Silent Night

“And behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were greatly afraid. Then the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’” –Luke 2:9-11

Most every year it seems that one Christmas song each season repeats itself in my life and this year the theme has been “Silent Night.” I’ve always enjoyed the soft, lullaby quality of the carol: it seems to encapsulate the Christmas Eves of my past when my family turned out the lights and lit the tree and all the candles we could find. Then we sat around and shared memories, laughs and hot chocolate. We opened one gift a piece that night, a tradition from my mom’s Granny, and sang Christmas songs. As an adult, the night has changed into one of prayer and contemplation. And I very much enjoy the “silent night” after so much busyness crammed into a few short weeks.

So, the other day I pulled up a video of one of my favorite renditions of “Silent Night,” by acapella group Pentatonix. The arrangement begins as the traditional carol, but midway through, bass Avi Kaplan switches to tenor and the group introduces some poignant harmonies all centered around the word “sleep.” The focus shifts again when Kaplan’s clear voice cuts through the harmony and he initiates a refrain of just the words “silent night, holy night.” It is lovely and moving. But what I noticed as I really listened is that the arrangement seems to change the entire message of the song. The carol begins as an observation of an event, a silent and holy night on which Jesus was born. But when the Pentatonix arrangement brings in Avi’s haunting refrain, the message seems to become a plea to God to provide that silent and holy night the world is still missing. I think the message is indicative of every heart’s longing for and search for peace. The good news is that God has already provided a means for that peace if we will simply accept His plan, His love, and His Son’s atoning sacrifice.

The Lost Art of Christmas Cards

Each Christmas, Mom used to write out and mail dozens of Christmas cards. She’d include an individualized message and sign them, “Merry Christmas! Love, Mike, Jean and the girls.” I guess that’s where I inherited my love of writing out Christmas cards. Even as a teenager, I used to pass them out to friends and I haven’t stopped since. Years ago, more people were like me. I could count on receiving at least two dozen Christmas cards each season. Some had wise men. Some had snowmen. But all came filled with the love of friends and family. Now, it seems Christmas cards have gone the way of the typewriter. And landline phones. Sigh. I miss them, those brightly colored pieces of cardstock with scripture and seasonal sayings. Sure, all through the year I keep up with loved ones via emails, texts, and phone calls, but there’s something special about receiving a card that was chosen just for me and includes the sender’s thoughts in ink. Somehow, their words just seem more permanent that way. So do mine. That’s why last night, I gathered my varied colored pens and boxes of cards and glittery stickers and snuggled up to write holiday messages to some of my favorite folks, some of whom I haven’t seen in years. Others I saw today or talked to this week. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I let each of them know how special they are and that I send them all the love and joy of both my heart and Jesus’ by simply wishing them a “Merry Christmas!”

Let It Snow

“Surely the snow held memories.” Kristy Cambron, The Butterfly and the Violin

Last Friday morning started out gloomy and drizzly. For more than 48 hours, the weather report indicated a slight possibility of a wintry mix some time that day, but I was dubious. It seldom snows here in my adopted hometown and the conditions weren’t quite right to create the frozen precipitation I was dreaming of. Consequently, as the day wore on, my lower lip drooped like a pouty toddler’s. But that night something magical happened. At 7:30 the icky cold rain transformed into snow, and not just any snow. Huge, fluffy white flakes fell so thick and fast that it’s no wonder forecasters call the phenomenon a “snow shower.” So like any responsible adult, I bundled up, rushed outside, and ran around with my seven-year-old niece. While this was the first time for her to ever see snow, it’s a toss-up as to who was more excited!

I can’t help myself…the snow turns me into a little kid. It holds such wonderful memories 

from my childhood. Granted, it usually only snowed twice a year in Birmingham where I grew up, but one of those times was almost always near Christmas and the other? It usually coincided with my January birthday. So for me, snow means parties and hot chocolate and snow ice cream. It means snowball fights and sliding down huge hills on plastic lawn and leaf bags. It means home. And now it means the precious memory of walking around in the hush of night with my awestruck niece whispering, “Kissy, it’s gorgeous.” In that holy moment, I shared her childlike wonder at the beauty only God can create. And while rationally I know He didn’t send the snow just for me, it still felt like my own special gift from my very loving Father. As I reluctantly headed indoors that night, I whispered, “Merry Christmas to you, too, Lord.”