Breath of heaven, hold me together, be forever near me, breath of heaven. Breath of heaven, lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy.
Sometimes God comes quietly, gently, peacefully. Sometimes He reaches out and brushes the tears from your cheek with the slightest touch of his hand in a whisper that breathes to your heart that you are strong enough to survive your storm, that you will be okay. But sometimes, well, sometimes there is no whisper of a touch, no whisper to your heart, and you are left wondering. You are left hurting.
Fall on your knees. Oh, hear the angel voices. Oh, night divine. Oh, night, when Christ was born. Oh, night divine. Oh, night divine.
Then we shuffle forward, muddling along in our fog of complexity, under our own steam until the factures appear at our fault lines, tiny at first, then spreading into canyons until we are ready to admit that we cannot do this one more second. And we fall on our knees. Then we are ready – ready for that Love which created us, that Love that watched us struggle, that Love that cried with us, and now that Love which will heal us.
Mary, did you know that your baby boy would one day walk on water? Mary, did you know that your baby boy would save our sons and daughters? Did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new? This child that you delivered will soon deliver you.
Last night, I arrived a wee bit too late to get a “good” seat for my church’s Christmas Eve service. As I am late for everything, this was not a surprise. You’ll see in a moment that this bad behavior was simply reinforced yesterday evening; thank you, God. Instead, my family and I grabbed the traditional tiny white candles off the lobby tables, wandered to the back of the sanctuary, and crowded into a long pew with a warm-hearted lady from my book club. We settled in as the band started with the first carol, and my nephews waved their as of yet unlit candles around in the air, stirred on the pews and asked if they got to play with fire yet. (I adore those boys!)
Silent night, holy night. Son of God, love’s pure light. Radiant beams from Thy holy face. With the dawn of redeeming grace.
I watched from my seat in the back of the church as the packed sanctuary breathed as one, a family becoming one body, God’s body, even just for this one evening. I enjoyed the babies’ fussing, the little children’s whispering, the papers rustling, and I thrilled at the miracle of this moment, this coming together. Then our pastor spoke about hope and faith and Love as man, and then it was time to play with fire. Our pastor then did something beautiful: he invited those whose lives had been radically changed by Christ this year forward to light their candles and then move through our congregation spreading their light – God’s light – and life – in them. As I watched, this handful of tiny flames moved slowly one by one, person by person, until the church was bathed by the soft glow of candlelight. Tears flooded my eyes because I thought, this is how Love works, touching one life and spreading by a flicker of flame. And I blessed God for my perfect, absolutely, exactly right-for-me seat in the back.
How beautiful, how precious the Savior of old, to love so completely the loneliest soul. How gently, how tenderly he says to one and all, “Child, you can follow me, and I will lead you home. Trust Me and follow Me, and I will lead you home.”
I offered a prayer of thanksgiving for each light, for each soul brought to the end of itself this year, brought to its knees, brought to our Lord. If I am honest here, I was one of those souls (yet, again) though I did not go forward. It could be the restrained Southern part of my DNA, I can’t say for sure, though I recognized the pulse of hope as each light reached for someone else, offering His gentle presence, moving in our lives, moving through our lives. And I blinked back my tears and held my candle toward my little nephew to light from his own. I smiled as I recognized the light for what it was – Love reaching for me.
Gloria in Excelsis Deo.
The Unexpected Life 