fed his desires until the money ran out. They catered to his every whim and supplied him with devices he’d never known under his father’s roof. But when he’d spent all he had, and after a few of his new “friends” had picked his pocket,  he was abandoned and alone.

       The economy in that country collapsed about two years ago and he was broke and hungry. He eventually found work on a pig farm, feeding pigs. The owner of the farm was a cold, cruel man who instantly sensed the kid’s plight. “You can sleep with the pigs and you can eat from their trough…after they have finished!” the man bellowed… “I catch you eating anything before they’ve had their fill and you’re out in the cold!” The kid understood and did as the man said.

       There is a reason people use the term “eat like a pig” when referring to someone who overindulges. Pigs seldom leave scraps. The kid hadn’t had anything more than a few scant morsels in months. His bones showed. His stomach growled constantly. His hair was brittle and thinning like anyone going through starvation. He trembled constantly.

       He lay on the cave of the floor and sobbed. In between fits of broken weeping, he would recount his debauchery to the baby in the cradle who smiled peacefully at the crushed adult next to him. I sat in the dark corner and watched. I’ve been here. I’ve been through this. I wept bitterly watching this young man at his final breaking point. I know that desperate shame of realizing that all you dreamed of and hoped for is gone and all you really did was waste years of your life. I know the way it feels when memories flash in your mind…memories of things you’ve done that you wish you could forget…that you wish you’d never even thought of, much less done.

       I don’t know how much time passed,  maybe two hours or more. But at some point the weeping turned more impassioned and more desperate. Then the young man spoke between sobs in a plaintive, painful wail; “I want to go home.  I want to go home! I want to see my dad! Please…I just want to go home!” His sobs were deeper and more like death-throes. “I can never be his son again.  I know that. But my dad has never turned away a stranger and he takes great care of his workers. Maybe I could go work for him. At least I’d eat, and have a bed.” His tears burst forth anew and again he begged; “I want to go home”

       There was silence for a few moments. I was sobbing at the pitiful sight before me. I wanted to rush to him and comfort him and stop the brokenness but I was unable to move. I could only watch and weep with him. I was staring at the young man and I again noticed Jesus. He was smiling faintly. Almost imperceptibly. The young man still had his hand inside the manger all this time.

       Presently I saw Jesus’ tiny fingers curl around the young man’s thumb. I don’t know if the broken, weeping man even felt it, but I saw it. In that same instant there was a great bustling sound outside the cave. I heard horses and several voices in the night and I was startled. “He is here. This is the place!” there was a great “thud!’ (I would find out later that the rider had jumped off his horse in such a hurry he actually fell from the saddle).

       A man came bursting into the cave without hesitation or asking permission. “He is here?” the man said loudly. There was a desperate plaintiveness to his voice; like this was the last chance he’d had to find something…or someone he desperately wanted to find. He ran, as best he could, given the low height of the cave, straight to Mary and Joseph. “He is here?  My son. He is here?” Joseph began to speak “Sir, I don’t know…” when suddenly the ragged man by the manger spoke up. His voice was different,  like that of a boy,  there was innocence in his tone. “Poppa!” it was all he could muster.

       The man was in the corner before I blinked. He scooped up the heap of rags that contained his son and began to sob. “My son…my son! Oh my son! Oh…my son!” He repeated only these words for a long, long time. He was incapable of anything else. He held the young man closely to his chest and they both wept with abandon. His father’s tears spilled down on the broken young man and over time washed away the dirt from his face.

       After a long time -maybe an hour- of weeping and sobbing, the boy lifted his weary head and began his apology… “Father…” he uttered, “I am so sorry…” The man pulled his son so closely into the folds of his robes that the young man couldn’t finish the sentence. The father wept and kissed his son’s head furiously, over and over, ignoring the dirt and the sores and the thinning hair and the smell. He kissed him and held him in arms that had ached for this moment for years now.

       “I thought you were lost forever,” the old man interrupted. “Oh God how I have searched for you!” The man pulled a beautiful robe from the saddle bag he had carried into the cave.

“Here, you are freezing, this is yours. Put it on.” The young man was wide eyed… “But I…” “Here…” the old man continued, “This is yours as well. I assume it still fits. Or it will again once we get some food in your belly!” With that the old man placed a gorgeous signet ring on his sons’ finger. It was large and bore the family crest. “We are going home now son…we are going home.”

       I could not see them very well…my own tears were far too present. But I saw the image of the old man as he picked up the baby from the manger and held him closely. I saw his shoulders shaking and heard his voice breaking as he said; “Thank you.  My son was lost,  you found him for me. He found his way here. To you, and then back to me. Thank you.”

       Then the man and his son turned and headed out into the night and on to their home. In the corner was a pile of rags that had once served as clothing for a broken prodigal. No longer needed…because he discovered he was still a son.

                                  …as is this marvelous baby.

“For the Son of God has come to seek, and to save, those who are lost...” -Jesus

Advent Day 18: Forgiven. A murderer meets his victims at the manger.

