A night of hope

This year, for our annual fancy, dancy holiday gala at my church, I was honored to be asked to write a little something that went with the theme of "a night of hope".  After much prayer and gallons of Starbucks coffee, this is what the Lord gave me.  I hope you enjoy it during this season of remembrance of the birth of our savior.

Brightly colored decorations twinkle and shine, weaving a magical world of wonder designed to overwhelm the senses.  The little girl, in her very best dress, stands at the foot of the tree and gazes up, mesmerized.  The bounce in her step matches the bounce of her curls pulled up in a fancy bow, as she explores the bounty of gaily wrapped packages beneath the beautiful evergreen.  She hopes, oh, yes, how she hopes, for so many things; a new doll, a new dress, a pair of roller skates, and how, she wonders, will mommy and daddy fit that pony under the tree?  She hopes her stocking will be filled with delicious treats and she hopes she gets to them before her brother does! She looks forward to the gathering together of all her family, her cousins, her aunts, her uncles, her grandparents.  She only hopes her great aunt Polly doesn’t insist on pinching her cheeks again.  With a head full of notions of parties and ponies she wanders through holiday dreams, secure in the knowing that mommy and daddy love her and, for her, life is as good as it seems.  Buried in her little heart, like the seed of a fragrant flower, resides a desire which is beyond her ability to articulate, even to know.  The longing for something more, for something she has no knowledge of, was planted there by her heavenly father before she was even born.  It is the desire for Him and the hope only he can bring.

The tacky tinsel and faded decorations made by her own hands when they were so much smaller do nothing to delight the eyes of the teenager. With her tight jeans, short spikey hair and bored expression, she is the epitome of teenage angst under a veneer of polite, yet predictable, rebellion.  No time and no patience for her extended family, she is only present till the first possibility of escape should present itself. Far beyond the hope of new toys and candy, her Christmas fantasy includes a call from the guy who sits behind her in math class, a place on the student council, a date for the prom.  She hopes, under that tired bedraggled tree to find the latest fashions to catapult her into the height of popularity and garner her attention from her peers.  She hopes her aunt can control her boyfriend with his groping hands and unwanted attention.  She hopes she can, somehow, survive another holiday dinner with this family she was born into.  But in the deepest part of her heart where no one sees and no one know what goes on, she hopes someone acknowledges her, really sees her.  She longs to have her young heart known and accepted, cultivated and loved.  She longs for adventure and passion, but these are not the sort of things to be found wrapped and placed beneath a tree.  Even at her age she knows that truth.

It’s hot in the kitchen.  The steam from the stove top condenses as it hits the windows, cold from the outside air, causing them to fog over completely.  Pushing her bangs back with a flour covered hand, she is lost in her own kitchen world with seemingly no input from the outside, but such is the place of a mom. The simple delight in the season is crowded out by the list of endless things still to be accomplished. It hangs over her head like a vulture circling;  pies to be baked, cookies to be frosted, potatoes to be mashed and kids to be run out of the way. If she stops and thinks about it, she can remember a time when things were different; when the joy of this time of year still over flowed. That was before so many kids and bills, before she was the one everyone else looked to to make everything right.  Now, she just hopes this evening passes with not too much trouble.  She hopes her kids are satisfied with their gifts.  She hopes the turkey is not too dry.  She hopes Uncle Jack doesn’t get drunk again, there’s not too much arguing, the boys don’t kill each other and it all passes quickly.  She hopes, this year, there’s no bloodshed, no broken bones, no broken toys or teeth and everyone leaves with the same body parts they came with!  For the most part, she simply hopes to get through it, to survive it.  But look deep into her heart and you will find another hope, one so long buried, so long ignored, it is barely hanging on to life.  The heartbeat of this hope is ever slowing as it gasps for air.  It waits for someone to rescue it, to bring it back to health.  It is the hope of something so much more than what surrounds her.  It is the hope born into her soul when she first heard the call of the Father.  A longing for reconciliation, for unconditional love, it has been starved by the mundane trappings of an average existence.  Yet, it remains.  Her heart hungers still; hungers for peace, for purpose.  She longs for more than her husband and her children can give her.  She longs for more excitement than can be found in the carpool lane.  She hopes for a heavenly father who looks at her and sees more than a mom, who sees her heart and is delighted.  It is a frail thing, but hope lingers still in her heart of hearts and it calls to the one who put it there. 

The house is quiet, the kids are gone home.  The grandkid’s handmade decorations, covered so unevenly with glitter, adorn the fridge.  She is left alone with her thoughts, with her memories.  She misses her husband, she misses the frenzy of activity that once accompanied this time of year.  She finds herself going back in her mind to years gone by and as she visits each memory she prays for each loved one.  She hopes this year goes well for her children, and her children’s children.  She hopes her granddaughter navigates these teen years without sowing too many wild oats.  She hopes her smallest granddaughter continues in the light and the joy in which she now lives her life.  She hopes her daughter can somehow find a way to find herself and her God amidst the chaos that is her life.  She hopes for so many things.  Deep in her heart there is a hope for reunion, for connection, for a full knowledge of her Father.  She revels in the love He lavishes on her while at the same time knowing it’s depths are endless and she longs for even more.  In the dark of the night, when the house is silent and no one else is around, He comes and he answers her hope.

The weariness threatens to overtake her.  Unconsciousness flits around her like a stubborn, annoying fly, just out of reach.  The rough hide of the small donkey chaffs her skin as her body, swollen with child, feels every bump, every stumble on the uneven ground.  For hours, for days she has been trapped in this haze, relegated to this journey.  “Why, God?” she asks.  “Why now, when this child is so close to his birth?”   She hopes it is over soon. She hopes they are near to stopping and that she is still able to walk when they do.  She hopes they can find a room as she knows the event she’s waited 9 long months for, is imminent. That is one hope that will not be fulfilled on this first Christmas night.  When, finally she reaches her destination it is not a comfortable room in an inn where she is afforded privacy for this most sacred occurrence, but simply the stable out back, a hollowed out cavern in the rock where the animals seek shelter. There is no midwife present to guide her through the pain, the fear.  She is attended simply by the scared young man she calls her husband.  When her labor is fulfilled and nature takes over, the child is birthed into the squalor of her surroundings.  As she gazes in wonder at the tiny miracle she holds in her arms, the enormity of her joy threatens to overwhelm her.  For in this moment, for this time, it’s not the maker of the universe she holds wrapped in swaddling clothes, but her baby; the infant she has nurtured, protected and carried in her womb for the long days before birth.   She hopes she is a good mother. She hopes she can protect and provide for this wee one.  She hopes he grows up happy and healthy, loved and accepted.  In this moment, she simply hopes for all the things every new mother hopes for when she gazes at her newborn.  In all of her longing, in all of her hoping, she has little idea she holds in her arms the hope of the world, the answer to every longing in the depth of every heart who seeks the Father.  So she holds, she rocks, she nurses, she comforts the very author of hope on this first Christmas.  Unseen to her, just across the boundaries that separate this world from the unseen world of the child’s first home, the angels sing, the Father rejoices, and all of heaven is held in awe. 

There was no hesitation in his heart when the father sent his only son to be born of a virgin.  Sin had crafted so great a chasm between him and his beloved children.  So great was his longing to be reunited he gladly set into motion the plan that had existed from the foundations of the earth; a plan of reconciliation, a plan of healing, a plan of extraordinary love.

To this day, our father longs for relationship with us through his son; that same lamb born so long ago, birthed to fulfill the plan of redemption, the plan of hope, crafted by God before time began.  He did it for you, he did it for me.   He is our hope, we are his prize.