Advent Day 20: Mommy...

“If you are tired from carrying heavy burdens, come to me

                              and I will give you rest.”

                                                                                                            

I have been sitting with Joseph and Mary for about a quarter hour. We have been discussing the events of the evening. It’s a very strange conversation to have, knowing that I know more about their son then they do at this point.     

       I try to be guarded about what I say. To be quite honest this whole series of events is confounding, and I have not even begun to try to explain what is happening to me.

       Joseph and Mary are weary…I can see that in their eyes. I slip quietly over to a corner of the cave where there is a covering of shadow. I want them to have some time alone and I need some myself. Time to think and wonder about this evening’s events. But I find that there will not be much time for that. Another guest has arrived.

       A very beautiful woman, about the same age as me, has entered the cave very meekly. Her eyes are sullen and cast downward as she crawls in through the damp straw and mud. She barely looks up enough to even see where she is going. She pauses just inside the cave and haltingly asks; “I…came here to see Him…to see the baby. Is it…is it okay? Is he here?” 

       I know I recognize her voice but I cannot place her face. I realize that whoever she is, I have not seen her for a long time and we have both changed. She is carrying a blue diaper bag, the kind new moms carry. Mary has never seen something like this but I have. I can only wonder why she would bring it with her to this cave and that’s when it dawns on me who this woman is. Her name is Kelly. I went to high school with her.

      Kelly was a beautiful girl in high school, and she remains a beautiful woman now. She was always a little sad beneath her bubbly exterior and there had been rumors in the small Christian high school I attended, that Kelly had been the victim of a sexual predator for years. When we were in our senior year, Kelly found herself pregnant and her embarrassed parents withdrew her from the school and it was said she moved to South Carolina to have her baby.

       Kelly’s parents were deacons in the church I grew up in and they were very devout and pious folks. Her dad had been a hard drinking and hard living businessman who had come to Jesus through a series of accidents and misfortune that left him feeling very lucky to be alive and needing a second chance. The sad part was that he felt the need to earn it, instead of understanding that we all need a second chance and have nothing to offer God in exchange for it so we’d better just take it as we are.

       Her dad and mom were “pillars in the church”. Kelly and her sister never wore pants, and all their skirts went below the knee. Her brother always said “yes sir” and “no sir” and his hair was short and he was going to be a preacher…even though he had a marvelous gift for painting and was only really happy when he was creating art.

       There had long been a rumor about a young deacon in the church and his near-infatuation with Kelly. But those things never happened in Independent Fundamentalist churches because the strict legalism was supposed to be the only sure-fire means of battling such horrifying temptations. Nonetheless, the rumors persisted and, looking at Kelly now, I remembered how she shrank from this man like darkness from light whenever he came near.

       He had been a youth worker and so he was around us all the time…and he had a strange proclivity for over-attentiveness toward Kelly. He gave me the creeps. Maybe it was because I had a crush on her briefly in tenth grade and that made me protective, or maybe it was just the fact that a sexual predator was not talked about in the 70s, but for whatever reason I made myself stop thinking about the strange gut feeling I always got when this man came around Kelly.

       Then came that morning in February of 1981, our senior year, and Kelly’s empty desk in homeroom…and the whispered rumors began. Her best friend came to school with red-rimmed eyes the next day and all she would tell us was that Kelly and her family had moved away. A month after that, word had gotten back to us that Kelly had moved to South Carolina to have a baby.  Seven months later the youth worker resigned and joined the Army and nobody connected the two seemingly coincidental events.

      Now here she was, 45 years old and still stunning.  Maybe more so than she was in high school. Same dark hair, same dark eyes. She even smelled beautiful, like she always had when we were kids. But Kelly was not the same Kelly that I remembered just before she left. She had always possessed a sad quality behind the beautiful outward veneer,  but this Kelly had no veneer. This Kelly was as deeply wounded as any person I had ever seen in my life.

       She wouldn’t look at Joseph or at me and she barely could hold Mary’s eye for more than a second or two. She kept darting her eyes left or right, or mostly just looking at the ground. Her jawline was flexing the way a person’s does when they are clenching their teeth. She looked fierce and angry, unless you looked really close…then all you saw was the sadness of a truly broken heart. A heart that had -as a means of defending itself against an unwanted intruder-  stopped working at all. Kelly felt almost nothing in the deepest part of her soul.

       I caught her eye for just a moment and I saw the terribly sad look of hollowness and pain. A pain that she’d buried long ago and that she had long forgotten the source of. Or at least she had tried to forget. She didn’t recognize me when she glanced my way. Mary smiled meekly at her and bade her come in. “You are welcome here ma’am,” Mary called sweetly. Kelly looked almost shocked at Mary. As if a term of respect were foreign to her. I found myself looking down at the ground so as to avoid making her feel uncomfortable and too, to avoid her recognizing me, still wondering if that were possible.

       Most of the evenings visitors had not even known I was there, but Kelly and I had locked eyes once already and I knew she saw me here. She paused in front of Mary and asked if she could see Jesus. Mary paused and I could detect a gasp in her voice… “How do you know His name?” Mary asked.  Kelly was as puzzled as Mary, “I…don’t know. I don’t really know how I got here or why. I promised myself I would never mention His name or come near…” Kelly’s voice trailed off as tears burned hot in her eyes.

       I remembered now. I remembered Kelly’s best friend coming to school a month after Kelly had left and I remember never before or since, seeing the kind of burning anger I saw flash in her eyes that day. Her name was Rhonda. Rhonda came to school on a Monday morning and had little to say. She sat at our lunch table in stone silence. One of the girls asked her about Kelly and had she heard from her. Then the snickering started…then the whispered jokes.

       I was sitting at the other end of the table with two guys from the hockey team and I caught the most important,  and heartbreaking portion of the conversation. Rhonda told the one girl who was the leader of the attackers that yes,  she had in fact talked to Kelly.

Rhonda said yes, Kelly was pregnant…four and half months by this point.  The girls kept up their relentless attacks and finally Rhonda jumped to her feet and threw a milk carton at the ringleader. “My friend wishes she could die!” Rhonda hissed, “Do you know what really happened? Do you know who did this?” Rhonda was almost screaming now, and tears were breaking her voice into short chunks. She paused and thought better of mentioning the man by name because at that point he was still on staff at the school.

       Then Rhonda said something that tore through my 17 year old heart like a scimitar and left a raw bleeding edge to this very day. She was controlling sobs long enough to spit out; “My best friend thinks God did this to her. She thinks God allowed this because she thinks she is evil. Kelly wishes she could die and she thinks God hates her and she won’t even mention His name again! She thinks her mom and dad hate her; she is convinced you all hate her, and she believes God is disgusted by her, and you are all acting like He is. You all make me sick!”

       With that Rhonda ran out of the cafeteria and the next day she transferred to the public high school near my neighborhood and wouldn’t talk to any of the girls from our school anymore.