 “I answered him, "Sir, you know."  Then he told me,

"These are the people who are coming out of the terrible suffering.  They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the lamb.”

     Sometime before 5 a.m. the church bells woke me and I realized I was trapped in that terrible overlapping land where it is too early to get up but too late to go back to sleep.

       It’s the purgatory of slumber I suppose, like being in the middle of a great dream and realizing… “This is a dream.” That’s where I was this morning when the bells clanged their mournful song.

       There wasn’t any sense in trying to sleep for 30 more minutes, so I decide to just get up and maybe spend some time in contemplation and thought. I need to figure out where Christmas went. I plop down in my big chair and pick up the beautiful handmade calendar and open the leather trimmed door for day 12.  I have no idea at all who the figure is I see.

       Mary and Joseph are standing to the side of the manger and there is gentle love in their eyes. A black man with an athletic build is kneeling by the crib with his back toward me. He is holding the baby in his large powerful arms, dwarfing the tiny figure. The man is very happy and seems to be soaking in the love from the child's radiant face. The baby is smiling noticeably at the man and the man is weeping openly. I hear him speaking softly to the baby. “Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus. Thank you for forgiveness, thank you for redeeming me. Oh! Thank you Lord..."

       The man rocks the child for a long time. For one brief second, he raises his head and I recognize the handsome face of a man from back home. His name is Andre Deputy. I never knew Andre, but a friend of mine, Bill Killen, was his liaison and worked on his behalf to try to get him a pardon.

Because Andre Deputy is a murderer...

       On February 1, 1979, in a drunken stupor, he and another man murdered an elderly couple in a botched robbery. They were trying to get more money for booze, and things went crazy and a man and his wife were murdered violently.

       Sometime during his years in prison, Andre found himself shipwrecked at this stable and fell down before this same infant-Savior. He offered the baby the ultimate gift...his soul. He did the most loving thing anyone can do for Jesus...he let Jesus love him.

       The remainder of Andre's life was spent serving his fellow prisoners. He got his GED, completed a correspondence Bible course and taught Bible studies to inmates. He was instrumental in leading dozens of other inmates to this Savior he now kneels before.    

       At his commutation hearing, a quadriplegic inmate who had been paralyzed in a gang fight in prison had himself wheeled into the board room. With tears in his eyes he recounted how Andre' would wake up early and come into this man’s room after head count and help him get cleaned up and dressed. Then he would wheel him into the chow line and make sure he got his food.

       After breakfast Andre' would return the man to his cell and they would have a bible study and prayer together. Andre did his laundry for him, he wrote letters for him. He even brushed the man’s teeth.  The man was sobbing inconsolably as he told the pardon board, “Andre is my friend, if you take him from me I don't know how I'll make it."

       My friend Bill told me this story through tears of his own. Andre's encounter with this infant King was real and life changing, as all real redemption is. Andre Deputy was a legend for Jesus in the Smyrna Correctional Facility.

       I watch in earnest now that I know who this man is. I see him holding Jesus closely and I see how clear and bright his eyes are. No alcoholic fog, no guilt, and shame. There is only the love of the infant radiating back to him as he pours out his affection on his baby-King.

       There is a stirring near the entrance and Mary and Joseph look toward the doorway. They smile broadly and silently motion the visitors to join them. They walk to Mary and Joseph and they whisper greetings. The couple seems happy and content as the woman places a finger on her lips. " Shhhh," she whispers to Mary. Mary's tears tell the story and Joseph is blinking back some of his own.

       At the manger, Andre Deputy is lost in worship and gently holding Jesus to his chest. His eyes are closed and he is unaware that the old couple has knelt down beside him. The man and woman place a hand on each of Andre's strong shoulders and he smiles without opening his eyes. "I think he is asleep Mary," Andre whispers.

       The old woman squeezes his shoulder and her voice breaks..."Andre..." Andre opens his eyes with a start. His face wears a sudden shocked and pained look. The old couple is Bayard and Alberta Smith...the elderly couple he killed while robbing them 30 years ago.   

       Andre is frightened and gently places Jesus in his cradle. He wants to speak but is afraid. The old man realizes he will have to break the ice.  “Andre. Son...it's okay. We have come here every year since, hoping to find you. We heard about your accepting Jesus, the angels rejoiced, son. We rejoiced too. We finally found you here. We came to worship Him with you."

       Andre Deputy breaks down. His sobs are louder than anything I have heard thus far, but for all the tears there is a palpable joy in his crying. The Smiths are embracing him to the point of holding him up. Andre looks at the infant baby in the manger and sees the smile on the boy's lips. He reaches into a mesh bag he has brought with him to the cave. It is the kind of bag inmates use to transport their purchases from the commissary to their cells. He pulls out a small piece of fabric. It is ragged on the edges, like it has been torn.   

       As Andre shakes the piece of fabric open and gently lays it over the tiny child, I can make out the letters, "D.D.O.C."... Delaware Department of Corrections.

