These days I get up in darkness. In our part of the world we are approaching the winter solstice, and as December’s days shrink shorter and shorter they give the lie to the prevailing notion that value lies in quantity, that “bigger is better,” that “more is better.
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| The Longest Night begins at Stonehenge |
Rising in the dark, we glow in the sun’s first rays over the breakfast table--rays we sleep through in summertime.
Brief bits of afternoon warmth find as raising our faces to the sun--not baking as in summer, but basking in a pleasure that never makes us seek the shelter of shade.
We know that by suppertime we will be plunged again into darkness, but a December sunset can be every bit as glorious--and infinitely more poignant--than day’s end in June or July.
We inhabit a culture premised on promise, potential, growth, hope--all things that embrace a brighter future. But mid-December’s promise is the opposite: another week still darker than last, until finally, with dreaded winter’s arrival, we begin to regain the light that summer started stealing from us ‘way back in June.
Now is the season of waiting for that return of light. It is why Advent is a season dedicated to waiting, and why Christmas celebrates the return of light. It is why Christmas is in December, on the heels of the solstice.
But Advent’s waiting is also a waiting for the arrival of a child--and here our culture falters. Because it counts so much on future promise and the fulfillment of potential, it struggles to savor the present moment as precious in itself, as a gift to be treasured, even if the gift is failing light. So too we struggle to prize the gift of a baby’s birth.
Advent and Christmas are about the world’s biggest birthday. But it is also a celebration of birth itself. It invites us to ask: “Why is any birthday a big deal?” Perhaps our culture tempts us to gauge every birth by filtering it through the lens of the future that we think that baby promises. So we see the potential adult in the child, and we rejoice with the child will become--not what the child is already: a miraculous gift born of love.
Mary and Joseph were no different, I am sure. The gospels naturally tell the story in hindsight: this baby will be the savior of the world! But for them, in that moment, having their child was miracle enough. Their baby, in that moment, brings a holy light into their lives.
Every baby does that. Every child is precious in that very moment. That is why every birthday matters. It is a moment never to be repeated--no matter what the future brings. All the waiting of pregnancy has its fulfillment in that miraculous moment when the baby, so long hidden from view, joins his parents and feels their love surround him.
Every parent knows this. Parenthood may cost us the price that we dread our child suffering as long as we both live—but above all parenthood yields the joy of witnessing our love take a living human form.
In our age, that witness begins with the first ultrasound image, continues with every kick from the womb, and bursts into view when our baby finally joins us. In the face of that miracle, there is a sense in which all the rest is anticlimax. For us, because of that miracle in that moment, the world will never be the same.And if Christmas is about the miracle of that divine spark in a baby--about the birth of the baby as a gift of grace to the human family--it is gratifying and profoundly moving to see some parents who still possess a wisdom that is unfazed by their culture, who see the timeless grace and beauty that can be in even one brief miraculous moment.
That is the story of Emily and Mike. I know them through a child of my own, and the story of their child story touches me through him.
Like all expectant couples, they waited and wondered as Emily’s pregnancy advanced. They planned their plans and dreamed their dreams, like anyone else, never dreaming that their child would arrive only to depart in eight short weeks.
Once he arrived, they named him Charles Jerry Davis and they devoted every energy to making him feel as safe and happy and loved as they knew how. They struggled as he struggled, they held him and cherished him, they celebrated every precious moment they could be with him, even--and especially--when they began to know that he could not stay long.
And when he left--on September 20, the last day longer than the night before, when we all turned together toward the winter solstice--they had both the wisdom and the courage to see their time with Charlie as a precious gift. For they knew that even Charlie’s one brief shining moment among us was enough to mark him a precious child.
So shortly afterward they sent a card to all their family, loved ones, and friends. On the cover is a black and white photo of Charlie’s feet, with this inscription: “Even the littlest feet leave footprints…”
Inside is a color photo worthy of any Christmas card. Mother and child pose like a madonna, wrapped in the encircling arms of husband and father, his free hand cradling the baby’s head. The caption reads “Charlie Davis - - little feet, big footprints, 7.25.12—9.20.12.”
And on the facing page are these words, under the title “Charlie’s footprints”:
1. Be kind…To your loved ones, to strangers, to yourself. Life is too short to be angry, grumpy, or bitter.
2. Be brave. You are stronger than you ever imagined.
3. Be optimistic. Bad things do happen, but you’ll be a lot happier believing things will be OK rather than wasting Precious Time &Energy imagining all things that might go wrong. And things will be OK.
4. Be here right now. And find the joy in it.
5. Love fearlessly. Even if you get your heart broken, it will be worth it.
The parents added the following footnote:
Thank you for sharing this journey with us and for loving our sweet Charlie. We are sending this card because, in some way, you have helped us along the road. Whether you gave love, support, medical care, encourage in words, lasagna, prayers, or positive thoughts, the fact that you cared means the world to us. Lots of love, the Davis family.
When I got this in the mail, I opened the card and lost my composure halfway through. My composure fails me again every time I see it, and even now as I copy it for you, dear reader. And even again, every time I proofread my draft.
Such rare courage and wisdom profoundly move me, well beyond my own self control. My parents left this world in 2012, and even my own days have started dwindling. At my age, it is natural to begin investing one’s hopes not in career, or personal accomplishments, but in one’s legacy to those who will be here in the future that one will not see.
It is often tempting to despair of that future if the next generation seems shallow, preoccupied with things, unable to challenge the conventional wisdom of the day, uninterested in seeking (let alone finding) the true meaning and value of their lives.
People like me thus naturally begin to look for inspiration from others—and especially from others younger than us. We look for examples of true wisdom, of younger people who grasp what is real and who treasure what is valuable.
And as Christmas approaches, I look for those who get the point of a baby’s birth: the gift from God that changes our life forever, even if that moment passes in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye.
I find that inspiration in Emily and Mike.
So for me Christmas 2012 becomes a celebration of Charlie and also a celebration of the two “Wise People” who knew that the real gift was not what they brought to him, but what he gave to them—and to all of us.[NOTE: the photos are not of Charlie; The Davis’ story is inspiration for us all, but their images were for those lucky enough to receive their card.]
© Bernard F. Swain PhD 2012
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