My
identity is not important—age, gender, or ethnicity. The year and circumstances make little
difference either, other than to know it was a cold Christmas night when this
miracle occurred in my life. And though
the memories are distinctly mine, vivid and unforgettable as if years had never
passed since their transpiring, I sincerely hope through this retelling of
events you will acquire every thread of understanding I gained in a remarkable
moment of truth.
It
was cold enough to snow, yet warm enough to melt every flake that touched the
ground. I sat outside on my front porch,
bundled in the warmest wrap I could find.
Inside, the sounds of merriment tickled my ears—a celebration of
Christmas among friends and family. I
was missing their exchange of homemade gifts, having put no thought or effort
into the task. Christmas didn’t thrill
me like it seemed to for so many others.
And as I sat in the darkness staring up at the twinkling aura of a
particularly bright star, I wondered for what reason exactly this holiday
existed.
I
pulled the wrap more snugly around my shoulders while contemplating a string of
traditions practiced yearly at this time.
What was the big deal about observing silly rituals? Why the extra jollity and efforts this time
of year?
What
was Christmas all about?
I’m
not sure how to explain what happened next, only that everything seemed quite
natural in its occurrence. The shimmering
star that had locked my eyes upon it—a celestial light I knew to exist far, far
from my world—suddenly changed perspective, appearing within my sight as if it
hovered above me at an arms throw. I
blinked a number of times thinking my focus would return to normal and the star
would once again hang sensibly in the heavens.
Instead, every flitter of my lashes produced a change in the star that
revealed with decreasing brightness a male figure centered within the light. He was beautiful beyond description—white,
radiant, and smiling down upon me. The thought occurred that I had passed on to the
afterlife. Perhaps unawares to my
conscious self, I had frozen in the cold and suffered death. Was this radiant being God?
The
man’s smile broadened as if he found amusement in my thoughts, and I worried he
could actually read them. Anxiety made
me sink lower, pulling the woolen wrap up over my hair. The blanket warmed me, and so I doubted I was
dead.
“Fear
not,” the man said in the softest voice ever to caress my ears. “Your prayer has been heard.” I assumed then he was an angel. To think God would personally come for me was
a highly vain notion.
The
smiling messenger reached out his hand, and I stared at it, wondering how light
appeared to radiate from every inch of his skin. It turned out he stood even closer to me than
I had first perceived. I blinked again,
disturbed by the way distance seemed an incalculable thing in my eyes.
“Fear
not,” he repeated. “Take my hand.”
Stunned
by all the unusualness there was to perceive, I asked, “You heard my
prayer?” My forehead tightened at the
idea. I didn’t recall offering a prayer.
Suddenly,
his radiant palm was pressed against my chest.
“In here,” the angel explained. “He
knows all your heart’s desires.”
I
wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to the glowing touch of an angel or the
knowledge that God actually knew me, but a warmth beyond any physical source
consumed my chest. All my fears
dissipated.
Again
a hand was extended to me in offer, and I took hold.
As
inept as I had proven myself at perceiving distances, it seemed time and travel
also elected to bewilder my senses. For
I knew we were in motion, and yet my discernment was of the world revolving
around me and my heavenly guide. A
whirlwind of chaos encircled us, slowing within a blink to a nighttime
sky. I noticed one difference among the
stars—a brighter light shone above the others, penetrating the darkness more
effectively than any star I had ever witnessed.
“Christmas,”
the angel breathed, following my gaze upward.
“This
is Christmas?” I wondered. “Is this what
Christmas is about? A star?”
The
angel smiled. “Not entirely.” He continued to look up.
“Is
it about Heaven?” I asked, broadening my guess.
He
flickered a glance at me with his beautiful, bright eyes. “Not entirely.”
I
watched him as he watched the heavens, the two of us still holding hands, for I
was afraid if I attempted to sever our bond I might fall to the ground which we
presently hovered above. It wasn’t my
intent to gawk at him, but withdrawing my eyes proved a difficult thing until
something more amazing than a celestial companion lured my focus skyward
again.
Singing,
rich and harmonic and penetrating, affected me first. Such beautiful carols I had never heard
before. As my eyes swept across a choir
of angels, I held my breath in awe. They
were singing hymns of joyous praise.
Carols of a newborn king—the Christ child.
I
listened silently, my heart affected so profoundly as to bring tears to my
eyes. The whole time my guide squeezed my
hand, beaming. It wasn’t until the choir
began to fade that I noticed a meager audience of sheep and shepherds gathered
beneath them, witnessing what I saw.
Then
we were all at once standing among the shepherds, mingled in their numbers as
if we belonged with them. I could
understand their acceptance of me, being wrapped in a woolen blanket that
resembled their draped attire, but I knew not why my companion received no
incredulous looks. Perhaps because of
the messenger angel above?
“Fear
not. For behold I bring you good tidings
of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is
Christ the Lord. And this shall be a
sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a
manger.”
After
a final chorus of praise, the angels went away.
I was sad to see them go, to have their inspiring music no longer
permeating the atmosphere. Naturally, I
sighed at such a stark loss.
My
glorious companion sighed likewise.