Deputy leans over to kiss the infant and whispers, “Here little baby, I am free now. I have a beautiful white robe thanks to you. Maybe this can keep you warm.”  Jesus has exchanged a robe for the ragged piece of a prison garment and it leaves Andre Deputy free and forgiven.

       The Smiths and their murderer are joined together in worship, forgiveness, and reconciliation, around the only One who could possibly redeem a situation like this. They are bound together in tenderness and redeemed at the stable by the conquering love of Jesus.

   [Andre Deputy was executed by lethal injection, 6-24-94]

“Like a stone on the surface of a still river, the ripples go on and on forever.
And redemption rips through the surface of time,
In the cry of a tiny babe.”   –Bruce Cockburn

Advent Day 17: Popcorn

“Realizing that we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses...”

       Somehow in all this mystical revelation and wonder, I managed to fall asleep in the cave. It’s been an exhausting experience to say the least.

I guess I felt comfortable around Mary and Joseph after a few of these visitors came and went and I drifted off.

I woke up about 3 hours later to Joseph and Mary’s quizzical smile and the wonderful smell of fresh popcorn in the air.

     Yeah…popcorn. I sat up and rubbed my eyes and in my lap lay a huge box of popcorn, still hot. It was one of those red-white-and-blue striped boxes that you get at the ballpark or the drive-in…when they still had those.

       I smiled and then I laughed. I knew exactly who I was going to see when I looked at the manger about 30 feet across from me in this dark cave. This cave, that no longer smelled like dirty sheep and damp straw, but like popcorn.

       “What is this?” Joseph asked me, looking at the overflowing box. “I’ve never smelled anything like this or seen this before.” “It’s called ‘popcorn,’ Joseph. We eat it were I come from.”  “Really…you eat this?” he responded. “Sure,  it’s wonderful. Have some. Here Mary, try some of this.” I almost felt bad giving it to them because I knew they’d not have it ever again and I wondered if I wouldn’t be spoiling them forever. But it was so good, and I knew they’d want to know about it and to be honest…I knew they were hungry and I wasn’t going to eat it in front of them.

     Joseph and Mary sat down on either side of me and we shared this enormous box of popcorn. What seemed funny was that we were all going at it as fast as we could. I have to say it was the best popcorn I ever had. Yet we never seemed to make a dent in the box. It was full to overflowing no matter how much we ate. Mary asked me about it and how it got there. I smiled,  then I laughed. Then I took the opportunity to tell them all about the woman kneeling at the manger, holding Jesus in her arms and looking back over her shoulder towards the entry of the cave.

       “She brought it with her…her name is Jackie.” I broke out into a wide grin when I said her name. Jackie had that effect on folks. “She is my friend. She moved on to Heaven a few years ago…on my birthday in fact. That’s why I never forget the date.” Mary looked at Jackie and back at me. “She’s so pretty,  her smile especially,” the tiny mother of Jesus said.  “Yes she is.” I answered, “I’ll tell you something, if you think her smile is beautiful now, just wait a moment longer. There’ll be another visitor here shortly. Then you’ll see a pair of smiles, that’s for certain!”  Joseph looked at me with a questioning grin of his own. “How do you know this? And what does it have to do with this pop-corn, as you call it?” He queried.

       “I’ll tell you about the popcorn first. You two will love this story.”  Joseph and Mary faced me on either side, passing the bottomless popcorn box back and forth between them, spilling it like children and wondering at this new flavor. “Jackie had gotten very sick several years ago. She had some sort of ‘wasting disease’ that the physicians couldn’t heal.” I knew that trying to explain cancer to them was pointless. While I’m certain the disease existed in their time, I don’t think they understood it as we do and it would have been impossible to try helping them, and it didn’t matter to the story. I continued, “Jackie had been sick with it for a long while. Finally when it was apparent that it was time for her to move on to heaven, she was in a hospital. That’s where our physicians work to heal their patients. It’s something like the Pool of Siloam, except no angel stirs the waters.” Joseph and Mary seemed to comprehend that crude explanation so I continued. “Just before the Lord came for her to take her home, she told her husband to eat some popcorn and remember her by it. It was a strange and funny request and maybe it was just from the pain she was in. But I think it was just Jackie’s unique sense of humor and she somehow knew that instead of making her husband sad, it would make him -and everyone who loved her-  smile a little. I think it was her last going-away gift to those who loved her.” Mary had tears in her eyes and looked at the popcorn in her hand. “She sounds amazing. What a wonderful thing for her to do,” Mary whispered.

