Christmas Comes ‘Round

(This is a work of fiction, but one that captures what many of us likely feel this season around this time…)

The morning’s expectation of a simple holiday shopping trip with family grew dim and distant in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon.

Browsing gave way to strategy as the casual opportunity to gather a few gifts turned into a full-blown expedition. An anticipated stroll from shop to shop was now a long, hard march through our small town’s annual Christmas market.

Lest you label me as a scrooge, there is great joy in the togetherness of family, to be certain. And with each checkmark next to a name on the list came a growing sense of accomplishment. Moreover, the atmosphere of the day was wonderfully festive – full of music, food, laughter, and reconnecting with old friends.

But beyond the tinsel and carols, past the twinkling lights and closely held traditions, lay a longing for some stillness in the hustle and bustle.  

We joined the current of the crowd as they moved from the sidewalk and through the doors of a newly opened mercantile, like a gliding school of sharks scanning the waters for the next, tasty “30% off” morsel. Without any sort of instruction, everyone defaulted to entering on the right, slowly continuing about the floor, and exiting to the left – the most efficient way to carefully view all the offerings spread and stacked across table and shelf.

Under my breath, I wondered how long our retail wandering would last. At this precise moment, I spied it – a tufted leather couch in the center of the store. Invitingly vacant. A low coffee table and two plaid-covered armchairs completed this merciful oasis of rest amid the trudging caravan of customers.

As my family continued to shop, I broke free from the endless circling of bargain hunters, sat down slowly and rested my elbow on the button-studded arm on the sofa. Across the table, in one of the chairs, was a young boy on his knees. As his mother stood and spoke animatedly with her friends, the child pushed a small, red toy truck along the sloping arm of the chair before allowing it to roll back down into his awaiting hand. He repeated the routine, each time moving the toy closer, but not quite yet, to the top.  

“It’s almost here.”

Those words, spoken from my right, snatched my attention from the child’s methodical cycle.
Although convinced that I had been sitting alone, as I looked over, I saw a man whose arrival at the other end of the couch went unnoticed and unheralded. Now, in the twinkle of the eye, he was most definitely present.

“It’s almost here,” he repeated. “Christmas. It’s close.” He surveyed the activity in the room with a faint smile on his lips.

“Yes,” I replied. “Nearly upon us.”

Casting a longer sideways glance, I sized up this new addition sharing the sanctuary from the holiday hubbub. His full head of silver hair, cut short at the sides, draped longer but neatly, from the top. His face was clean-shaven, slightly tan, with a few faint wrinkles. A white button-down shirt stood in contrast to the shawl collar of the black cardigan he wore. Khaki pants and brown lace-up boots completed his look. His age was undiscernible; something about him seemed very old, yet other characteristics made him appear quite young. He was, in all respects, vague. Even now, thinking back on him, my memory fails me for any further details. Perhaps his unassuming appearance contributed to his undetected arrival.

“Shopping?” he asked.

“Waiting,” I replied.

“Waiting,” he repeated. “That can be exciting.”

I sighed. “Well, I for one, have never been too terribly patient. And I suppose any excitement depends upon what you’re waiting for.” I absently checked my watch.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he responded. “Especially when you see how things are being worked out behind the scenes.” He paused, narrowed his eyes, then spoke with what seemed like genuine concern, “You seem tired. Are you tired?”

“Is it that obvious?” I thought. “Yes, a bit,” came my reply.

“Tired of…Christmas?”

His question caught me off-guard.

“Um, maybe just…generally tired. Currently and more specifically, my feet are tired. And I fully expect, after all the shopping is done, that my bank account will be somewhat worn as well.”

A few moments of silence passed between us, and I spoke again, surprised by my own words. “Yes, perhaps I am a little tired of Christmas. I’m tired of what it has become.”

“Ah!” he said, then gave a slight shake of his head. "Maybe you mean ‘tired of attempts to make it something else.’ Because Christmas has always been only what it is. Nothing more or less than that.”

Only what it is? But what was that? And what was that to me?

I felt as though I was only going through the motions: attempting to push myself upward – closer to meaning, or God, or something – only to roll back down again. Quite honestly, every Christmas stood as a marker in that descending cycle. And every year, the descent felt deeper.

The silence was punctuated by the low humming of a tune coming from the vicinity of the man beside me.

I strained at the melody. “O Little Town of Bethlehem?"

“Bethlehem! Yes!” he interrupted. His eyes danced as he said the name. “Have you ever been there?”

“No, I haven’t.” Then, almost afraid of the answer, but too curious to avoid asking, I ventured the query: “Have you?”

“Oh…yes,” he said in a long whisper leaning toward me with a nod. “It’s changed a great deal over the years. But many of the old landmarks are still there. If you stand atop the city, you can look down into the valley where those shepherds were on that first Christmas. Those shepherds…”

My well-traveled conversationalist warmed to his theme as I began to fear I would never be able to leave the conversation.

