December 24, 2013
The Fourth Week in Advent

Here it is.  Christmas Eve at last.   The merchants' associations say that it has been a good year, and that millions of people have been doing their share to give the economy a boost.    It looks like lots of children will be happy when Santa Claus delivers the goods on Christmas morning.     Lights blink on outdoor displays up and down the streets of town, and there is a general feeling of good will in the air.   Over at the hardware store today, they will gather around the popcorn machine and remember old friends who aren't here this time around.      I will take a few minutes, sometime during the day, to read Paul Engle's nostalgic memory of an old Iowa Christmas, that starts,   "Every Christmas should begin with the sound of bells, and when I was a child mine always did. But they were sleigh bells, not church bells."

There are no sleigh bells this Christmas.   The snow that came a week or two ago is gone.   Christmas will come anyway, ready or not.  Tonight we will gather late in the darkness of this late moment of the year to remember a birth.   There will be candles to light, and some words to be said.   But what words can we say to add to this old tale, this one that still touches our hearts?    It is enough just to remember that once God came into the world, a raw baby nestled in a mother's arms.   It is enough to hope, even just a little, that he still comes. 

Hold Him

I am late for Christmas, again.
I am not ready
as the world wheels once more
to a new season.
The clock of history races forward
at a steady pace,
and I am caught sometimes
in a room of long ago,
where those I love have dwelt.
I linger just a bit too long,
listen for the echo of a voice,
or a wisp of laughter in the night.
I am a person of unfinished tasks,
my life strewn behind me
like blowing leaves.
I am not sure where I am going,
but this place of candles and old songs
still draws me toward a destiny
that haunts our world,
and it is Bethlehem.
So In my dreams, this silent night,
I race in to the stable, breathless.
By the time I arrive
the shepherds have gone,
the moon has set,
and there are no angels that I can see.
Then, just before I turn to go
I catch sight of the sleeping ones
in the shadows,
and something in me aches.
Quietly, I hear a voice, beckoning:
"Don't leave.
You can hold the child," it says.
"You can hold me."

 --Timothy Haut, December 24, 2013