     Joseph was silent for a few long seconds, and then he asked me “You said there would be even more smiles and you spoke of someone else coming here. Who?” I was about to answer Josephs question when a man entered the cave on his knees. He was silver-haired and sported his usual mustache. Joseph whispered to me, “Is this him?” “Yes,” I said, holding back a tear,  “This is the guest I was expecting. This is Jackie’s husband Dean.” I have to pause and regain my composure for a moment. Dean is a dear, dear man and I look up to him as a sort of father-figure / older brother. He loves baseball, as I do. He loves woodworking and construction. But more than anything on earth -more than any definition you could attach to Dean Nichols- he loves his wife. Long before Jackie got sick, when I first met them, Dean adored her and it was more evident on his face than any man I have ever known except maybe Terry Chapman. He was the husband I hope I get to be someday. He wore his adoration for his beloved Jackie like a badge of honor and he was proud to display it. Jackie was precious to Dean during her time on Earth and here in the manger, in the presence of the infant giver-of-life, she is as precious as she ever was. More so, in fact.

     “Joseph…” I whisper, “Look at his shirt” Joseph and Mary look at Dean as he approaches Jackie. “What?” Joseph asks. I open my mouth to speak but before I can say a word, Mary smacks Joseph playfully on his arm. “Joseph…honestly!” she cries in feigned disbelief. “They match!” Mary chuckles and gives Joseph a hug and a kiss on his cheek. Mary’s words pierce to my heart. There was a world of profound wisdom in her observance. “They do Mary,  they really do,” I offer softly, more to myself than to my two hosts. “They match…” My voice trails off and I choose to just sit and watch Dean and his beloved Jackie. This baby gives eternal life to them both and so the distance between them is really no distance at all. United here at the manger of Bethlehem, they are not apart at all. No death, no sting, no yearning. Only the promise that the separation is smaller than we realize and never permanent. Knowing that his precious wife is truly alive keeps Dean’s love for her more than merely alive…it grows. I know this wonderful man well enough to know that he loves her more today than he did the day before. And that wonderful love will grow until they reunite one day in Heaven. And it will go on forever.

     Dean is tender and loving with Jackie. He holds her in awe. I lean over to Joseph and whisper, “Joseph, if you want to see how a man loves his wife well, watch my friend Dean. Look at his face Joseph. Look at his smile. Find that sort of feeling with Mary and you’ll find happiness forever, my friend.” Joseph looks intently at the pair worshipping before us. “Tell us about the shirts…about why they match,” Mary whispers. This makes me giggle a bit. “As far as I know, it started when they would go square-dancing together…”  The words hadn’t stopped echoing in the cave yet, when I laughed. How would I describe square dancing to these two?  “It’s a type of dancing we do back home…well some of us do. I’m not very good at it and I’m too big to hide my weaknesses as a dancer. But Dean and Jackie did it very well. They wore matching shirts as part of the dance costumes, and it became a habit with them. Jackie was a wonderful creator of clothing. She was very talented. They always matched.”  I thought for a minute… “The really matched in their hearts too. They were a real true couple”. 

     There is nothing left to explain to Mary and Joseph about my friends who have come to worship Jesus. So we just watch. I know Dean and I know how he misses his precious wife. I know she is ever present in his life, and not just in memory. She lives because this baby lives. She is simply a breath away, in a place where we simply can’t see her,  but we know she is there. She is here tonight with her beloved Dean, because this baby consumed death and brought life.

     Dean eventually leaves his bride and Jackie walks out not long after. I am left staring at the manger where they held our Savior and where life overcame the pain of death until death itself was overcome. I think about Jackie and her smile and her graciousness and her humor and her loving heart. Her talents to create some pretty impressive shirts that her wonderful husband proudly wore. I think about her input in our small-group where to this day we think of her whenever we gather. We remember her, long for her, and anticipate the day when we’ll all be together again.

                     …and usually we have some popcorn.

 “Laugh with me! Death is dead!  There is only life! There is only laughter!”   –Eugene O’Neil “Lazarus Laughed”

Advent Day 15: The Roman

“The captain of the guard and those with him, when they saw the earthquake and everything else that was happening, were scared to death. They said, "This has to be the Son of God!"

I will admit I am tired. I awoke at 3:40 this morning, tried to go back to sleep and finally surrendered to the morning at 4:30. I don't mind getting up early, but this whole week has worn me out emotionally and I need to recharge somehow.

I open the leather door on the calendar and there is a man standing there in full battle armament. I have no idea who this is. He is wearing a metal chest piece, a shield, spiked shoes, and a helmet and is carrying a spear and has a sword slung at his side. He is a fearsome man to behold. He is pacing frantically outside the doorway to the cave and he appears frustrated.

When he walks off about 20 feet, I crawl inside and find Joseph sitting cross legged in the straw. Mary is holding Jesus, rocking Him to sleep after nursing him. “Who is this man?" I ask Joseph. "A Roman soldier." Joseph answers. "He really wants to come in but he has seen inside this cave and he knows he has to take all that armor off just to get through the doorway. He is on duty -technically at least, and he isn't allowed to do that until his watch is over."

Joseph and I watch the large, menacing figure stalking back and forth outside the cave for a good 15 minutes. At some point Mary has placed Jesus in His manger and has joined us in watching this scene. She leans her tiny head on Joseph’s chest and he strokes her dark hair. "Do you think he'll come in?" she whispers. "I hope so," Joseph replies,

"He is so distraught. If he wants to see him, he should just come in and do it." Mary frowns a little, "Has he said anything to you?" "Earlier, when he first got here, he asked me if I could bring Him out to see him." Joseph says, "I told him that was impossible. If he wants to come see Him he is very welcome but he has to come inside the cave."

