I keep going there. To the little town of Bethlehem--the silent night when love came down.
Words of hope and wonder are accompanied by beautiful harmony--music of the season. A tiny babe swaddled in a manger--Joy to the world, the Lord has come! The lyrics and melodies create an image of awe, conjuring the event of Jesus' birth as something magical--a present wrapped-up with a bow.
Is it because we prefer a pretty illusion as apposed to the reality that brings unpleasant yet holy Truth?
The birth of my Lord is nothing short of miraculous and holy. But I keep going there--to the reality of it all.
Was the night truly silent?
I flash to the birth of my child. Having had no medications, I labored in pain that paralyzed my senses. Bearing down through contractions I pushed. Screams that broke all silence bellowed from my core. Through torn flesh, abundant fluid, blood, sweat, exhaustion, and pain--a child was born. Taking her first breath of air she cried. I was 25 years old.
Mary labored on a bed of dirty straw. Instead of nurses at her side, filthy animals. She screamed and bled. And then the Lord Jesus breathed and cried. Mary was 14 or 15.
As the anticipation of Christmas draws near--the birth of our King-- I go there. He was sent to us fully God and yet fully human--He was born, Mary labored. Not silent--still Holy.