It is Christmas Eve. And I am thinking of Ukraine. On this night of nights many of them wrap up in the cold will put on as much as they can walk in. They hold their children’s hands. The old with their canes and make-shift wheelchairs are there to. Slowly they make their way through their battered streets. The pot holes are everywhere. There is no electricity.
They find their way to what is left of their church. It’s cold there too. Two of the stained glass window have been shattered. Dust covers most of the seats. The benches are hard and cold. The church is lit by candlelight.
And they keep coming. The old. The grievers. Those still bearing their scars. And up front there is the Priest in his tattered robes. There is even a make shift choir.
And so the old drama begins yet again. Why do they come on this cold Christmas Eve? The old story they’ve heard before—many times. They know the Scriptures almost by heart. They sing from memory or what is left of tattered hymn books.
Why do they come. Because in their desperation they hope there will be something in this scarred battered place that they can hold on to. They come knowing there is no other place to go. There are lumps in their throats. There are tears everywhere. But never mind this old story of stars and pregnant women and shepherds barely eking out a living. They understand that cold barn.There is a makeshift feeding trough that holds a child. They hear that once upon a time an angel came—maybe a chorus of angels singing their hearts out.
And they will soon turn and leave. For a brief moment they forgot the hunger and their makeshift rooms and the terrible dark and cold. And they will remember the words of the priest. The old story and look around at their brothers and sisters tied together by fear ands pain and injustice. And somehow they know as hard as this Christmas is they will make it. They hear “the people in darkness have seen a great light…”and that other word they pray for daily: peace a strange peace that passes all understanding.
And we come too, don’t we. Dressed in our finery we bring with us our scars and wounds. We come maybe just to see the drama and the huge lighted Chrismon tree and the Advent wreath. The squirming children will come and some wag will look around and stare at a snubbing child. And the room is crowded to hear story we know be heart. Someone might sing O Holy Night.”And we will stand and sing “Silent Night.”
We will leave and drive back to beautiful trees and turkey and dressing and the presents. They are everywhere. But as it ends and we slip into bed we just might remember that what those scruffy shepherds found. Words we will tell tell our children and grand children over and over year after year. Knowing the light shines in our fearful darkness and the darkness, however strong, can never, ever put it out.
Maybe this is why they and we come.
--Roger Lovette / roogerlovette.blogspot.com
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