Silent Night: When God Comes Near
Silent Night: When God Comes Near
Silent Night,
It was Christmas eve, again.
Holy Night.
As the others waited buckled in the vehicle, I scanned our preparations for a final time before our Christmas eve gathering later that evening.
All is Calm,
The anticipating, the scurrying, the planning, the excitement, the expectations, and the stressing that only this season can induce; were all waiting to erupt from me.
All is Bright.
I noted the contrast of the late afternoon winter darkness outside with the warmth of festive lights glowing in through our windows.
Round yon virgin, mother and child!
As I joined my family in the car, I triple checked that our dark skinned baby doll had been buckled, swaddling cloths in place. For we had been honorably tasked with bringing the Christ Child for the service. A last minute detail, that if forgotten, would not go unnoticed.
Holy Infant, so tender and mild.
I looked at our kids and marveled. I wondered how it was possible they had grown so much since last Christmas. And yet, how are they still so little? They were both fully enveloped in the glow and anticipation of another Christmas.
Sleep in heavenly peace! Sleep in heavenly peace!
All I wanted was to slow time down, to be able to stretch this moment out so I could fully relish in the sacredness of this season. Setting the details aside for a moment to just be present.
Silent Night, Holy Night.
The chilly air rushed into the Christmas Eve service with us. The lights were low, the hum of hushed voices whispering, the room buzzing with anticipation.
Glories stream from heaven afar,
I scanned to find our usual, secure back row seats had been claimed by unfamiliar faces, forcing us forward closer to the front, fully exposed leaving me feeling on edge and uneasy.
Heavenly Hosts sing Alleluia.
As the music started I caught my breath and settled into my seat. Familiar faces caught my eye with warm smiles.
Christ the Saviour is born!
It was Christmas eve again.
Christ the Saviour is born!
Christmas always seems to sneak up on me. No matter how many countdowns I make, how many advent calendar windows are opened up, no matter how many lists are crossed off. No matter how well I feel I have advent-ed it always shows up surprisingly quick.
Silent Night!
It was Christmas eve again! I needed this moment.
Holy Night!
My whole being needed this evening. In the midst of the everyday moments, I needed Emanuel. I needed my life, again this year, to be transformed by God-made-Flesh, God-Among Us, God-moved-into-the-neighbourhood.
Son of God, Love’s pure light.
Hope, Peace, Joy and Love. The four candles flickered their tapered flames as my kids joined the others in their Away in the Manager choir. I found myself drawn to the chorus of tiny hands flitting up front, as their voices and the sign language of their hands spoke volumes to me.
I took a moment to focus on that child in the manger. The lights were low, the voices loud as we collectively welcomed this God-made-Flesh, God-Among Us, God-moved-into-the-neighbourhood again this day.
Radiant beams from thy holy face,
After returning to their seats my kids were getting fidgety. It occurred to me that in our afternoon preparations we had missed snack time. Sticky little hands and crackling wrappers underfoot served as proof that the candy cane they were handed on their way into the service was long gone.
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
As the Christ candle was lit, a warm light spread from one tiny candle to the next throughout the room. The children joined in, cracking their glow sticks to let their lights shine. Except that is, for my three-year-old, whose glow stick refused to glow. This simple malfunction ended up sparking a huge meltdown for him.
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!
My son raced at an Olympic pace, back and forth up and down the aisle, from our seats to the table with glowsticks. In a desperate fury to have a proper glowing stick of his own in hand, his volume increasing with his frustration.
Silent Night,
Cue Silent Night.
Holy Night
The band led us into the most Holy-of-Holy Christmas moments, at the exact moment, with sweaty palms and a clenched jaw, I chased after my determined pre-schooler.
All is Calm,
I wrapped my arms around my son’s flailing frame, ignoring anyone nearby glancing at us, and whisked him out the door just as he was reaching his own crescendo
All is bright.
We stepped out. Out into the dark. Out into the cold solitary evening. I desperately pleaded with him to be quiet, hoping that he might mute his cries.
Inside, I could hear the band quiet down as voices alone finish the carol.
Round yon virgin, mother and child!
My son began to scream “I want to hear that song.”
Oh Mary, if you only knew, I thought to myself.
Holy Infant so tender and mild!
“I… want …to …hear … that … song” his staccato plea rang through the still air.
Sleep in heavenly peace! Sleep in heavenly peace!
“I want to hear that song” again he declared with unwavering resolve.
I could hear that the service was ending.
Glories stream from heaven afar,
He broke free from my restraint and ran back to the door. He was fighting his way against the current of people leaving the gymnasium.
“I want to hear that song” he was stuck on repeat.
Heavenly Hosts sing Alleluia.
In a non-verbal feat that only parents in this situation can master, I gave my husband the “We NEED to go NOW look.”
“I want to hear that song” he now softly cried out from the confinement of his car seat. Tears and sweat shimmering on his tiny cheeks.
In that moment, God-made-Flesh, God-Among Us, God-moved-into-the-neighbourhood, must have moved past my blushing embarrassed cheeks, and the shame in the pit of my stomach. I found my hands gently unbuckling him. My arms embraced him. Together we walked back into gym.
I caught my breath as I glanced at his tiny hands, clutching the Baby Jesus in bright blue plastic carrier. We returned back into the now-fully lit room, that which was moments ago, such an ambient and sacred space had been transformed back into an ordinary elementary school gym with the flick of a switch.
I fought back tears of shame, and sheer exhaustion, hoping not to be seen, as I approached the worship leader. I explained that we missed the last song, “Would you be willing to sing Silent Night again, just for us, please?” I requested with no expectations.
In a grace filled-moment our worship pastor and her husband took a seat on the edge of the stage. My son and I knelt down, huddled within arms reach of them.
They lit a candle and began acapella version of this song. A version I will never forget.
Silent Night, Holy Night.
All is calm. All is bright.
I joined in for the first verse. But by the time they repeated that first verse for a second time, I could no longer sing. The sacredness of this moment had arrested my vocal chords, and tears streamed down my face. My son, was clutching the baby Jesus doll in front of him with one arm, and my shoulder with the other. It was the most intimate of worship moments.
Round yon virgin, mother and child!
Holy Infant so tender and mild!
“I want to hear that song.”
In this season of rushing. Of worries of having enough. Of blurry focus. Of lights and trim, my young son’s chorus “I want to hear that song” became my soundtrack.
“I want to hear that song” was his plea. It was his prayer. It was his desperate need.
May you Jesus, the God-made-Flesh, the God-Among Us the God-moved-into-the-neighbourhood continue to hear the cries of our hearts whether we run out of a building screaming, or simply can’t utter the words aloud. May you come near, and sing over us.
Jesus, Lord at thy birth!
We want to hear that song.
We need to hear that song.
We thank you for your song.