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 16: Teresa

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength… Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”

I am sitting in the corner near a small fire that Joseph has built. Mary is asleep on the other side of the cave and Joseph is next to her, placing his coat over her against the cold. I am barely aware of much else…this has been such a different experience already.

I try to take in all that I have seen and felt. I realize I have gotten lost in thought when I see in the shadows a dark-complected woman crawling through the cave door. She hesitates at the threshold, but not because she is unsure of her destination or her welcome. No, she seems to know exactly where she is and that she is free to be here.

There is something else present in her long pause at the entrance. Something that speaks of devotion, of hallowedness and respect. For whatever reason, this woman knows the value of this place and she is considering every step inside this dank, musty hovel as holy ground.

She looks at Joseph a long time with a smile. She sees the sleeping young Mary and tears well instantly in her deep dark eyes. She pauses here with a warm loving smile on her lips. Then she slowly turns her gaze toward the manger and the sleeping baby. Crawling without hesitation through the muddy straw, she comes to the side of the feed trough where Jesus lay sleeping. There is a definite sense of worship in her every move. She knows who this child really is.

Without even a hint of doubt as to the permissibility, the woman reaches into the manger and lifts Jesus gently to her chest. Her tears tell of devotion, her lip is quivering and her hands tremble. I can tell that she is doing all she can to control her emotions just enough to maintain composure. It is a battle she is slowly losing.

I wonder if the baby senses this because in an instant he looks at the woman and smiles and coos, as if to let her know he is comfortable with her and it is okay for her to be holding him. She smiles and does not even bother hiding her emotions or her tears.

Speaking to him in a language I don’t recognize immediately, (but would later realize was Albanian) she dotes on the newborn son of God as if he were her own. She speaks to him of love and affection and the many children she has touched in her lifetime.

“There were so many, so many my Lord. Always we made room but always there were more. Some of them were so sick…so very sick.” Her voice trails off and her shoulders heave beneath the blue and white robes she is wearing. When she can speak again, she whispers to Jesus… “Every child -every time I touched one of them- I was touching you, in my heart. All the love I have held for you in my lifetime I tried to pour out on them instead. I hope and I pray I made you happy and served you well.”

Jesus smiles a soft smile and his eyes open for just a brief moment. Little spit bubbles form in the corner of his mouth and this makes the woman laugh softly. She begins singing to him in Albanian, a song of worship and loving affection. She is rocking gently back and forth and singing this song to her Savior, and I am watching, mystified.

Her eyes close and she begins speaking names in the song…names I do not know, in a language I do not grasp. But the names seem to be painful to remember because she is weeping as she sings and there is a hint of hurt in her voice. Then she speaks to Jesus, “so many, so very many. So many were sick and no one would touch them and love them. So many were alone as they died and we tried dearest Jesus how we tried- to make them feel your love in their final hours. So many children like you who were orphans almost at birth. So many who would grow up without parents, or not grow up at all. In every case we tried to love them as if we were loving you.”

I watch this exchange for almost an hour. Nobody is stirring in the cave. Mary has been asleep for longer than any other time since Jesus’ birth earlier in the evening. The woman has kept Him quite occupied and quite happy during her extended visit. Mary would be appreciative, were she awake.

The woman is quiet now, rocking slowly on her knees with Jesus in her arms. She has practically bathed his tiny face with her tears and she has wiped them with her headscarf. Jesus never noticed…or at least didn’t mind. He has been asleep for the entire visit except for a few brief moments when He would stir.

I wonder who she is and who she was on earth. She is very pretty with her dark eastern European features and deep-set dark eyes. Her voice is dusky and her smile is brilliant white. She seems well educated and well versed. I have heard her conversing in Latin tonight as well as Greek and English and her native Albanian. Whoever she is, she is a wonder.

She frequently speaks of the children and adults she has helped at some point in her life. I wish I knew more because it sounds exciting and moving. It sounds like a life well spent in service of others. I watch her closely…

The woman has grown sullen now, something has pressed her thoughts in a direction she had not planned on going. Jesus has stirred ever so slightly and she is kissing his forehead. Her tears flow more freely now… “So many little ones like you who never see life. So many senseless deaths…and why? For convenience? For personal gain?