        I saw her at a hockey game later that winter and she said a brief hello to me. Before she left I remember grabbing her hand lightly and asking her how Kelly was doing. Rhonda broke into tears at this and she hugged me hard and said Kelly had lost her baby that week.

       I was 17, so I didn’t understand what that did to a girl and I thought maybe it was a good thing.  And like an impulsive 17 year old boy I said so, “Well maybe that’s for the best, right Rhonda? I mean now she can get on with her life.” Rhonda must have been more mature for her age than any other girl I knew because she didn’t explode at me. 

       Maybe she remembered the crush I had on Kelly in tenth  grade or the fact that Kelly and I remained friends even though she didn’t return my affections and she knew I would never say something hurtful. Before she left the hockey rink, I whispered to her “Tell Kelly I miss her…okay?” Rhonda was crying and I was looking for the nearest door so she wouldn’t see me cry in case the tears I was squashing down inside my soul managed to break free.

       Now here Kelly was, thirty-some years later. I knew it was her but I was not sure she recognized me. She was whispering to Mary and she was moving so slowly towards the manger…as if she felt some sort of repellant force and was working against her. She seemed to keep her eyes down in some effort to avoid seeing Jesus…or at least to avoid seeing Him all at once. It was if she needed to acclimate herself to his presence and just tiny glimpses were all she could handle. She was about three feet from the manger when she paused and looked at Mary.

       “Did it hurt?” Kelly asked. “Giving birth…did it hurt?”  Mary smiled and said “Yes! Oh my yes! And it seemed like it would go on forever but once he was born, the pain seemed to vanish and I was so happy…” Mary was interrupted by the sobs emanating from Kelly’s broken heart. She was already on her knees, out of necessity from the low height of the cave ceiling. But now she had fallen forward almost on her face and the quiet sobs had begun.

       I wanted to rush to Kelly’s side. She had been my friend all those years ago and she was so broken and so hurting tonight. But I hesitated, knowing that what she really needed…all she really needed... was only three feet from her, cooing quietly in a wooden feed trough. Mary comforted her wonderfully and in a few moments Kelly was regaining her composure enough to speak again. “I was carrying a son once” Kelly said, “But I…” there was a long, long pause here, as if Kelly was choosing words that Mary would understand given the differences of time and culture. “…I lost him” Kelly whispered.

       Mary looked baffled, “He was stillborn?” She asked. At this Kelly was wracked by a new wave of sobs. She could not raise her head to look at Mary. Mary tried to comfort her. “But that happens a lot, Miss,” Mary whispered. “There was surely nothing you could do. You mustn’t blame yourself.” This elicited a new wave of pain and sorrow from Kelly. The sobs were almost shrieks now and under it all I heard her saying a name occasionally. “Thomas,” she would whisper between sobs. “Thomas.”

       After a few moments Kelly was laying on the muddy straw right next to the manger. She rose to her knees and with her face in her hands in a position of uneasy worship for the baby in the manger. Mary stroked her hair for a minute and then I saw a look come over her face as if she had heard a voice. Mary glanced slightly upward and then looked at me puzzled. She came over to where I was sitting near Joseph.

       “You know this woman?” she asked me. “Yes…” I answered, “But how did you…”

Before I could finish asking her how she knew that I knew who Kelly was, Mary said, “I have heard the voice of my Lord several times tonight…and just now was such a time. Go to her…she is your friend and she needs you.”

       I didn’t even try to contest. I crawled through the damp straw to where Kelly was kneeling with her face buried in her hands and the sobs still pouring out of her soul. I sat there next to her not knowing what to do or say. For whatever reason I glanced at the baby in the feed trough.

Jesus was crying.

       He was not crying for food or for attention or to have a diaper changed. He was not crying like a baby. He was lying still in his little makeshift cradle and silent tears were building in his eyes and running down his cheeks. He made no sound at all.

       I felt my hand reach for Kelly’s long dark hair. I touched her so lightly that I didn’t think she would feel it…I’m not sure I wanted her to. She stiffened to my touch and I heard her gasp lightly. I took a breath and worked up the nerve to say a name I hadn’t said out loud in thirty years, the name I always called her… “Kell…”  Kelly sat up like a shot.

       That was what I called her all through high school. She looked at me in instant disbelief for just a brief second. “Kell…it’s me…its Craig” Kelly’s face grew red and she look scared for just a second. “It’s okay, I’ve been here all night” I said to her. Kelly threw her arms around my neck and I could tell she was holding back the darkest and most painful tears. We said nothing for a long, long time.

       I felt Kelly stiffen and she pulled away from me. Her face turned slightly angry, and under the anger, humiliation. “You were here all night? You heard my conversation with Mary?” she hissed. “Yes” I answered… “I heard enough. Kell, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve always hoped you were okay and I always wanted you to be happy. What brings you here?”

       This was apparently the question she was answering that night. She ventured a glance toward Jesus… “I came to see Him,” she whispered to me. “I haven’t seen Him since I was 17,  since…” Kelly broke into loud painful sobs. She buried her face in my shoulder and I hugged her as tightly as I could. “I know Kell,  Rhonda told me. I know what happened…and who…”

        Kelly drew back and a look of horror filled her eyes. “It’s okay Kell,  you were the victim. You were just a kid. It’s left such a big hole…” Kelly was sobbing again but I sensed a wall had begun to crumble. My instinct told me that I was the first person from high school…from when this all happened to her…that she had seen or heard from since then. Excepting her best friend Rhonda, she had lost contact with all of us. That only built on the shame she was already carrying.

       “I know you lost the baby Kell…”  Kelly’s jaw dropped and her eyes grew very wide and tears flowed like a river. I knew not to say a word, and inside my heart I heard a small quiet voice, telling me to just listen.  Kelly cried a long time and then she looked at me with more sadness than I have ever seen in one other human. She drew a big breath and after a long pause she said “I didn’t lose him Craig…I…I ended it.”

       This was as close as Kelly could come to saying the word “abortion.” But the sting and the horror was still just as plain as if she had blurted it out. Kelly was wearing a scarlet letter in her soul and I could see it. She had long ago moved from not being able to forgive herself to plainly despising herself for this one decision she had made.

       Where my tears came from was easy for me to understand, my friend was in incredible pain and not only could I see it,  I felt it, to a small degree. But Kelly could not fathom my loving response. She thought somehow that I was going to react harshly and in judgment and condemnation. She pulled away from me and grew very cold.

       “Kell...” I whispered, “It’s okay,  people make mistakes, people in pain make even bigger mistakes. I’m still your friend.”  Kelly was quiet and a slight smile tried to play on her lips. “Same old Craig,” she laughed softly, “seeing the best in everyone no matter what they do to you.” I chuckled at that, because we’d had that discussion a long time ago. The tension had eased and Kelly was a little more comfortable.

