Snow falls softly here as I write today. No doubt
there’ll be more snow by the end of the day. People were out raking leaves just
over a week ago, but soon the cold wind came, shooting like an arrow down the
tunnel of the city’s main street.
Tuesday evening I’d been out to meet
with writer friends from our critique group, for a little social time before
Christmas. On the way back to my car, the wind pushed against me, making me
shiver and my teeth chatter. Though I wore a warm winter coat, my legs were
cold. I thought, Here comes winter.
Coloured lights remind us that Christmas
will come soon and the snow with it. In some points north, I’m sure they
have plenty of it.
Winter, in our part of the world,
begins near Christmas usually, and the nights are darker. Soon we’ll have the
longest night or shortest day of the year, however you want to look at it. At
that time of year some folks mark Blue Christmas because of losses they’ve
suffered. Others struggle with diminishing sunlight and seasonal affective
disorder.
It may also be appropriate to match that
early winter in our part of the world with the Advent season in our Christian
church—a time of waiting, a time to remember how things were for people before
the Christ child came to the world. People were under duress from the Roman
government, and now it seemed they wanted even more taxes to pay their way, from
common folks who worked hard just to get by. Another census so that all the
world could be counted. All their world, as they knew it. It seemed they had
little hope.
There had been one proclamation by
the prophet Isaiah that a special child would be born. Maybe they believed it
and maybe they struggled to see how it could change anything. A child born to
one of them to save them from their ruler. It hardly seemed possible. And yet,
some held out hope, and few believed when it actually came to be.
Would anyone believe a young girl called
Mary who would carry the baby? Her family? Her fiancée to whom she was promised
in marriage? The scandal would have rocked their community, and she was sent
away for awhile. To visit an aunt who lived days away. People would not have
believed the aunt’s story either. One who had been called to carry another
child who would prepare the way for the special baby. An old woman beyond her
prime, who’d borne no previous children of their own. Dire circumstances, by
human measure.
Except that the two women had a bond
beyond their blood relationship. Oh, how they must have rejoiced when they spent
the time together. They had hope for the world, though neither one would know
just how things would go. Hope was important.
And so this is the opening to that
story that we mark every year beginning in late November and into December, until the night
of the baby’s birth. Seems appropriate, doesn’t it?
We’re not quite at Christmas yet. In
the middle of the shopping, decorating, baking and pre-Christmas gatherings, let’s
remember the long time of waiting and of the hope people held in a nearly
hopeless situation—before the special baby came to make his place in the world.
A promise waiting. A promise in the works. As the hymn writer declared in 1710
and a 15th Century processional put to music,
“O
Come, O Come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile
here until the son of God appear.”
To thank the Lord, our God, for sending Christ to earth.
"Peace on Earth. Goodwill to men," is an ever-present sound. 
Let's not be blinded by the lights and tinsel on our trees.