To end a life before it ever really begins…how selfish and tragic.”

She grows even more sorrowful now…clutching Jesus to her chest she weeps…” My Lord,” she whispers “how they will mistreat you. How they will ridicule and mock and carve you. What a painful death you will die for me, and for us all” With this the woman is undone and her crying turns to a soft gentle wail. Another quarter hour goes by as she holds Jesus and ponders His fate through tears.

She senses Mary is awakening and, not wanting to reveal much about Jesus’ fate to His mother, the woman regains her composure and places him gently back in the manger. She attempts to place a rosary around his tiny wrist but thinks differently of it. It makes no sense and she realizes it, but the habit makes her smile a bit. She whispers in his ear as she bends down to place him in his bed… “I have not always had the greatest faith, but I always believed in you. All I ever did, was for you and for the love of you, my Lord.”

She turns to find Mary standing behind her at a distance enough to give her room. Mary extends her hands to the woman and the woman sheepishly returns the affection. Before she knows it, Mary has embraced the woman in a hug. The woman is fighting tears as best she can. Mary has no idea because she is enveloped in the older woman’s robe.

Mary speaks after a long pause; her eyes are moist as she looks at the woman. “I am far from home, far from my own mother. You remind me so much of her, there is comfort in your countenance.” The woman shakes visibly at these words. She cannot contain her emotions very well and Mary is puzzled that she would elicit such a response from an older woman.

Mary tells her, “Thank you for taking care of Him tonight. I was so weary and this is the most sleep I have gotten in days. I needed it. I really do miss my mother tonight. I am just a young girl and this has been frightening to me. You have helped me by being here.”

The woman lowers her head in respect; she will not face Mary eye to eye. Mary places her tiny hand along the woman’s cheek. The woman looks up slowly. Mary smiles and mouths the words “thank you” silently. There is an eternal feeling in her “thank you’ that the woman picks up on immediately and she touches Mary’s hand with her own. It is a moment she treasures, standing there with the mother of her Lord on the very night of His birth. A dream come true for this woman.

A lifetime of living for others, of service to the son of this precious little teen-aged girl, has found its focus here tonight. God has, through whatever mystical means He has been employing here throughout this season of Advent, allowed this amazing servant of His to be here in the early hours of Jesus’ life. He has allowed her to touch Him as she had touched perhaps hundreds of thousands of children during her time on earth. He has allowed her to love Him as a child for a brief time, perhaps as a reward for the lifetime she spent in loving devotion to Him.

But I only realize all of this after the final exchange between Mary and the woman. An exchange that begins as she finally turns toward the cave door and Mary calls to her, “What is your name? I never asked, how are you known?” The woman pauses, and smiles, and then her answer comes and catches me off guard. “My name is Agnes…” she pauses here and then with a smile she says; “But I am called “Teresa. Teresa of Calcutta.”  And with that, Mother Teresa turns, and leaves the tiny cave as she entered…on her knees.

“Anyone who desires to be served…must first serve.”-Jesus

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 14: Christmas On The Block

“Jesus said, "Go ahead—see again!

Your faith has saved and healed you…”

I stirred suddenly at the sound of the bells from the church and I realize that I have been smiling broadly. Yesterday’s scene really brought me happiness I loved Brennan Manning as if he were my own father.

Seeing him interacting with Jesus was something I’ll cherish through eternity.

Taking the calendar in my hands I hesitate before opening the next scene. I examine the calendar again, half way through now and I am truly understanding the mystery and wonder that my friend Wick was hoping I would find…and I think he knew all along I would.

I open the little door and I recognize the faces. Instantly a song runs through my mind. It's one of my favorite Christmas songs, by a Philadelphia artist named Allan Mann.

The song is called Christmas on the Block.

