| Sunny Side Up Dec. 24, 2002 �2002, Kathleen Gibson Come to the stable�Messiah waits Several years ago, as a Christmas gift to myself, I memorized the Nativity account in Luke 2. I haven�t been the same since. I�ve seen images I haven�t seen since a child. My ears are tuned to hear ecstatic praise in the night sky. I listen for echoes�the pounding of the shepherds� hearts, the thunder of their racing feet. I smell earthy animal scents, and feel again the fresh down of an infant�s silky hair under my wondering hand. Come with me. We�re standing in a stable. The air is ripe with the stench of fresh manure, the fragrance of unfettered hay. On a beam overhead, a mangy cat paces, eyed warily by a grizzled she-goat off to one side. A young girl with disheveled hair is leaning over a splintered, crooked manger. A far older man is fussing over her, telling her to �lie down and rest now.� But our ears are filled with echoes. �Fear not�Good tidings�Unto you� a Savior...Christ the Lord!� and we must look in there, to see if the angels were right. We step nearer, a little too close, a little too quickly. The man starts forward, protecting whatever�s in the bottom of that tottering manger, but the girl smiles at us and holds him back with a small work-chapped hand. She still has freckles. Good grief, she should be home helping her mother collect eggs from under the hens in the henhouse! But she beckons, leans over, bends low. Standing now, her hands are no longer empty. Her eyes are twin ponds of joy�her whole face an unearthly combination of unashamed pride and naked vulnerability. Is that a bundle of rags? Impossible. Surely no rag bundle would be so carefully arranged, held so reverently, offered so eagerly. We can refuse to look, you and I. Turn our backs and walk away from whatever is in those cloths. Go home, tell everyone it was a hallucination, a dream, a hoax�a legend. Criticize, come up with a better Christmas story. A red and green one, with a fat man, eight flying reindeer and a few chimneys. No angels, No manger. Definitely no baby. We never saw him, after all. We�re wiser now, more cynical. But as the young girl extends her swaddled bundle, we step forward. I don�t know about you, but there�s a reef knot in the pit of my stomach, and my hands are trembling. I�m so eager to see if the angels were right, so afraid they may have been wrong. As we hesitate, the package makes a sound like the cooing of mourning doves. The cloths move. A tiny, perfect hand, fingers spread wide, pushes though the folds, gropes the air and grasps my pointing finger. And I will never be the same. There�s only one thing left to do. Because it�s no good holding the Messiah, if I don�t first let him hold me. So I do it. Kneel. Worship. Invite him to run my life. And you? If this column inspired thoughts of your own, email [email protected] |
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