       “Kelly, why did you come here tonight? You sure didn’t come to see me. I didn’t know I’d be here so how would you? Why have you really come?” I knew the answer in my heart but I was curious what she would tell me. Kelly grew very quiet and she drew a long breath. “I came to see Him…” she whispered, “I came to see the baby”.

       I smiled at this, I knew that was why she made this journey, but I wanted to know what she expected from this visit. “Rhonda told me a long time ago that you want nothing to do with God or church or religion ever again. What brings you here now?”  I said to her.

       “Rhonda is right…I hate God,” she hissed angrily. She made no attempt at recouping those words and she threw out more invective. “My father all but disowned me and I never heard from any of my friends from church ever again. I decided that if they all judged me then God surely had. And I was so angry at Him for letting that man…” Kelly drew a gasping breath and fought tears bravely. “Why didn’t He stop that from happening? Why! Why did nobody listen and nobody believe me?”

       I had no answers for Kelly’s probing questions. Questions that had been asked since time began. When God could have stepped in, why didn’t he?  Kelly continued, “I have grown so weary of hating God, and hating all that belongs to Him. I know I can’t look Him in the eye. I know I can’t ever think of Him as a father. But I thought maybe if I made peace with Jesus, maybe I could make peace with my son…” Kelly broke into tears again. She wept for a few minutes and gathered her composure yet again.

       “I never held him.  Never smelled what he smelled like. I never felt him breathe on my skin.” Kelly fingered the wedding ring on her left hand. “My own husband doesn’t know…my kids don’t know. I have three children with my husband. He is a wonderful man and he loves me. But I can’t trust this with him. I am afraid he’ll leave me if he finds out.”

       “I don’t know what I expected here tonight. I sure didn’t expect to see you here, and I don’t know what I want God to do here. Why am I here, Craig? Why do you think? What is happening to me?” Kelly was crying softly and I looked down into the manger again. The baby son of God…hours old, was still weeping. He had made no sound since Kelly had arrived and yet he was apparently aware of her pain. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

       “Kell, you are here for Him. You need to hold the baby that you terminated. You need to hold this little baby here tonight and let Him grant you forgiveness for the baby you can no longer hold. You need to reach in and pick him up Kell. You need to touch Him,  and let Him touch you.” “I can’t!” Kelly protested. “I could never…”  I held Kelly’s hand and told her to look at Jesus. She had been here for 20 minutes now and had yet to actually look at his face. Kelly glanced haltingly into the manger and saw the tears in the eyes of a baby Savior.

       I thought she would choke. She made no sound except a gasp. “Oh God! O my God what did I ever do? What did I do?” I expected her to collapse into a heap but what happened next will remain with me for all my days. As Kelly was at her lowest point of self hatred and pain and anger, I saw Jesus -merely hours old- reach his tiny hand towards her.

       It was the slightest move, barely perceptible, but Kelly saw it and her mother instinct leapt to the fore. She glanced toward Mary, and Mary nodded with a slight smile. Then Kelly reached into the manger and lifted the baby to her chest. Jesus had been crying only moments before but as soon as Kelly touched him, he began to smile, as if the very touch of this weary and broken soul had given him joy. It was as if he was absorbing her pain and that made Him happy.

       Kelly burst into soft sobs as she began confessing her pain and shame and guilt. She began asking this tiny baby to forgive her…to forgive her for what she did to Thomas. At this I realized that Kelly had gone so far as to pick out a name for her baby before her embarrassed and humiliated parents had taken her to a clinic and forced her to get an abortion. Kelly hated them for that and for reminding her during the entire ordeal how “bad” she was and how this was a sin and how God punished girls who find themselves in this position.

       Kelly had promised herself to never even breathe God’s name again in her life, but something in her getting married and then having children would not let that spot for Him in her heart grow completely cold. Kelly longed for the God of her childhood, but she was afraid of Him and felt he was disappointed in her. For years she wrestled with coming back to Him but felt certain that he wanted nothing to do with her. Then one day she got the idea… “Maybe the baby would accept me. Maybe the baby would let me love Him again. Maybe He’d talk to his father for me.”

       Kelly had made her journey to this hovel this year because she was tired of running from God. She was tired of being so wounded and weary and so hurting. She knew all the verses that said God heals, God forgives, God restores. But she didn’t believe Him. He was probably a father like her own father, she had reasoned. If her dad was embarrassed and humiliated, God probably was too.

       But maybe Jesus would be more forgiving. Maybe He would understand. So she came here hoping just to see Him. Now she was holding Him. “My Thomas probably smelled like you do right now, he probably felt like you do. I am so sorry…so sorry. Please forgive me please. Please forgive me” Kelly whispered.

       She was kissing the baby softly on his neck and cheeks and his hands. Anywhere she saw a patch of baby soft skin she kissed it. I knew in my soul that she was kissing her little son Thomas. I knew that Jesus had become that baby to her. And she needed this desperately.

Jesus was smiling now…

       “Kell…” I whispered, “Look at his face!”  Kelly looked at Jesus and saw a smile as big and as warm and welcoming as any human had ever had. The baby son of God was smiling at this outpouring of affection from a woman who had been afraid of Him for over 30 years. She feared the father but could not possibly fear the child. The baby had no pretense and held no judgment.

       I could only think of one thing to say to my wounded friend, “Kell…I know you think the Father still is angry…” Kelly’s shoulders heaved in pain and sorrow and she said nothing. “Kell if He loves His son more than we love our own children, and yet He was willing to let him suffer for you, then maybe God isn’t angry with you at all. Maybe He just misses you. Maybe Him letting you touch His son…hold his Son, and love on Him…maybe that is God reaching His hand to you.” Kelly smiled softly at this and returned her affections to Jesus.

        Kelly whispered into the ear of the son of God, “I love you…thank you…”

She placed Jesus back into his manger crib. Turning toward me, she reached into the diaper bag and pulled out a tiny receiving blanket with a monogram “T” on the corner. It was baby blue. She carefully tucked him into his little straw bed as if he were her own child. Maybe in some ways he was in that moment. The one act of motherhood was healing 30 years of unforgiveness and pain and shame. She pulled a brand new pacifier from the bag and Jesus took it to his mouth instantly with a tiny smile.

       Kelly had come here to make peace with her baby son. A baby she had given over to the hand of death in one horrifying moment. She made peace with her baby by accepting peace from this baby. On this night they were one and the same.

Kelly stared at Jesus a long time, and a smile began to play on her face. It was a smile I had not seen in over 30 years. And a smile she had not seen since then either.

       She turned, picked up the diaper bag, hugged me for a long tender moment, and she was gone. 