There's a streetlight that sits above the night
And it shines its gray light on the midnight air
And the houses twinkle on the block
But there's one house that shines a special way out there
And its Christmas in the city
And the trees are lighted pretty
But the prettiest Christmas tree of all
Can you see all the colors that we cannot?
And theirs is the most beautiful Christmas on the block
Though they cannot see the light of day
And the night is forever, the fact still remains
In this world of confusion there is peace
There is hope and despair, sometimes the beauty is a beast
And they cannot see the lightning
And they cannot see the thunder
But they know what no one understands
That beauty is a blessing; love is all we've got
And theirs is the most beautiful Christmas on the block
In the darkest corner of the night
Only dreams illuminate their eyes
And they see all the colors
That we cannot
And theirs is the most beautiful Christmas on the block
And they cannot see the lightning
And they cannot see the thunder
But they know what no one understands That beauty is a blessing
Love is all we've got
And theirs is the most beautiful
Christmas on the block 

Two figures enter the cave with the unmistakable hesitancy of blindness. The couple bows and slowly makes their way to the manger. Mary is moved to tears with compassion for the blind couple who have come to worship their Savior. Each year, it is their arrival that moves Mary and Joseph the most. They have such love for the child and yet they have never gazed on His face with earthly eyes.

They have been blind from birth and they have never seen any baby, much less the infant Son of God. They find their way to the side of the crib, and they reach in to pick Him up. Mary smiles through tears of joy and Joseph looks on with admiration. They have said nothing to each other until now. “Hello Mary...hello Joseph," the couple whisper. Mary chokes back tears. Their voices sound like the familiar sounds of old friends.

Maybe it is because this couple, who needs so much from this Savior, has never asked for anything. They have not only accepted their blindness, but used it to bless others who have perfect physical sight. They don't complain, they don't whine. They decorate a tree on their front porch and invite people from the entire city to come and decorate it with them. In doing so they share Jesus with the city.

They know how to hold Christmas in their hearts and it just naturally overflows onto the streets of Upper Darby, the neighborhood in Philadelphia where they live in a modest row home, and on to the rest of my hometown. They never considered when they began their tradition, that a young and talented songwriter would write a Christmas song about them and it would wind up on MTV in the early budding days of the network. They just wanted to show the world that they got it. That they knew that Christmas was more than things you can see.

Mary hugs the woman a long time. They are practically friends and Mary seems somehow comfortable with her in a way the other visitors don't leave her feeling. Perhaps it is the blindness, or the simplicity. Likely it is the fact that this wonderful blind couple comes here each year and never asks for anything from the baby. They just spend time loving Him.

The woman holds Jesus affectionately and traces His face delicately with her fingertips. “He is so beautiful!" is her hushed whisper. Her husband fumbles for her hand and says "Show me..." The woman takes his hand in hers and together they gently touch Jesus cheeks, His lips, they stroke His hair. He is enamored with this couple. They ask for nothing. They are as vulnerable in their blindness as He is in His infancy. He somehow knows this and it makes him smile.

Mary whispers in the darkness to the couple, "If you asked Him, I believe he would, even at this age." The woman smiles in the direction of her voice, "Oh no Mary. God must have wanted us this way for a reason. We don't need to be healed to love Him “I know that," Mary smiles, "But I bet He would anyway." The couple worships Jesus for a long, long time. They touch His face and commit His features to memory. He falls asleep in her arms and she places Him in his manger crib.

The couple turns and crawls towards the doorway. They stop and Mary and Joseph hug them for unashamedly for several minutes. You are our most welcome guests," Mary says, "Thank you for loving my son." The man wipes tears away and smiles. "Mary, Joseph...thank you for letting us see Him. When we close our eyes in worship, we see Him just as clearly as everyone else does." Mary weeps openly at these words. Joseph hugs the man for a long time. “We have to go," the wife whispers to Mary, "There are a few more lights to put on that tree on our porch and people will be stopping by until late into the night."

The blind couple fumble in their perpetual darkness toward the cave entrance and out into the night, heading home to the Upper Darby section of Philadelphia, to finish their tree that tells the real story of Christmas.

They are worshiping a baby they have never seen, except in their hearts where it matters most.

“I can see, and that is why I can be happy, in what you call the dark, but which to me is golden.  I can see a God-made world, not a manmade world.” -Helen Keller

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