After a long while, the man outside heaves a heavy sigh. He walks to the cave doorway and squats down. He is a large man, about my size (6' 4") and he seems amused to see the three of us watching his antics from inside the cave. “Is it still okay?" he booms. "Ssshhhhh!" The three of us answer him simultaneously, and then look at each other with a grin. Joseph answers him, "Certainly, come inside."

The man stands up and looks around nervously. Then he begins to remove his armor. He unbuckles his sheathed sword and props it against the wall of the cave. He removes his chest plate and his coat of mail beneath. He takes off his helmet and his leather and spike wrist wraps that go all the way to his elbows. He removes the heavy, spiked boots on his feet and replaces them with a pair of leather sandals from his backpack and comes into the tent on his hands and knees.

He looks extremely uncomfortable as he crawls over to the three of us. He looks at me especially with a sort of amusement. Seeing another man his size, crammed into such a small space must seem cartoonish to him. Mary touches his hand lightly and he quickly withdraws his arm. Mary is slightly startled but with all the wonder she has seen on this night, little surprises her anymore.

“He is right over here, sir" Mary leads the man to where the sleeping Jesus lay in his feed trough crib. The man is suddenly reduced to childlike wonder. He smiles and looks at the little boy with a gentle face. He has transformed from a rough and tumble Roman soldier to a gentle man. His eyes sparkle and his body language speaks of great affection. Mary whispers to him, "Would you like to hold Him?" The man looks at Mary startled, with a quizzical look on his face. “Oh no Mary, I mean I would love, to but I couldn't. It wouldn't be right." Mary smiles gently and asks, "Why not?"

The man looks at the ground and sadness crosses his face. "Because I am a man of war...a Roman soldier. I have done horrible things in my past and I have blood on my hands." At this the large man holds up his hands in the oillamp light and shows Mary the crimson stains that he has never been able to wash clean. “It's permanent" he says, "I have tried every soap known to man, but these stains won't wash off."

Mary touches his hands gently; her eyes run over the red skin that extends from his fingers to his elbows. "And now?" Mary asks, the Roman replies; "I gained enough rank to transfer to a guard position. I don't see battle and bloodshed anymore, but I am still a Roman soldier and I still have this blood on my hands that won't wash off. I don't think its right to touch a baby with these hands of mine not this baby especially."

Mary smiles and a tear falls softly on her robe. “Sir," she whispers, "I am only just now starting to understand much about my son. I know he is here for a purpose. I am not exactly sure what it is, but something in my spirit tells me he would not mind your stained hands." The man chokes back tears and there is a look in his eyes of pity for Mary, like he might know something she doesn't and it isn't good. "You are more right than you know Mary...do you really think it would be okay?"

Mary nods and smiles, "Yes of course." She reaches into the crib and lifts Jesus tenderly and places Him in the man’s huge arms. The man trembles. Tears fall on the shreds of cloth that serve as a receiving blanket. The man whispers to Jesus, "I know who you are. I know why you are here. I saw you that day and I am so sorry, so sorry for what we did to you..." the man breaks down into stifled sobs. Even here...in this moment, he is still thinking like a soldier and blocking emotion. "I saw you then...I wanted to come and see you here...now" the man continues, "Before that moment. Before that awful, terrible moment. And I wanted to thank you, because you changed me. I had to keep it a secret, but you changed me."

The baby stirs and moves slightly and yawns and continues His slumber. Mary smiles and touches the man's shoulder, "He likes you," she says. Those simple words break the last vestige of toughness in this man's heart. He breaks into silent sobs, holding his tongue as best he can.

He pulls Jesus close to his chest and tells Him, “I love you." He turns and hands Jesus to Mary. She takes her little son into her arms and suddenly she lets out a small frail gasp.

“Sir!" she whispers, "Your arms. Your hands!"

The enormous Roman soldier moves his hands into the light of the oil lamp and he is in shocked amazement. The crimson is gone. His skin is as white as the newborn baby's he just held. He turns his hands over in the light and cannot find a trace of red bloodstain anywhere. The man smiles a disbelieving smile and impulsively throws his arms around Mary and Jesus in a gentle bear hug. "Surely this is the Son of God!" the man says.

Then it hits me, I know who he is! He is the Roman soldier who stood by and watched as Jesus died on the cross. When the earth quaked and the veil tore and the graves blew open, it was this man who recognized Jesus for who He really was. He has come to see Him as a child this time, to complete his encounter. The red stains are gone and the change is complete. He is suddenly softer and gentler. He looks at his hands over and over with a smile that defies description. He embraces Mary and Joseph, nods at me with a grin, and crawls out the doorway and walks off into the distance, looking at his snow-white hands. He leaves behind his armor at the doorway of the cave, he is a man of peace, at peace with the tiny Prince of Peace, and he leaves the armor as a testimony. A reminder that a man came to this stable without spiritual sight, and has surely seen the Son of God.