 “We take it out on ourselves, and then I think we often feel that God's against us.  We often feel that he's given up on us. So, you know, we become angry.  It becomes a kind of cycle. I think there are many folks who just walk away from God, and from faith, because they feel like failures, and they really don't  think they can meet God's standards.”     --Haddon Robinson, discussing his sermon “God of the Second Chance”   

       

Advent Day Eleven: No Grace

“It is absolutely clear that God has called you to a free life.”

It is a cold, rainy, late fall day in Philadelphia. It is typical for early December; damp and gray. I still haven’t gotten into the spirit of the season and it is worrying me, but Christmas rushes toward us regardless.

Another day dawns and another opportunity to see what further mysteries the little advent calendar holds.

I open the little leather door. For the first time in eight days, I don't like the image I see. It is an older man, I don't know him, yet he seems familiar. I decide to stand to the side and observe. He arrives at the cave with trepidation. My heart tells me he has made this journey many times in the past and it has always left him discomfited. This place ruins his theology every time he comes here. Yet he comes back each year because he so desperately wants what this baby offers. He just can't get used to the surroundings and the poverty and the dirt.

The overflowing love of an infant Savior makes him uneasy. He has never been comfortable merely accepting this child as he is. This man has always thought God was too easy on us all and that we need to strain more to accept this gift. (The true nature of a gift being lost on his tired soul long ago.)

So again he comes, trying to find a way to reconcile this place and this child with his legalistic theology. He huffs and puffs around the entrance to the cave until finally he bows and scurries in, like a chipmunk running for the hollow of a fallen oak.

He crawls in on hands and knees, making a mental note of how well dressed he is compared to Mary and Joseph and the other visitors. Then he sees how filthy everything is, and that much of that filth is getting his brand new charcoal suit dirty. He is flustered now because he didn't plan on getting dirty...and this a new suit.

He looks around, grasps Josephs hand heartily, and nods toward Mary as if she is merely a domestic servant. Mary smiles gently and thinks to herself how every time he comes here he behaves the same way towards her. I think to myself how the man treats Mary as if she were a Catholic. Even at his age, and wisdom, he doesn’t grasp that she is not.

The man glances around at the unbelievably dismal surroundings and he gives a shudder. "This is wrong," he thinks to himself. "This scene is wrong somehow. This poverty, this humbleness. He is a King for God's sake!"

He glances at his watch, "Good I am early...the wise men haven't even arrived yet” he thinks this every year, and prides himself on getting here ahead of the much ballyhooed Orient Kings. This man is approaching 80 years old and still doesn't realize that they won't be coming tonight. Joseph tried explaining that to him once when he asked, but the old man argued with him so vehemently that he gave up trying. Joseph and Mary tolerate this man for one reason only, and I am about to find out why.

The old man looks at the four figures around the manger in annoyance. They have been there since he arrived and he is late. He has a candlelight service to attend and now he is going to have to change suits before he can go. Besides, these men are shepherds and they are really smelly. Three of them are standing, albeit hunched over and one man is on his knees rocking slowly back and forth. The three are speaking to him, trying to get him to finish up and get going.

“L'enchante...L'enchante, we must be leaving!” But the fourth shepherd is lost in adoration and the only response they get is his melodic, whispered worship tune..."Jesu...Jesu..." His tears flow freely and his smile is as nothing anyone has ever seen. The old man clears his throat loudly and taps on his watch when one of the shepherds looks back. They have no idea what the gesture means, having never seen a watch, but they assume he is in a hurry. The shepherd blushes and finally the fourth man rises to his hunched over position with his three compatriots. They walk past the old man apologetically and he offers a bleak, pained smile.

Now he is alone with the child. He crouches down so as not to kneel, not wanting to further soil his new charcoal suit. He arrives at the manger and for a moment, he seems to soften. A few tears come to his eyes but he resists them. He looks at the tiny figure stirring in the crib and his heart aches to hold him. His hand reaches for a tiny finger but withdraws instantly. "No!" he thinks..."This is the Savior. He cannot be touched!"

His hands tremble and his heart is on fire in his chest. Being this close to that which he adores and still not reaching out to him and holding him, his god-nature cries out: "Pick Him up!" but his legalistic flesh refuses. "Never!" he says to himself, "This is sacred and holy. I cannot touch him nor can He touch me. I would die."

The conflict is visible and the baby begins to cry, perhaps because of the turmoil in the man’s heart and on his face. The baby is reaching a tiny hand toward this man and the man’s heart is wrenched. Mary can stand no more of this and she rushes to her son. She turns a fiery glance at the old man and spits out; "Every time you come here, my son longs for you to pick him up and hold him. And you always refuse. Why? Why do you not understand that a baby must be held to give its love and to receive yours? Why do you not understand this?”

Mary blushes as she realizes she is raising her voice at this man. But her mother’s heart is wounded because of this man's rejection of her son's loving overtures, yet she shows compassion to him. "Sir" she whispers as her tiny hand touches his, "I can see that you have love for him...but he is a baby and he cannot take that love you bring unless you touch him. And he cannot love you in return unless you let him touch you."

The old man trembles and almost breaks. Everything in his old soul longs to hold this child. He knows he has the very son of God -his own savior- right here and he could touch Him, but he refuses. He has all that he has ever longed for at his disposal, but his pride, and the depth of his legalism prevent him and he stumbles out of the cave yet again. He remains untouched and unchanged, refusing the humbling love of being accepted as he already is, not as he thinks he needs to be.

“Jesus loves us just as we are...not as we ought to be. Because we will never be as we ought to be.”  --Brennan Manning 

Advent Day Ten: The Father Visits His Son

“This is my Son…I love Him above all else.

He makes me very happy!”

I wouldn't call it terror that greeted me when I opened the little leather door this morning. More like awe. The sort of thing that sucks the air from your lungs and makes you gasp to gain it back. Like seeing the ocean for the first time, or the Grand Canyon, or the surface of the moon.

Seated just inside the doorway to the cave is an enormous man, larger by far than I am. I can't tell for certain, but I would guess this man is at least seven feet tall and I am quite sure he is officially what the medical community would classify a giant. He is perhaps one of the most handsome men I have ever seen. He is fierce, yet not frightening. He doesn't say anything to me at first; he seems to be checking me out with a gaze that feels like it reveals my very soul to him. My eyes hurt, and at first I think it's just from the lack of sleep and the dingy lighting in this hovel but then I realize that it is, in fact, bright in here for the first time. Bright enough that I squint. I look at the oil lamps and they seem to be brilliant in a way I have never seen since this long night began. I can't even look at them without shielding my eyes.

The large man's face does not move for a long time and then I notice the faintest trace of a smile beginning to crease his lips. He answers the question I have in my heart before I even ask it. At first I thought I actually spoke, so loud was my inner voice. But I realize I did not. Yet he looks at me, and when my heart wonders silently “Why are you here?” He smiles and says "I am here with Him..." he said, nodding toward the manger, "I never leave his side unless it’s to do his bidding."

