23 December, 2010

We turn Christmas into one more day to survive, to check off the calendar, to hastily throw together in a rushing blaze of lights and plastic and then just as frantically tear down again until next year.

You came into our troubled existence without the aid of this show to announce Your arrival. All You needed were the beating of wings in the night sky over lonely fields - the joyful voice of a holy host - the rays of a star. You bound up Your story in these things that we will never, ever be able to re-create or out-do.

I would have liked to be in that field on that night, because I am not very good at finding You in stillness. My life is filled with noise - it is built of the lights and the plastic - it is resounding with the songs and the laughter and the empty talk that keep my mind safe from the truth of my need. I am not good at hearing You, noticing You, looking at You closely and learning from what You have to say. Two thousand years ago You came to us in silence and in solitude. Perhaps in a world free of so much static I, too, would have noticed only You and dropped everything I had to go follow You. Help me to find You today in the humble wrappings of sunlight through my window, a sister's tears of empathy, candles like stars at my bedside, embraces from my father, laughter from my mother, the scent of rosemary, the feel of a new book waiting to be read, generosity I have not earned. These are the things that cannot be torn down each year. They will always be, and so I know that in them I will always find You.

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