FIRST LESSON
Luke 2:1-20
And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a
decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.
(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor
of Syria.)
And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David,
which is called Bethlehem;
(because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with
child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were
accomplished that she should be delivered.
And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in
swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them
in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the
field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory
of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring
you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is
Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe
wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the
heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will
toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them
into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto
Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made
known unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and
the babe lying in a manger.
And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying
which was told them concerning this child.
And all they that heard it wondered at those things which
were told them by the shepherds.
But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her
heart.
And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for
all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.
***
There is a magic in December. I woke to snow that had
already piled on the empty branches outside my bedroom window, and as I watched
the day pass from lighter to darker shades of gray, and the glow of my lit tree
become stronger respectively, I noticed, three times someone had shoveled my
walk.
The first shoveler remains unknown, their scrapping of
sidewalk, an equally silent surprise as the snow falling and accumulating
overnight, and I, gifted like a child to a White Christmas without the chores
of an adult.
The the second shoveler was unknown to me, but clearly
older, and perhaps older than should be shoveling, but with his age - that
kindness and duty as I have witnessed in old men, who, upon finding out I am
alone, treat me as a granddaughter. From my spot between hearth and tree, I
spied his shovel and glimpsed grey hair peeking out the back of his cap.
Instantly, I felt ashamed that I was inside instead. I withdrew, wanting to lay
flat, unable to to face the older man’s shoveling grace. From my hiding spot, I
wondered if it was the man who stopped his car when a week ago, I was shoveling
the widow’s walk and my own. “Was it you that shoveled mine?” He asked. “No,
Sir.” I said, and introduced myself. I wondered, was this his gift returned in
kind for my shoveling hers, or was he paying it forward for the one who
shoveled his? No matter, my walk had been done more times than I could count,
and more times than I have done another’s, and I felt a shame in that. But,
perhaps, his shoveling wasn't about keeping tabs, or my harboring guilt.
Perhaps it was about freely giving.
As the day darkened to dusk, and the flurries continued -
filtering light toward a haze of peach that solidified sunset and snow into a
true gloaming, I looked outside, and there in clarity of nearness was Cody, the
neighbor kid, the shovel over half his height, but he doubled in energy and
quickness. I jumped up, and opened the front door and shouted, “Thank you,
Cody!”
Back in the shadow of indoors, I checked my wallet. Only a
couple dollars, and had it of been more, his gesture still would have seemed
cheapened in the exchange. I went to my quickly diminishing stash of dried
fruit, then pulling on my boots without time for a jacket, I hurried outside
after him - shovel over shoulder walking toward his home in the lessening
light, “Cody.” He turned and my steps lengthened further and arm reached, “I
don't have any cash, but your mom says you like these, the pear things,” and
then he smiled, as kids do when they are old enough to shovel snow but not so
old that gifts have lost their grander. Walking the paces back toward my door I
was warm, and dazed, and exhausted, as if after a race. The handle clicked
shut, and just as instantly, I crumbled hunched over. Tears welled my eyes and
in my heart I pondered why.
I wonder, if these are the things Mary pondered in her
heart. I wonder, if when she wasn’t looking, someone shoveled out the stable,
not once, but the confounding, humbling grace of three times.
Perhaps the first time, in the morning, on the day, of the
eve, of her son’s birth, she woke to a winter’s snow of fresh hay, everything scrapped
clean, and piled new again, the flakes of dust particles still stirring and
swirling through the stable-crack’s beams of light, and she with an equal
restlessness, attempted to settle in on the straw, spreading its fresh bedding,
like plumping a pillow of down.
By midday the sun had warmed the stable and with it came the
distinct scent of livestock, part dirt on sweat, part straw rubbed into strands
of hair, an earthly balm like the fragrance from a fresh Douglas Fir. From past
their swing backs and soft translucence of ears Mary glimpsed a second
shoveler. He was a stranger, and from beneath the fabric of his head scarf Mary
could see the curled gray of his hair. She wondered was he was one those
grandfatherly men, who upon seeing her swung back and brimming belly and
finding her alone, went the extra mile to show care. Yet, having walked, with
child, the distance from Baker to Pendleton, clearing and cleaning the stall
was something of which she was entirely capable. Perhaps she felt badly for not,
and sunk with shame into the deeply shadowed light. Waiting, she wished Joseph
had returned from the registration, the favor seeming less if done by family,
rather than someone unfamiliar. Surely, she thought, this was not a gift in
kind, for something which she had done, or something she would do. Yet,
maybe the older man’s gift wasn’t about family, or friendship, or paying back,
but instead was the kindness of strangers in a foreign land.
As the day was darkening, Mary was comfortably settled
inside, as if by a fire with the glow of holiday lights. Watching the window’s
fading day, she again heard the sound of shovel scrape. Who this time? Looking
up she glanced the Inn Keeper’s son, shovel over half his height, cheeks warmed
and bright. And there in the comfort of familiarity and the gift of third
chances, she hopped up belly and all, and glided over to the door and shouting
almost before it opened, “Thank you!”
Back inside, she looked around, at the little she had, and
knew none of it seemed quite right, that his wasn’t a gift given for payment.
Maybe then she knew, for sure, and looking unto herself, she pulled on her
boots by the door, and sans jacket hurried out into the dimming light, to
welcome him in, to welcome them all. And as they came, the boy, the old man,
the shepherds and the wisemen, Joseph and the Inn Keeper, the sheep and all the
animals, and the strangers of this foreign land like neighbors from back home,
and all those who were nameless and silent as flakes of snow, as they came, she
knelt down, and swaddled him with simple bands of cloth, and laid him in the
manger, a gift freely given.