Glancing in the direction of the manger takes me a minute, because this gigantic man holds my attention so fully. Slowly I turn my gaze to the corner of the cave where Jesus lay sleeping and I see an older man. I can't quite make him out clearly in the brilliance of the suddenly powerful oil lamps, but I can tell he is an older man. He too is large, not as big as this giant before me, but a large man nonetheless. He is holding Jesus and I can hear him speaking. This is odd to me because, I am fairly certain his lips aren't moving, but with the dreadful glare I can't be sure. I listen and his voice is powerful and soothing at once. At first, I can't understand the words he speaks, it's a language I am not familiar with, but in an instant I begin to understand him. He is not speaking English but whatever it is; somehow, I know what he is saying.

He is holding Jesus and his gaze is more tender and loving than any visitor has displayed tonight. More loving than even Mary. "I love you" he whispers... "you are such a wonderful boy." The old man has tears in his eyes that fall on the child and dance like diamonds in the incredible light. I can only steal small glances because the brilliance hurts my eyes so. I think it is because I have been in this dark cave for so long tonight that light seems extra bothersome. The man is rocking the boy gently and the boy is gazing back with a look that I won't even try to describe, except it is a love I have never witnessed. Not at any age.

The man sings a lyrical song to the child and the boy smiles. The man speaks again, "I love you...you are beloved...you are my beloved little boy". I shudder and without even realizing it I fall on my face. "It can't be!" I scream in the silence of my soul..."It's not possible!" I cannot bring myself to look up again but I can still hear the words the old man is speaking to the child. "My son...my beloved son. You make me happy. What you will do in this world will change everything. Our enemy will be defeated forever and these children I love will be able to come home at last. Thank you my son, for being willing." The old man's voice breaks and he weeps his diamond-tears on the torn linen strips that encase his little boy.

The old man is long to release His precious little child. I am scared beyond measure and I feel a warm hand on my shoulder…it is the huge and handsome stranger seated in the doorway. “Look up at me Craig” he says in a voice that is at once thunderous and gentle. I struggle to raise my glance to his incredibly handsome face. He is smiling. I sit up and he begins to speak to me.

“I have been with Him since before all of this was here”, he says, sweeping his hands wide to seemingly encompass the whole world it. He created me before he created this place. “So, He is your father as well?” I asked him. “No!” the handsome man responded firmly. “No, I am not made in His image the way you are. I am different.” I could not see a noticeable difference and so as the question formed in my heart “How are you different” he was already answering. “He spoke me into existence like he did everything else He created. He said “let there be, and I was.” He made all of what you see in that way. This earth. The trees, the sky, the stars. The things that bring you joy.

He spoke all of that into being and it responded instantly.”

I was wondering why he told me this, because everyone knows this and I couldn’t understand the significance. I suppose this too was evident with this massive man because he looked at me very warmly and with a somewhat sly smile that told me he knew even this thought of mine and was about to upset my apple-cart. “I know,” he said “you’ve heard that since you were a child”. “Yes” I admitted…

“That’s sort of old news.”

The mountain man smiled and then he got very quiet, even for him. “You know there was one thing that during those six days of creation, He touched. One thing that He didn’t just speak into existence but He shaped and formed and caressed.” I was puzzled. I quickly tried to run back through the six days of creation in my mind and see if I could find it. I was trying to think quietly so maybe he couldn’t read my heart and just tell me, but I wasn’t that crafty and he put his massive hand on my shoulder and held my gaze with the sheer forcefulness of his eyes.

“Craig…” he whispered, “the only thing He created with his hands was you.” The enormous man paused for a long second or two, waiting for me to catch up to his words.

Suddenly it hit me. At once I understood what he was telling me, and what he was saying, and what it meant. I got it. God spoke everything into existence on those six amazing days…everything except man. He formed Adam from the ground, and then he breathed His very life into Him with a kiss. I suddenly saw it, and that’s when the massive and tender warrior spoke again.

“I wish you could have seen it. I wish I could describe it to you and do it justice. How He surveyed the work He had done before he made you. How He made sure every detail of this world was absolutely perfect before He did what He did that day. How that pause seemed so long. How much love He put into what He did next…” the giant was wistful now. He seemed to be reveling in the memories of that moment as he painted the picture for me. He was deeply moved as he continued… “He took His hands and he found the richest soil in the garden. He began shaping a big pile and He worked it down with such detail, with such precision, until it was absolutely perfect.” The man paused again and took a deep breath. He began again to tell me the story…

“I have stood by His side since the dawn of time and I have never seen the look on His face that He had that day, except maybe when He would communicate with this child, His son.” If I had any doubts as to the identity of the old man kneeling at the manger, they were gone now. I wanted to turn my head and see him but I dare not, and this man’s story had me enraptured. The giant continued; “He looked at this perfectly shaped pile of dirt with a look that I can only assume is…love.”

I was curious about the way he spoke that word, and again, before I could ask him, he answered me. “I don’t know love the way you know it. I am not made in his image as you are. He is love, you are made like Him. I can recognize it, I can see it, I can deeply appreciate it, but I don’t feel it like you do, or like He does.” I was baffled by this and I felt pity for the way he relayed this to me. “But don’t you love him?” I asked the giant man. “Yes, I think that’s what this is. I am loyal to Him. I fight for Him. I worship Him and adore him…but I don’t feel I am part of Him, not the way you are. You are all very different. That day as He shaped Adam, as His hands formed every detail, there was something in His gaze that I had never seen, not before the world or during its creation. He was eager. He was anticipating something. He was longing. I didn’t understand it until I watched what He did next.” The man paused and smiled to himself and I was sure he was seeing the moment once again in his mind.

“He stepped back from the pile of dirt He had been shaping and caressing and his eyes ran over it from top to bottom. Then He leaned in and kissed it tenderly on the lips, and He breathed into it, and a part of His very spirit moved into the form and it came to life. He named Him Adam and he loved him. Craig…He loved him. Do you understand me? He adored this man. He looked at him with a pride and satisfaction that nothing else He had made ever gave him. Not the five days of creation that went before, not even me. Nothing made Him as deeply happy as what His hands had made and what His breath brought to life that day.”

The man paused a long time and I was stunned. I sat there looking at him but seeing the picture he was painting with his words. I was dumbfounded. I had never -not once-  considered the creation of man in the way this giant man was telling me. And it made all the difference. When he was sure I had digested all that he had told me until then, the man spoke again, this time in a faint whisper. “David once wrote that you were all fearfully and wonderfully made, and he was right. Each one of you who is born into this world carries the careful caress of the Father himself. Each of you has been shaped and formed and each detail has been memorized by Him.”

He paused a long time and looked sad and there was pity in his voice when he said; “What I don’t understand is how hard it is for you to grasp His love for you. I see it so plainly and yet you all seem to miss it and run from it.

