Miracle on 10th Street Page 7

  Mary did not always understand. But one does not have to understand to be obedient. Instead of understanding—that intellectual understanding which we are so fond of—there is a feeling of rightness, of knowing, knowing things which we are not yet able to understand.

  A young woman said to me, during the question-and-answer period after a lecture, “I read A Wrinkle in Time when I was eight or nine. I didn’t understand it, but I knew what it was about.”

  As long as we know what it’s about, then we can have the courage to go wherever we are asked to go, even if we fear that the road may take us through danger and pain.

  The birth of wonder

  When I am able to pray with the mind in the heart, I am joyfully able to affirm the irrationality of Christmas.

  As I grow older

  I get surer

  Man’s heart is colder,

  His life no purer.

  As I grow steadily

  More austere

  I come less readily

  To Christmas each year.

  I can’t keep taking

  Without a thought

  Forced merrymaking

  And presents bought

  In crowds and jostling.

  Alas, there’s naught

  In empty wassailing

  Where oblivion’s sought.

  Oh, I’d be waiting

  With quiet fasting

  Anticipating

  A joy more lasting.

  And so I rhyme

  With no apology

  During this time

  Of eschatology:

  Judgment and warning

  Come like thunder.

  But now is the hour

  When I remember

  An infant’s power

  On a cold December.

  Midnight is dawning

  And the birth of wonder.

  REDEMPTION

  He did not wait…

  till hearts were pure. In joy he came

  to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.

  To a world like ours, of anguished shame

  he came, and his Light would not go out.

  —from “First coming”

  The first-born light

  The Maker’s hand flung stars across the night

  with angels bursting forth from galaxies

  new music singing from the spheres in harmonies

  that blessed the dancing of the first-born light.

  And then the light was darkened by an earth

  dimmed by torn dreams, saddened by shrill pride.

  Stars faded, lost their story, and died.

  The dance distorted in strange lies and anger.

  Love’s hand again was lifted. In a manger

  again the Maker of the stars gave birth.

  The Wise Men

  A star has streaked the sky,

  pulls us,

  calls.

  Where, oh where, where leads the light?

  We came and left our gifts

  and turned

  homeward.

  Time had passed, friends gone from sight—

  One by one, they go, they die

  to now,

  to us—

  gone in the dazzling dark of night.

  Oh how, and where, and when, and why,

  and what,

  and who,

  and may, and should, O God, and might

  a star, a wind, a laugh, a cry

  still come

  from one—

  the blazing word of power and might—

  to use our gifts of gold and myrrh

  and frankincense

  as needed,

  as our intention was to do the right?

  Here, there, hear—soft as a sigh—

  willing,

  loving

  all that is spoken, back to the flight

  blazing too fierce for mortal eye.

  Renew—

  redeem,

  oh, Love, until we, too, may dazzle bright.

  Annunciation

  1

  Sorrowfully

  the angel appeared

  before the young woman

  feared

  to ask what must be asked,

  a task

  almost too great to bear.

  With care,

  mournfully,

  the angel bare

  the tidings of great joy,

  and then

  great grief.

  Behold, thou shalt conceive.

  Thou shalt bring forth a son.

  This must be done.

  There will be no reprieve.

  2

  Another boy

  born of woman (who shall also grieve)

  full of grace

  and innocence

  and no offence—

  a lovely one

  of pure and unmarked face.

  3

  How much can a woman bear?

  4

  Pain will endure for a night

  but joy comes in the morning.

  His name is Judas.

  That the prophets may be fulfilled

  he must play his part.

  It must be done.

  Pain will endure.

  Joy comes in the morning.

  Opposing Parallels: A Journal Entry

  A group of us from Regent and Vancouver School of Theology went to an excellent production of Much Ado About Nothing at Bard on the Beach. I’ve always loved the play because of Beatrice and Benedick, Beatrice being one of the best, funniest, and warmest of Shakespeare’s women’s roles.

  Hero, Beatrice’s cousin, and Claudio come off much less well. Hero is set up by the villain to look as though she is being unfaithful to her fiancé on the eve of their wedding. Claudio believes the cruel hoax without question and then, with vicious cruelty, allows the wedding to take place as planned until the moment when the friar asks if anyone knows of any impediment, at which point he brutally and publicly denounces the innocent Hero.

  It reminded me of another man whose fiancé seems to have betrayed him at the last minute. Instead of denouncing her, having her stoned—the customary punishment for adultery—he lovingly decides to send her away to some safe place.

  And then he is willing to believe the angel who tells him not to be afraid to take the young girl for his wife, for the child within her is from God.

  I wonder if Shakespeare was aware of the opposing parallels.

  Bearer of love

  The great swan’s wings were wild as he flew down;

  Leda was almost smothered in his embrace.

  His crimson beak slashed fiercely at her gown—

  lust deepened by the terror on her face.

  Semele saw her lover as a god.

  Her rash desire was blatant, undenied.

  He showed himself, thunder and lightning shod.

  Her human eyes were blasted and she died.

  And Mary sat, unknowing, unaware.

  The angel’s wings were wilder than the swan

  as God broke through the shining, waiting air,

  gave her the lily’s sword thrust and was gone.

  The swans, the old gods fall in consternation

  at the fierce coming of the wild wind’s thrust

  entering Mary in pure penetration.

  The old gods die now, crumbled stone and rust.

  Young Mary, moved by Gabriel, acquiesced,

  asked nothing for herself in lowliness,

&
nbsp; accepted, too, the pain, and then, most blest,

  became the bearer of all holiness.

  O Sapientia

  It was from Joseph first I learned

  of love. Like me he was dismayed.