“Now all around the world, in every little town  Everyday is heard a precious little sound
 And every mother kind and every father proud Looks down in awe to find another chance allowed.                                                                                                   Nothing but a child could wash these tears awayOr guide a weary world into the light of dayAnd nothing but a child could help erase these miles So once again we all can be children forawhile”  -Steve Earle

Advent Day 12: Sometimes By Step

 “He heals the heartbroken and bandages their wounds. He counts the stars and assigns each a name.”

The end of the day came far later than I’d hoped. I’ve not been sleeping well since this advent journey began. The emotion of the visitors and the sights and sounds and stories, coupled with my own troubled emotions because of the coming Christmas Holiday, has robbed me of sleep…and at times, of peace.

I peel open the leather door on John Xiao’s unique advent calendar, and I am baffled. I guess it’s because I thought this visitor was finished already, but staring at the scene for a minute, and searching my soul, I realize this visitor needed a return. The visitor is me, and I still have a heart full of unfinished business.

Joseph and Mary are busy in the corner of the cave, rummaging through a bag of worn and threadbare clothes, trying to find something suitable for this infant son of God. The mere thought of that is at once laughable and tragic.

Laughable, that anything on this planet would be worthy of Jesus. Tragic that He would have allowed this situation, that he entered this poverty willingly. He chose this…

They seem occupied and absorbed so I make my way to the tiny wooden trough and kneel next to the newborn savior of my soul. He is awake and quietly looking at me with piercing eyes that have instantly cut through 49 years of bluff and bluster and shame and weariness and have found the core of my being. Then He smiled at me…           I reach down and take him in my arms, this little poor, illegitimate, scandalous baby-king, overlooked by the world on the night he was born, something we have in common and something that makes him so easy to approach. I am whirling and twisting inside. A thousand questions rage against the walls of my heart and threaten to burst from my lips all at once, like an auctioneer. I try to calm myself and sort through the storm inside. Slowly I begin to formulate the questions I want to ask him.

I am holding God in the flesh and I may never again get this chance. I have his attention in a way I don’t know I ever have before. Although I know full well he is enraptured by me -by us all- every second of every day. Here in this cave, in my arms, in the quiet of a brilliant midwinter’s night, He seems closer than He ever has.

The torrent of questions, and statements, begin to line up in order, waiting to be asked and expressed. Some are obvious and have already been answered sufficiently, but I find myself selfishly wanting to ask anyway. The “why” questions…why did my sister have to die so young? Why did Holly divorce me? Why does a man with the heart of a wonderful daddy, get to see his daughter so infrequently?

I consider asking all these questions but I realize that these aren’t the really weighty matters I am here for. I have wrestled these to the ground already and I have gotten sufficient answers. To ask again would be to abuse the special privilege afforded me here tonight and I refuse to do that.

No, I have deeper questions I want to ask…and deeper hurts I want him to touch. I have unfinished business with this child and I need to move beyond the shame and fear and ask him the thing I’ve wanted to ask all my life. So I move in closer and pick him up and hold him in my arms. Even as I do, the thought broadsides me…

“I am holding God. God…in the flesh and in my arms. Tiny, gentle, humble and unassuming. I have his attention in a way I have never felt I had before.”

The words are difficult in coming. I know what I want to say but I don’t like the way the words sound when I formulate them in my mind. It still hurts. It is still confusing. But I need an answer to the greatest question I have ever wanted to ask. So I muster the courage that I don’t really need and I haltingly begin speaking to this baby.

“Jesus…” I begin, “Mullins said something in a song once that has always summed up my life.” I am whispering and in my soul I hear the strains of Rich’s voice as he sings “Hold me Jesus”. “Sometimes my life just don’t make sense at all…” I pause here. I remember the very first time I ever heard that song and how deeply it cut my soul in its plaintive beauty. I continue…

“Actually, it feels like my life has never quite made sense. I’ve been watching you here tonight. Watching these visitors and hearing the angels and seeing the reaction of Mary and Joseph.” My vision grows hazy as tears well in my eyes. “All these people, the heavens, creation itself is happily announcing your arrival and celebrating your birth.” I speak with a smile. “It’s wonderful really…seeing this happen. Seeing prophecy fulfilled and a promise kept.” It takes me a minute to continue, and when I do, my voice is a deep croak, there is weariness in it and a hint of surrender.

“But what about me? Was anyone happy when I was born? My mom was 19 years old and unmarried. My dad was in Vietnam fighting just to survive. I wasn’t planned and I wasn’t wanted and I wasn’t hoped for. My birth came about in about as ignoble a means as can be” At this I instantly chuckle. I’m holding the son of God. God in the flesh! He’s illegitimate and poor and mired in a filthy cave and not nearly enough people have noticed tonight. And here I am asking about the scandal of my birth?