Something terrible happened to make you forget that he made you by hand. Something over these years has caused you all to be unable to recognize the feeling of His touch on your skin or His breath in your lungs. I don’t understand it. He doesn’t even love me this way, and I have never left His side since time began. Why do you not grasp the way he sees you?” The man seemed to be asking this as a rhetorical now, not actually expecting an answer from me.

“I wish you could have seen how he would look at Adam back then. How He gazed at him with such affection. How He leaned in close to hear the faintest whisper from Adams lips that might be a call for help or a word of affection. He was wild about Adam.” There was another pause and then he continued, “You know that He carefully creates each of you in much the same way? He doesn’t make you out of dirt now but as each child is created -in those first few split seconds- He sees their whole life all at once. He blesses them and He breathes that same Life into every single one. If you all only knew how deeply He loves you, why your life would be more than you could ever imagine.”

The man said these words wistfully almost knowing it would never be this way for us. I was going to ask him more questions when there was a sound from the manger. The old man has spoken something and the giant in front of me understood it at once. “Yes, my Lord” he answers. I immediately am face down on the cave floor once again.

The old man holds the boy to His robes for a long second. Finally, he places the child back in his makeshift crib and kisses the baby. In his kiss, I can hear the slightest rushing of a breeze.

The man walks past me in my prostrate position and I feel his hand brush my head as he goes by. The lights in the cave calm to their previous dim. I am certain he is gone and I turn to look and the giant man is still at the doorway, getting ready to leave as well. "Wait!" I call out to him, "Wait...I need to ask you..."    "Yes...” the man responds to the question I haven't asked yet. “Yes, that was." "But...how...why?" The angel laughs and the bellow hurts my ears a bit.

Amazingly Joseph and Mary and Jesus never rustle from their sleep even as the man booms in laughter. "This is His Son..." He says with a smile, "You didn't think He would miss this, did you? He is a daddy, after all, you know."

I burst into deep sobs. This scene has rent my heart in two. 47 years and I never once thought about God as a daddy on that night, as an expectant father eagerly celebrating the arrival of his precious child. The large man reaches a hand out and touches my head. "It's okay, it's a lot to grasp. But He is The Father, and this is His Son. He wanted to be here to see him, like any daddy would on the night his son was born." I look up at this mammoth man and before I can utter the words in my heart he answers me again, "Yes...I am Michael. I go with Him wherever He goes."

Leaning down to whisper in my ear he says only one word..."remember."

And with that, he is gone.

"I felt something impossible for me to explain in words.
Then, when they took her away, it hit me.
I got scared all over again and began to feel giddy.
Then it came to me... I was a father."
  --Nat King Cole

Advent Day Nine: The Shepherds...

 “That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep”

I have had to take a long time to digest what I have witnessed thus far. I know this child has the power to heal, to bring hope, and to restore happiness. But I’ve seen him do so much more already. These mystical visits have been emotional to say the least.

I have been looking a long time at the calendar in my hands. The bells of Saints Peter and Paul Church have tolled again and a new day dawns. I’ve been sitting here a long time, pondering the meaning of what I’ve seen. I gently open the next little door and a smile makes its way across my face. This scene is one of my personal favorites, and I've been waiting for this one!

The shepherds have arrived!

They were tending their sheep out in the wilderness outside of Bethlehem. In fact, they had their flocks penned up in caves much like this one here. They were asleep in the doorway of their pens, as shepherds do, and they were startled awake by a brilliant light and the sound of a chorus of angels. They heard one voice above the din and it told them that their Savior had been born tonight in Bethlehem. They saw that wonderful star in the heavens and they followed it to this place.

A bewildered look is evident as they approach the cave entrance. After following the fanfare and angelic direction, they were surprised to see that they have arrived at a sheep pen just like they left behind. This is not exactly the way they thought a king should enter the world.

There are four of them...which some might find odd. I always thought there were three. The Bible only tells us that "at that same time, shepherds, living in the fields, watching out for their flocks at night..." I think over time, the tradition became three shepherds.

There are four of them here and I noticed that three of them have brought gifts. The other man brought nothing and he also is the quiet one of the bunch. They bow and enter the cave and bring their gifts to Mary and Joseph. I was standing nearby and decide to listen in on the conversation. The first man brought bread, the next brought eggs and cheese, and the third brought wine. The fourth man had no gift and seemed disinterested in the small group that had gathered around Joseph and Mary.

The conversation was polite. "I like how you've fixed this place, Mary”, the one shepherd says, "I never considered actually living in a sheep pen." Another shepherd remarks about how Mary has managed to get the place clean enough for a baby delivery in such a short time. The other man remarks about her health, is she okay and do they need anything? The conversation is pleasant...like what you'd hear at a housewarming or a cookout. “Do you need a job Joseph? Because I know a guy who knows a guy..." "How long will you remain in Bethlehem?"

Time ticks by and not much is actually said. The shepherds fall silent after running out of pleasantries and suddenly one of them, the fat guy who brought the bread, notices another of them is missing. "Where is L'enchante?" He asks. I don't know," replies the eggs and cheese guy.

“L'enchante!" they call out.

But there is no answer. Then in the silence they hear a whispered song coming from a dark corner, away from the oil lamps light. They bring a lamp with them and they see worn boots sticking out from under the makeshift curtain that separated Jesus' little alcove from the rest of the cave. They pull back the curtain and the missing shepherd is there. It is L'enchante, "the enchanted one."

He is holding the baby Jesus to his chest as tears fall from closed eyes. He has a smile on his face that defies description, he is "enchanted” indeed. He rocks back and forth slowly on his knees, in the soft cold mud of the cave floor. He is singing a song softly, as a whisper, under his breath. It is a song of love for his infant-Savior.

"Jesu...Jesu...Jesu...Jesus...Jesus" he is lost in worship and adoration and caught away in love with this wondrous baby-king.

He has forgotten about all of us and this cave and the presents he never thought about bringing. He has only this moment with this child and he is making the most of a chance to love the Son of God, and to let the baby love him back. The baby is smiling as I have never seen a baby smile. There is a connection between them. A flowing back and forth between the Giver of love and a man who really understands how to receive it. He does nothing. He lets Jesus pour his love into his heart and does nothing but reflect it back in worship. This makes Jesus very happy and His tiny face shows it.

We all remain silent as we watch L'enchante loving his Savior, and being loved by Him. L'enchante got it. He came with nothing. He didn't get sidetracked by small talk and nonsense. He felt no sadness or embarrassment for his present state as a smelly shepherd. He didn’t make confession first for any sins he carries inside. He went straight to the baby in the manger and fell on his knees and let the baby do what babies do...love us.

I am dumbfounded. I want that heart for myself. I want to be swept away by the baby in the manger who so deeply desires that I hold Him and love Him and let Him love me.