“Can you imagine how terrifying it was for them? One minute you are standing in a field in the middle of the night, and the next, you are surrounded by glorious light as you receive a divine birth announcement! What a night that was! The lowly and isolated – smelling of livestock and in their same, old routine – are the first to hear." He cleared his throat and said, "I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger…Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!"

He stopped abruptly and stared down at the polished hardwood floor, lost in the moment.

Who am I dealing with here? I asked myself. Pastor? Priest? Philosopher? Professor?

“Um, Impressive,” I said. “Reciting that from memory.”

“Some things,” he replied. “You just don’t forget.”

Silence fell between us as we watched a new rotation of chattering, wide-eyed shoppers file along with great anticipation. My Bible-quoting companion interrupted the lull.

“Did you know that many mangers in those days were hewn from stone?”

“No. I did not know that.”

He continued with a smile. “The mangers – the feeding troughs – made of stone. Pretty common back then. Shepherds couldn’t miss that one. No other baby was lying in a manger that night. No, just one. The One. All those details. So very specific. Wrapped in cloth; laid in stone."

He shook his head, still smiling broadly. “How utterly staggering it all is! I enjoy looking into these things. Every day, there is always something more! Wonderous, wonderous things.”

He then silently and thoughtfully busied himself by slowly twirling a loose end of yarn at the cuff of his sweater.

Staring hard at him, I could not deny it: I felt slight envy toward this odd little man. His passion. His grasp of concepts. Every word spoken with unruffled confidence.

But there was more. A faint longing, the intensity of which had grown as the conversation progressed. It felt like thirst. Not physical thirst, mind you, but something much more desperate.

I spoke, surprised to hear my voice nearly crack with my own vulnerability before a total stranger, but I needed to know.

“How do you do it? Maintain this level of…whatever you might call it. Joy? Peace? Hope?”

“You mean about Christmas?” he asked.

“I mean all of it,” I countered, with a little sweep of my arm. “Christmas and the other 364 days and life and the sum total of it all. How do you think of it? I'm just terribly curious about what motivates you in this way, assuming that it is not heavy medication.”

He chuckled and raised his index finger. “Permit me this: an object lesson.”

He rose, moved from our little sphere, and gracefully crossed the orbits of numerous patrons. Walking directly to a large Christmas tree on display in the store, he deftly reached among the boughs and removed an object before making his way back to the couch.

He held what looked like a cotton ball, or maybe a piece of batting used as fake snow. He rolled it back and forth in his palm.

“Wool,” he said, having read my confusion correctly. “From a sheep.”

My eyes darted to the Christmas tree, then back to him. “But, how do you know it’s wool? You found it in the branches. And, another thing: how did you know it was there anyway?”

“Oh, I put it there. I sometimes do. Not just in this tree, but in lots of them.” He seemed almost giddy sharing this secret with me.

“But why?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you why, but for now, our object lesson. That first Christmas came at a dark time. Not just the night, but all the other kinds of darkness too. The world at that first Christmas ached and waited."  

He held up his hand again, allowing the woolen ball to trace the lines of his palm. “It’s all here. All of it, in very capable hands, with everything working according to plan. A world gone wrong and full of the scattered and lost."

"‘For you were straying like sheep but have now returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls.’ ‘Come now, let us reason together, says the LORD: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.’"

“And that also answers your question as to ‘why?’ Because under all the trappings and décor and parties and shopping, there is this greatest gift. The Child. The Lamb."

I sat in stunned silence. On the table before me lay the toy truck turned on its side. In the chair sat the boy’s mother with her child in her lap. His head, with eyes closed, rested against her sweater, as she stroked his hair and rocked him ever so gently.    

My new friend’s voice spoke again, this time it seemed far away, yet closer than a thought, “You just forgot. You needed a reminder. For you, a reminder; for me…more of a souvenir.”

I turned. He was gone. I looked around quickly, but he was not to be found among the faces in the shifting crowd. His departure was as mysterious and unseen as his arrival. How fitting.

But next to me, nestled in the indentation formed by one of the buttons of the tufted leather couch's seat, lay the small ball of wool.

I picked it up, held it in my palm, and rolled it in a slow circle.

“Good news,” I whispered. “Good news…great joy.”

Just then, I heard a creak in the hardwood flooring, followed by a slight shift in the sofa underneath me. A young man sat down heavily in the recently vacated space to my right.

He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then checked the time.

“Shopping?” I asked him.

“Oh. No, not me,” he said. “Just…waiting.”

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Luke 2:7 ● Galatians 4:4 ● Matthew 1:21 ● John 1:14 ● John 1:29 ● John 10:21 ● 1 Peter 2:25 ● Isaiah 1:18 ● Revelation 5:11-13