I am still beating around the bush. There are words that want to burst out of me like machine gunfire but I am afraid to ask. Maybe I’m afraid of the answer…or afraid there will be no answer given. I wrestle and I fret and finally I just decide to ask this infant child in my arms. What is he going to do, mock me? Not tonight he won’t. So, the words creep forward.

“Jesus…” I stumble, “Why am I here? What purpose do

I have on this earth? Was there anyone at all who was elated when I was born? Did I ever make anyone’s life better because of my being born? Was there even one person who was waiting longingly that night in September 1963, when I came into this world?” I was choking back tears and hesitating. “Or was it just a case of an unwanted, unplanned kid who was born the way millions of unwanted, unplanned kids are? Is this all there is for me? Was there nobody who wanted to bless me? To pray for me. Nobody who held me up and said ‘I have such big dreams and plans for your life?’” “Even my name was a botched mismatch” I whispered. “Who am I really?” “Whose child is this?” The words were flowing and so were the tears. I felt like I was going to break down into sobs. There was an inner wall inside my soul that began making creaking sounds and was about to crumble. I realized this and placed Jesus gently back into his manger. Then the dam burst.

I fell face down in the muddy straw at the foot of the crib and sobbed my questions again. “Who was waiting for me?” Who do I really deeply matter to?” Was my life special to anyone at all?” I lay there a long time weeping and wondering. Faces flashing in my mind. People I longed to talk to.

People I desperately wanted to know…to know, that I mattered to. That my life touched theirs somehow. My ex-wife, my daughter, my sister, my friends …my dad.

I don’t know how long I lay there. I know I wept until my sides hurt. I wept enough that I didn’t hear the entrance of the figure next to me. I didn’t know anyone was there at all until a voice broke my sorrow. “Son,” he said. It was a voice I didn’t recognize. “Son. Craig, get up. Look at me.” The man touched my shoulder and I got up on my knees. I attempted to wipe away the tears that kept flowing. Years and years of carting this around were gushing out of me tonight. This baby made it just safe enough for me to open this secret trap door and address this face to face.

The man wore a robe. It was a dark brown and he carried a staff. His thick beard ran down passed his throat and spilled onto his chest. It was mostly grey and untamed. He had a kindness in his eyes that drew my away from the hurt I was touching at that moment. He looked at me a long time and held my gaze in silence until it became awkward.

When I finally had cleared away the whirlwind in my soul, I asked him “Who are you?” The man smiled and drew a long breath. “You are my child” he spoke. I was baffled by this. “But, you are not my father. How am I your child?” The man chuckled and said softly, “You know much…but you don’t always understand.” He hesitated and looked very thoughtful. “Come with me,” he said.

We crawled to the opening of the cave and went outside. I hadn’t stood up in days and it felt great. The air was fresh and the stars were brilliant. I took a few deep breaths and rubbed my eyes. The man touched my shoulder and said “Follow me, son” Then he turned and started up a great hill near the cave.

We walked in silence for what felt like an hour or more. It was a very high hillside…actually more of a gentle mountain. The road was rocky and difficult to negotiate. The man walked with a determination and a strength that belied his seemingly advanced age. He never spoke during the entire journey. In fact he never looked back at me except once, when a large group of shooting stars rocketed past and he turned his head with a grin as if to say, “Did you see that?”

We turned a corner and crested the last rim of this mountain. The view was amazing. It reminded me of going to the Blue Ridge Mountains when I was in college in Lynchburg, Va. The sky was more clear and bright than any night sky I’d ever known. The old man sat down on a rock and waved his hand to bid do the same. I sat next to him and stared out into the starry night sky.

The man let the silence fall on us like a blanket before finally speaking. “Son, you have many questions inside. Questions you’ve longed to ask. Questions that you can’t seem to find answers for.” The man smiled as I shifted and shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t answer him. The hurt was still fresh from the tears I’d shed in the cave and I wasn’t really wanting to return to that moment just yet, if ever again.

The man stood to his feet and bid me do the same. I rose slowly. It has been an emotional few days here and I was weary. He walked over and stood next to me and we stared out across the valley below us and upward into the starry field over our heads. I had never in my life seen so many stars. Prior to this moment, I never could have imagined what “billions” looked like but tonight I was sure that’s what I was seeing. Billions of shimmering dots. So many, and yet against a sky so expansive, there was still room for more.

I stared for a long time at one particular star. It seemed to be slowly moving. Imperceptibly in fact. I rubbed my eyes because I thought they were playing tricks. The other stars seemed to begin to dim and this one star appeared brighter and brighter. The star was coming closer and growing larger by the second. It seemed like a planet now.

Like I could reach out and touch it.