In that moment, I understand why Jesus came as an infant.

I am 49 years old. I have seen love disappoint and let me down, as we all have. People who were supposed to love forever, without condition, have failed to do so. Each time we try to find it, we run the risk of getting hurt and wounded once again. Love that flows from people to people will always be flawed because we are flawed. It is hard to love each other, plain and simple.

We wonder if the other person is sincere, or if they will endure once they know our faults, or what if they go away once I drop my guard and let them love me? But a baby never poses those risks. Infants are totally free with their love. Babies don't know about our past and they don't care. They don't see us as ugly or sinful, or liberal or conservative. They don't mind our bad hair days or our frumpy clothes. They don't mind the smell of dirty sheep on our robes.

They don't care that I have been homeless and my career and my dreams all went down in flames. They have love to give and they can only give it by being held. They can only receive our love by the same method. Babies must be touched...and then they touch us. Babies scare no one. Babies do not intimidate. Babies have no history, and we have no history with them.

L'enchante understood this and he received the greatest gift on this special night. He instinctively knew that this child only wanted one thing: to love this shepherd.

The shepherd cast aside his pretense and his fear and got lost in the wonder -as his name implies- he was "enchanted" with this baby. He came with nothing, he left with the greatest gift of all.

He is lost in his bliss, at the stable of his affection.

Perhaps this one scene would serve best as a model for me at Christmas. I have come to understand that I need bring nothing to this place. This baby desires no gifts or acts of service. He only desires my heart. He longs for me to sit quietly and rock him in my arms and let Him pour his wondrous love on my aching and wounded soul. He loves it when I have my epiphany moment when I am holding him and it hits me: “This is God! He came here like this for me! He did this so I could get this close to Him”

L’Enchante understood that truth very early on in his experience with this baby and he sets the standard for us as we approach this infant-king. L’Enchante is a true ragamuffin who knows that, more than anyone else, this baby came for ragamuffins.

[The story of L’Enchante has been told for centuries each Christmas in a vanishing culture of a tiny village in the forests of France. This is my adaptation of this old traditional tale.]

-Craig

"A glimpse of God will save you.
To gaze at Him will sanctify you.”
-Manley Beasley                      

Advent Day Seven...Born in a Cave

“While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn…”

I open today's little leather door on the advent calendar and I see...a cave. A cave?

Having grown up with the usual, stable-oriented nativity scene, I never once thought to question its accuracy. It's a 3D version of bumper sticker theology, I suppose, accepting that tradition as fact. But I never had reason to doubt it and to be honest, it doesn't change much about the scandal of this event in history. But for today, it will be explored.

Jesus was not born in a stable as we have been taught. It wasn't somehow warm and welcoming and full of nice clean straw and a smattering of animals gazing lovingly at the infant Son of God. They didn't just come off the set of "Charlotte's Web" and the big sheep wasn't speaking with the voice of Dave Madden. Farm animals are basically spooky and reticent. They don't come and eat out of your hand like a puppy. And they aren't remotely clean.

But the real fact here is that Jesus wasn't born in a stable at all. It was a cave. If you go to Bethlehem they have a cathedral built on the site, but the archaeologists will tell you that it wasn't anything as ornate or beautiful. It was a cave. A hole in a hill with one very low doorway. In those times, shepherds would round up all their sheep at night and run them into a cave. Then they would lie down in the low entryway so no predators could enter without first awakening them. It is the image Jesus presents when he talks about “My sheep hear my voice..." He describes

Himself as the Good Shepherd who lies down in the gate and if the thieves try to break in and lure away the sheep, they must do so by coming in some other way.

Such was the case here. The cave was probably big enough for maybe 30 sheep so it was somewhat roomy for only two people. But it was low, because sheep are small. Mary and Joseph probably could not stand up inside the cave. The doorway was only big enough for a couple of sheep to enter at a time...or one adult who was willing to bow down and probably crawl in on all fours.

It was dark and damp, as caves are. And it certainly hadn't been properly prepared for childbirth. It probably smelled like sheep. Sheep smell terribly because they are a notoriously dirty animal. Their long coats collect everything from everywhere they have been. They need to be sheared twice a year not only for the value of the wool, but because the filth that clings to sheep wool -particularly around certain parts of the sheep- is disgusting. They have bugs. They have lice and ticks. They are sloppy eaters and the little trough that Mary used for a crib was probably a disgusting mess.

Before my daughter was born, her mom went on a cleaning frenzy in our apartment. The place smelled like Clorox and Lysol for about 4 straight months. It's common with pregnant moms-to-be, they call it “nesting” Imagine poor Mary, she is just a teenager of probably no more than

16. She is technically unmarried because the Jewish

custom took a year from betrothal to actual consummation and she had gotten pregnant during that period. They were poor. It took a dream from God Himself to convince her husband that this whole Messiah story was true.

Now she was about to give birth, a scared kid in a strange town under scandalous circumstances, and she finds out only hours before delivery that the place is a disgusting mess. What could she do? We forget sometimes that all the players in this grand plan of redemption were real humans and they felt all the things we feel. Sometimes, because we read about them in Scripture for all of our lives, we remove their humanity. But they were real people.

I remember how scared I was when I found out we were going to be parents. I wanted to be a dad. I looked forward to children, yet when the little test strip turned blue, I was petrified. So was my wife. Why would I think Mary and Joseph were any less?

Most moms have a special bond with their unborn child. Sometimes I have been guilty of removing that emotion from Mary. I see her sometimes as a player in this play and not as a young girl who carried a baby for nine months and felt all the same attachments that all other moms feel.

By this moment in time Mary was in love with her little baby and she was fully engulfed in the nesting thing and I imagine that when she crawled into that cave on her hands and knees and saw a dark, dank, smelly hole in the wall with dirty, soiled straw everywhere and a trough with some stagnant sheep-drooled water laying in it, she must have broken down in tears. “Oh Joseph...we can't have Him here!" she might have said. A poor, meager carpenter, Joseph must have tried to force a smile and convince his young bride that everything would be alright. He probably tried to fix it like a man would and his best efforts only put an exclamation point on how bad this place really was.

Maybe Joseph finally took Mary into his arms and kissed her head and said "I know it's bad...but it's all there is Mary. We have a promise from God and our child will be okay." Maybe as he held her, he hid his own embarrassed tears. I know how he felt.

The really amazing thing here is that this was the place God chose for His son to enter the world stage. This stinking, nasty hole in the side of a hill. This cold, dreary, dark, smelly cave. Probably as far removed from a hospital maternity room as ever could be.

