What are the chances?

 We celebrated Epiphany last Sunday and our Christmas tree is put away. A few last decorations remain in our home—a couple of door wreaths that are as much winter as they are about Christmas, and a string of Christmas cards across the picture window inside our living room. I leave those a little longer to remind me of the special moments of the holidays, including time with family, and the reason we celebrate.

At our Toastmasters meeting this week, the Table Topics Master asked his impromptu questions and the last one was “What is your favourite holiday tradition?” I sat there thinking about it for a brief moment then put up my hand and was called forward to give my short speech that I composed on the spot.

I spoke about Christmas Eve service being my favourite tradition, after all I’ve been part of it for many years, many times singing in choir, sometimes helping my children with their violin preparations, and then many times too, sitting there and soaking in the atmosphere. As I write this post, I remember, too, the Christmas that tears rolled down my cheeks because a friend had died only two days before. The tears were there because I missed her, and I felt that my prayers for her had gone unnoticed by God. I had prayed that she might have another chance with the transplant, but it was not to be. I was sad. There had been a small sign while we held our lit candles that Christmas Eve, as we sang Silent Night, that assured me she was in heaven. I talked with her husband afterwards about that moment that was so hard to put into words.

But I didn’t speak of that Christmas Eve in my impromptu speech. What I did talk about was the beauty of the carols, the music, the flowers and candles and being surrounded by friends who also loved that same person we came to celebrate. In that Google building workplace, I didn’t name Jesus, but I’d said I was a Christian by practice. And I spoke of the feeling of calm and peace at the end of a year that might have been challenging or painful in many respects, but here was calm and peace. That was how I ended my short one-minute speech.

This morning as I prepare my heart for the good-bye service of a friend’s mother, I got this line in my head. What are the chances? And I started writing.

And so I might ask, what if that calm and peacefulness could last much longer? What if more people who struggle with feelings of being alone or lost, what if they could feel that same calm and peace in the middle of their challenges? Even if it’s an oasis they could move to in their minds, as I did on Christmas Eve, that would see them through? What are the chances? What do you picture there?

 

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