“Ahhh, Christmas.”
I
nodded. “Is this what Christmas is about? Singing carols and songs of heavenly praise?”
The
angel smiled kindly at me. “Not
entirely.”
“Is
it about the message then? Is Christmas
about heralding Christ’s birth?”
I
was given another patient smile. “Not
entirely.”
We
separated from the shepherds, our feet touching the ground now, taking steps on
a dirt road. I felt secure enough to let
go of my companion’s hand. He released
my fingers readily. Our walk remained
quiet; hushed but for the nocturnal sounds of herding country. I pondered the things that had transpired—the
message delivered by heavenly hosts to humble, poor shepherds willing and ready
to hear. This was the first
Christmas. This was Christ’s birthday. What else would Christmas be about if not
Him?
I
had taken a few steps beyond my angel guide when I realized he was no longer at
my side. Turning back, my eyes opened
up, aroused from my deep, inner reflecting.
We were standing in the shadows of a lowly stable. Stone, wood, and straw were arranged as
shelter for docile animals. A small
light shone from within, sustained by a single candle. I squinted to make out two silhouettes that
appeared joined. Mother and baby.
I
couldn’t help but ask, whispering, “Is it Him?”
The
angel nodded, his smile tempered by reverence.
“This
is the first Christmas,” I said, making sure my understanding of events was
correct.
The
angel nodded again, concentrating on the newborn child.
“Christmas
is about the baby, Jesus.” I declared.
The
angel’s smile reappeared as a result of my certainty. “Not entirely.”
I
crumpled my brow, frustrated, but a large shadow distracted my attention,
appearing from the back of the stable. A
man approached and knelt beside the mother and child. His arm fell gently around the woman, his free
hand careful to cup the baby’s head. He
leaned in to kiss his wife. The picture
touched my heart.
“Is
Christmas about family?” I asked.
I
mouthed the echoed response. “Not
entirely.”
My
eyes flickered from the forms beside a manger to my companion. It was strange that his brilliance didn’t
light the darkness within the stable.
But what hadn’t proved strange
thus far? I was about to question his
definition of “entirely” when
the scuffing of collected footfall caught my ear. I twisted my neck to find strangers
approaching—shepherds in rags and sandals followed by men garbed in finer,
richer fabrics.
“The
wise men?” I guessed.
My
companion nodded.
I
watched as the visitors cautiously approached, waiting for permission from the
stable’s occupants to come close enough to witness the Christ child. I wanted a closer look myself and followed
the others across a carpet of strewn straw.
I watched the wise men kneel to place gifts at the mother’s feet. She appeared truly grateful.
“Is
Christmas about gifts?” I asked. It was
a holiday tradition spanning the ages, to be sure.
“Not
entirely.”
The
mother, a pretty young woman, held up her baby for all to see. His features were glowing in the
candlelight. He was asleep. Adorable.
He appeared so tiny and fragile, snuggly wrapped in a single
blanket.
“He
came to save the world,” the angel told me.
“To suffer and die for all of us.”
I
nodded, aware of the truth.
“Is
that what Christmas is about?” I asked.
“Christ’s purpose? His suffering
and death?”
There
was no smile on the angel’s face when he turned to me, only gravity in his
eyes. “Not entirely.”
I
sighed. What in the world was Christmas
about then? I thought of the few
Christmases I had celebrated in my own lifetime—gathered around family, singing
carols, exchanging gifts, retelling the story of our Savior’s humble birth,
rehearsing by heart the angel’s tidings of joy to the shepherds. Was this not what Christmas was about?
When
the others stepped back, I knelt before the new mother, questioning her with my
eyes as to whether or not it would be okay to touch her child. She smiled with understanding and held him
out to me, offering the chance to cradle the babe in my arms. I couldn’t make myself do it. To hold my savior was a privilege I was
unworthy to accept. I yearned, though,
to at least touch him. With a trembling
reach, I let my hand fall gently against his cheek, so soft and warm. I feared for a moment my touch might be too
cold, but the baby stirred and turned his face toward me, his little nose
nuzzling in my palm. I exhaled raggedly
and chuckled at this. My breathing
stopped entirely when his eyes opened up.
He
looked right at me.
I
couldn’t turn away, even when my sight blurred with tears. His tiny fingers moved to wrap around my one,
clasping on. Behind him, I caught his
mother’s smile as she assured me, “He loves you.”
I
bawled like a baby at her words because I knew they were true. His life, his actions—they proved it to be
so.
It
took some time to regain my composure before I could speak again. My companion waited patiently for my eyes to
dry. He was nodding before I even asked
the question.
“Is
Christmas about love?”
“It
is.”
As
my angel guide departed to take his place in the heavens, I found myself once
again seated on the porch outside my own house.
I looked up in time to catch a shooting star. The laughter of friends and family carried to
me from inside. Rising to go join them
(wondering what the chances were they would believe my miraculous story) I
heard the truth proclaimed in the quietest, piercing voice. Words of a loving Father. Words I resolved that very Christmas night to
forever abide.
“For
I so loved the world that I gave my only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth
in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. Love one another, even as I have loved you.”