This is where God's great plan of redemption would begin. Why? Why was Jesus born this poor? Why was He so rejected by men that He even had to be born in a cave like this? Why? And why a baby in the first place? Because one glimpse at these humble beginnings and no one can feel threatened by this Savior. He wasn't rich, He wasn't powerful (in the worlds eyes) He wasn't intimidating or daunting. He didn't demand the accolades due Him (Phil 2:5-8). He was a "Man of No Reputation.” He "became nothing" (again, Phil 2:5-8). He wasn't a name-it claim-it carnie huckster selling some promise of riches and wealth as we determine it. He was lowly, broken, and humble. He was frightened. He intimidated nobody. He wanted what all babies want in those first few hours and days, He wanted to receive love, and more than that, He wanted to penetrate our hearts with love as only holding a newborn can do. That is why He came as He did.

To gain access you have to be willing to bow down. Maybe even get on your hands and knees if you are tall like me. There is only one way into this cave and only one way to see this King. There is only one entrance and it requires you to leave everything behind and bow. You won't be impressed by the surroundings. He did that on purpose. When you get here you will feel like a welcome guest because few people will make this journey and come to this humble place. But those that do...those that allow themselves to be humbled at this place will walk away changed to their very core. By a baby in a feed trough, in a cave in Bethlehem.

No room for the Baby in Bethlehem's inn, Only a cattle shed! No room on this earth for the dear Son of God, Nowhere to lay His head…

          Unknown (A child's Christmas Hymn)

The Advent...

[Starting tomorrow, 11/27, I will publish one story from the book each day of Advent until Christmas Eve. Please spread the word. -Craig]

-Advent is a season observed in many Western Christian churches as a time of expectant waiting and preparation for the celebration of the Nativity of Jesus at Christmas. The term is a version of the Latin word meaning "coming".

Latin adventus is the translation of the Greek word parousia, commonly used to refer to the Second Coming of Christ. For Christians, the season of Advent anticipates the coming of Christ from three different perspectives. "Since the time of Bernard of Clairvaux (d.1153) Christians have spoken of the three comings of Christ: in the flesh in Bethlehem, in our hearts daily, and in glory at the end of time." The season offers the opportunity to share in the ancient longing for the coming of the Messiah, and to be alert for his Second Coming. - 

Tomorrow begins Advent.

Seven years ago, right about this time of year, I was having some discussions with my daughter about Christmas and Advent. It was the first year that she no longer believed in Santa Claus. At least not in a physical visit from the old elf. And as it turned out, it was the last year we would do an Advent calendar together.

I used to buy two identical Advent calendars for her. She kept one at my house and one at her mom’s. When she was with me she would open a door each night and we would talk about what lay behind it. When she was at her mom’s. she would do the same, but while on the phone with me. It was one of my favorite traditions and it dated back to my own childhood. I was not raised Catholic or Orthodox, but we had a cardboard Advent Calendar each year. They were magical. Each day drew me one day closer to Christmas. As a child, I didn’t understand the significance of the calendar, or of Advent, but I loved the excitement. I wanted to keep this tradition alive with my own daughter and I managed to do so for ten years.

But Christmas 2009 was different.

I had been homeless for over a year by that point. The previous year was not my year to have her for the holiday anyway so it never became a problem. But 2009 was my turn, and I had nowhere to go. We usually go home to the Philadelphia area for Christmas, but the weeks leading up were always festive at my house and this year that would not be the case. I was homeless. We could not decorate my house. There was nowhere to hang the Advent calendar. And I needed that Advent more that year than ever before.

Adventus.

It means “coming.”

Jesus. The Messiah, He was coming.

The ancient world ached for His arrival. The people of Israel had been hounded and scattered and oppressed for centuries. They were under the Roman thumb as they watched and waited for their Deliverer. When He came, they didn’t recognize Him. He was illegitimate. He was poor. He was from the wrong side of the tracks. His life was greeted with whispers and scandal and outrage. He would spend his days lonely, misunderstood, attacked, beloved, betrayed, and finally murdered. His story would be altogether tragic had it not been for the Resurrection.

But none of that was known in those days leading up to His arrival in Bethlehem. Nobody knew what the future held for this little baby, born in a cave where sheep had been bedding down only hours before. This little boy whose mother claimed she was still a virgin, and that the child’s father was God Himself. This teenaged girl and her loving husband who must have been in turmoil inside. How could he not be? He wasn’t sure about Mary’s story about God being this baby’s father but he knew one thing…he was not. Yet he loved her and so he stayed married to her and decided to be obedient to the angel that bore the message from God, and raise this child as his own.

The world was convulsing and wrestling that night. The Romans had taken control of the region. They were in league with local rulers who cut deals for their own power and advancement. The People of Israel were weary. Mary was almost ready to have this baby. Joseph was poor. The houses were all full. There was only a cave.

Adventus.

He is coming…

He is coming. He is making His way here, to take on flesh and walk among us for thirty-three years. To feel what we feel. To sweat, to weep, to laugh, to teach. To heal and to make whole. Those are two different things. You can heal a wound or an illness. You can make someone whole who isn’t broken on the outside, but on the inside. And He was coming to save us. To save us from the sin that condemned us.

He came to die.

This was God. God in the flesh. Not just any flesh…baby flesh. Tiny, helpless, approachable, unassuming. Had you or I been there that night, and had we somehow wandered into that cave, we might have looked at the teenaged mom and asked, “Mary…could I hold Him?” What if she said “yes?” What if she placed that little form in your arms and you went breathless as he moved gently, and slept as you held Him? What if the whole history of man was laying there wrapped in those rags that night, and you were holding Him? What if you knew the outcome and destiny of His life on the very night it began? Would that change you? Would you be different? Would you view God differently if you could have held Him in your arms when he was a baby?

I think the answer is yes.

Seven years ago, when I was a broken man, homeless, hopeless, bewildered, and under the cruel thumb of an economy that would not relent, I needed an Advent. I needed to anticipate His coming. I needed to be there on that night…the night where history breaks in two as cleanly as a saltine cracker.

Before Him and After Him.

I wrote the first story on November 28, 2009. I wrote one each day thereafter for the entire Advent season that year. They came in spurts. One each day. Each one came so fast I could barely write them down sometimes. Each one oved me deeply and made me think about Jesus at Christmas in ways I never had before.

These stories became a book, “The Ragamuffin’s Christmas.” This year, in a world that needs these stories more than ever, I have decided to publish them again, the way I did that first year. Free on the internet. One each day on my blog. I hope there will be folks out there who need these stories. I hope they find them.

He is coming. He approaches us once again. The Nativity set has been taken from storage, the trees are going up, the music announces His birth. He is, once again…everywhere.

This has been a hard year for me and my daughter, much as it was that first year when these stories were new. I know I need an Advent this year. I hope that, while I am on this journey yet again this season, there will be others who join me. I hope that, come Christmas morning, as I kneel in the manger of my heart, I find myself surrounded by other travelers at this stable. Others who, like me, have been shipwrecked here and found ourselves revived by the cry of a tiny babe.