IT'S CHRISTMAS NIGHT
It's Christmas night. The house is quiet. Even
the crackle is gone from the fireplace. Warm coals issue a lighthouse glow in the darkened den.
Stockings hang empty on the mantle. The tree stands naked in the corner. Christmas cards,
tinsel, and memories remind Christmas night of Christmas day.
It's Christmas night. What a day it has been! Spiced tea. Santa Claus. Cranberry sauce.
"Thank you, so much." "You shouldn't have!" "Grandma is on the phone." Knee-deep wrapping
paper. "It just fits." Flashing cameras. It's Christmas night. The girls are in bed. Jenna dreams of her talking Big
Bird and clutches her new purse. Andrea sleeps in her new Santa pajamas. It's Christmas night. The
tree that only yesterday grew from soil made of gifts, again grows from the Christmas tree stand. Presents
are now possessions. Wrapping paper is bagged and in the dumpsite. The dishes are washed and
leftover turkey awaits next week's sandwiches.
It's Christmas night. The last of the carolers
appeared on the ten o'clock news. The last of the apple pie was eaten by my brother-in-law.
And the last of the Christmas albums have been stored away having dutifully performed their annual
rendition of chestnuts, white Christmases, and red-nosed reindeer.
It's Christmas night.
The midnight hour has chimed and I should be asleep, but I'm awake. I'm kept awake by
one stunning thought. The world was different this week. It was temporarily transformed. The magical
dust of Christmas glittered on the cheeks of humanity ever so briefly, reminding us of what is worth having
and what we were intended to be. We forgot our compulsion with winning, wooing, and warring. We put
away our ladders and ledgers, we hung up our stop watches and weapons. We stepped off our racetracks
and roller coasters and looked outward toward the star of Bethlehem.
It's the season to be jolly because, more than at any other time, we think of him. More than in any
other season, his name is on our lips. And the result? For a few precious hours our heavenly yearnings
intermesh and we become a chorus. A ragtag chorus of longshoremen, Boston lawyers, illegal
immigrants, housewives, and a thousand other peculiar persons who are banking that Bethlehem's
mystery is in reality, a reality. "Come and behold him" we sing, stirring even the sleepiest of shepherds
and pointing them toward the Christ-child.
For a few precious hours, he is beheld. Christ the
Lord. Those who pass the year without seeing him, suddenly see him. People who have been accustomed
to using his name in vain, pause to use it in praise. Eyes, now free of the blinders of self, marvel at his
majesty. All of a sudden he's everywhere. In the grin of the policeman as he drives his paddy wagon
full of presents to the orphanage.
In the twinkle in the eyes of the Taiwanese waiter as he tells of his upcoming Christmas trip to see
his children. In the emotion of the father who is too thankful to finish the dinner table prayer. He's in the
tears of the mother as she welcomes home her son from overseas. He's in the heart of the man who
spent Christmas morning on skid row giving away cold baloney sandwiches and warm wishes. And he's
in the solemn silence of the crowd of shopping mall shoppers as the elementary school chorus sings
"Away in a Manger." Emmanuel. He is with us. God came near.
It's Christmas night. In a few hours the cleanup will begin -- lights will come down, trees will be thrown
out. Size 36 will be exchanged for size 40, eggnog will be on sale for half-price. Soon life will be
normal again. December's generosity will become January's payments
and the magic will begin to fade. But for the moment, the magic is still in the air. Maybe that's why I'm still
awake. I want to savor the spirit just a bit more. I want to pray that those who beheld him today will look for
him next August. And I can't help but linger on one fanciful thought: if he can do so much with such timid
prayers lamely offered in December, how much more could he do if we thought of him every day?