The old man drew close to me and he began talking in a hushed tone, almost a whisper. “Son…” he spoke, “You carry shame that you do not own. You carry fear that you do not need. You seek yourself but you never recognize yourself in your reflections.” The man grew serious and let silence fall for a minute. “Son…” he said. “The questions you ask are questions everyone wants the answers to. The problem is that in your life, the people who normally answer them for you are missing.” I knew what he meant without asking. It was as if his words were being implanted in my heart as he spoke. I had never had anyone to define me. Nobody to tell me about my history or my future and nobody who had ever cared enough to have laid out a plan for me and for my life. Nobody who celebrated my arrival and who really deeply knew me, the way a family does…the way a dad does.

I got the sense that this man had heard every thought as it raced through my mind. He spoke again and he addressed everything I had just said in my heart. “You’re wrong, there was someone. There is a plan…” I was startled and turned to look at him.

He smiled knowingly and drew near my right ear. He leaned in close and whispered; “He numbers the star, and calls each one by its own name…” I back away and smiled. I love that verse. Its’ Psalm 147:4 I always wondered about all that it might mean.

The old man whispered again. “Did you ever wonder why it says He calls each one by its own name?” He said. “Yes, I have. I understand numbering them. I guess He just knows exactly how many stars He spoke into existence.

But I always wondered about knowing their names. Stars?

Names? Why did David write that?”

The old man looked thoughtful and a smile crept across his face, curling his mouth at the corners. He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them he had tears just beginning to form. The he drew in once again and whispered a name in my ear. It’s a name I can’t reveal here in this journal. In fact I can’t tell anyone what it is. It’s not my given name “Craig.” It is the name John tells us about in Revelation 2:17. The name written on a white stone. The name that God -our father- knows us by. We each have one and it is a secret we will know one day when He calls us by that name for the first time.

The old man whispered the name into my ear and said, “This is how I know you my son…” He was speaking on behalf of God at that moment, I was sure of that much. God himself was calling me “son” and doing it in a fashion I would never forget. Then the old man put his hand over my eyes for a second. When he pulled his hand away, the star that had been coming closer was so close that it appeared only a few feet away, and it seemed as if I could touch it. The man spoke again, but not in a whisper this time. “Son, look at this star” I stared a long time at the star. The rest of the night sky had grown hazy and the only star I could clearly make out was this one. The man paused a moment and spoke again. “Son, one night a long time ago. A night very much like this one, Father God took me up on a mountaintop like the one we are now on and showed me

the stars. He told me to count every one of them, if I could. The he promised me one child for every star I could see.” I turned my head in shock. Then I fell to my knees instantly. The word hung on my lips a long time before I could speak it. “Abraham?” I asked incredulously. “Yes my son…” the man replied. “Please, stand on your feet.” I stood as he requested and stared in wide eyed wonder. The man sensed my shock and realizing I wasn’t going to have anything to say for a while, he continued.

“That night when God showed me those stars he made me a promise. He promised that I would finally have children. Until this time I had none. But God promised and he marked out the promise by telling me there was one star in the heavens for every child He would give me.” I was not grasping where he was going with this but then again, I wasn’t sure I was grasping anything. I was, after all, talking to Abraham.

He waited for my spinning mind to catch up and then he continued. “Son…Father God created this world about 3,000 years before he made me this promise. So if he knew he was going to make this oath with me, he had to have taken it into consideration while he was creating. That is why it says he numbers the stars. He knew from the beginning how many stars it would take because he knew how many children he would give me through His promise.

He knew this as he put those stars in place.”

Abraham waited a long time before continuing. He waited as if waiting to see the light go on in my soul that signified I grasped what he was saying. When he was comfortable that I understood his words, he continued.

“Son, each star of promise represents one child of promise. So each one is a marker, a placeholder so to speak. Each star represents one child who would accept this Savior and become a fulfillment of the promise God made me. Each star has a name son, because each one represents a promised child.”

He stopped here and watched my face as the dots began to connect in my mind. A smile began to mix with tears and then he continued... “This star,” he said, pointing to the brilliant star before us, “This is your star. This one is your place marker. It’s the star God himself set in the heavens to remind me of the promise he’d made. This star’s name is…” And he spoke my secret name again. My mouth hung open wide. I was in awe. I wept and laughed. Abraham let me absorb as much as I could and then he turned me toward him and placed his hands squarely on my shoulders.

“Son. I waited for you. Son God waited anxiously for you. The angels rejoiced and God danced over you without you even realizing it. He had a party, he jumped and laughed. He was happy! He had a plan for you since the moment he set your star with your name in the heavens.

He could not wait for your arrival. In fact, I’ve never seen him as happy as he is when one of his promised children is born.”

Suddenly it hit me and I dropped to my knees. Tears fell on the rough rocky ground and I saw the truth of what Abraham had said. No matter what I thought…the truth was that God had longed for me. He waited for my birth with great anticipation. He could not wait to see me and touch me. I began to understand that ultimately it was His plan and His blessing that I needed, and it was there for me to accept. I whispered a simple prayer and when I opened my eyes I was back in the cave and Jesus was smiling at me.

Abraham was gone and Mary and Joseph were fast asleep. It was just me and Jesus

…and those stars

“Sometimes I think of Abraham…how one star he saw had been lit for me” -Rich Mullins