  How easily he could have turned

  me from his house; but, unafraid,

  he put me not away from him

  (O God-sent angel, pray for him).

  Thus through his love was Love obeyed.

  The Child’s first cry came like a bell:

  God’s Word aloud, God’s Word in deed.

  The angel spoke: so it befell,

  and Joseph with me in my need.

  O Child whose father came from heaven,

  to you another gift was given,

  your earthly father chosen well.

  With Joseph I was always warmed

  and cherished. Even in the stable

  I knew that I would not be harmed.

  And, though above the angels swarmed,

  man’s love it was that made me able

  to bear God’s love, wild, formidable,

  to bear God’s will, through me performed.

  A Time of Hope

  Cribb’d, cabined, and confined within the contours of a human infant. The infinite defined by the finite? The Creator of all life thirsty and abandoned? Why would he do such a thing? Aren’t there easier and better ways for God to redeem his fallen creatures?

  And what good did it all do? The heart of man is still evil. Wars grow more terrible with each generation. The earth daily becomes more depleted by human greed. God came to save us and we thank him by producing bigger and better battlefields and slums and insane asylums.

  And yet Christmas is still for me a time of hope, of hope for the courage to love and accept love, a time when I can forget that my Christology is extremely shaky and can rejoice in God’s love through love of family and friends.

  A Full House: An Austin Family Story

  To anybody who lives in a city or even a sizable town, it may not sound like much to be the director of a volunteer choir in a postcard church in a postcard village, but I was the choir director and largely responsible for the Christmas Eve service, so it was a lot of pressure for me. I settled my four children and my father, who was with us for Christmas, in a front pew and went up to the stuffy choir-robing room. I was missing my best baritone, my husband, Wally, because he had been called to the hospital. He’s a country doctor, and I’m used to his pocket beeper going off during the church service. I missed him, of course, but I knew he’d been called to deliver a baby, and a Christmas baby is always a joy.

  The service went beautifully. Nobody flatted, and Eugenia Underhill, my lead soprano, managed for once not to breathe in the middle of a word. The only near disaster came when she reached for the high C in O Holy Night, hit it brilliantly—and then down fell her upper plate. Eugenia took it in good stride, pushed her teeth back in place and finished her solo. When she sat down, she doubled over with mirth.

  The church looked lovely, lighted entirely by candlelight, with pine boughs and holly banking the windows. The Christmas Eve service is almost entirely music, hence my concern; there is never a sermon, but our minister reads excerpts from the Christmas sermons of John Donne and Martin Luther.

  When the dismissal and blessing were over, I heaved a sigh of relief. Now I could attend to our own Christmas at home. I collected my family, and we went out into the night. A soft, feathery snow was beginning to fall. People called out “Good-night” and “Merry Christmas.” I was happily tired, and ready for some peace and quiet for the rest of the evening—our service is over by nine.

  I hitched Rob, my sleeping youngest, from one hip to the other. The two girls, Vicky and Suzy, walked on either side of their grandfather; John, my eldest, was with me. They had all promised to go to bed without protest as soon as we had finished all our traditional Christmas rituals. We seem to add new ones each year, so the Christmas Eve bedtime gets later and later.

  I piled the kids into the station wagon, thrusting Rob into John’s arms. Father and I got in the front, and I drove off into the snow, which was falling more heavily. I hoped that it would not be a blizzard and that Wally would get home before the roads got too bad.

  Our house is on the crest of a hill, a mile out of the village. As I looked uphill, I could see the lights of our outdoor Christmas tree twinkling warmly through the snow. I turned up our back road, feeling suddenly very tired. When I drove up to the garage and saw that Wally’s car was not there, I tried not to let Father or the children see my disappointment. I began ejecting the kids from the back. It was my father who first noticed what looked like a bundle of clothes by the storm door.

  “Victoria,” he called to me. “What’s this?”

  The bundle of clothes moved. A tear-stained face emerged, and I recognized Evie, who had moved from the village with her parents two years ago, when she was sixteen. She had been our favorite and most loyal baby-sitter, and we all missed her. I hadn’t seen her—or heard anything about her—in all this time.

  “Evie!” I cried. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  She moved stiffly, as though she had been huddled there in the cold for a long time. Then she held her arms out to me in a childlike gesture. “Mrs. Austin—” She sighed as I bent down to kiss her. And then, “Mom threw me out. So I came here.” She dropped the words simply, as though she had no doubt that she would find a welcome in our home. She had on a shapeless, inadequate coat, and a bare toe stuck through a hole in one of her sneakers.

  I put my arms around her and helped her up. “Come in. You must be frozen.”

  The children were delighted to see Evie and crowded around, hugging her, so it was a few minutes before we got into the kitchen and past the dogs who were loudly welcoming us home. There were Mr. Rochester, our Great Dane; Colette, a silver-gray French Poodle who bossed the big dog unmercifully; and, visiting us for the Christmas holidays while his owners were on vacation, a ten-month-old Manchester terrier named Guardian. Daffodil, our fluffy amber cat, jumped on top of the fridge to get out of the way, and Prune Whip, our black-and-white cat, skittered across the floor and into the living room.

  The kids turned on lights all over downstairs, and John called, “Can I turn on the Christmas tree lights?”

  “Sure,” I answered, “but light the fire first!”

  I turned again to Evie, who simply stood in the middle of the big kitchen–dining room, not moving. “Evie, welcome. I’m sorry it’s such chaos—let me take your coat.” At first she resisted and then let me slip the worn material off her shoulders. Under the coat she wore a sweater and a plaid skirt; the skirt did not button, but was fastened with a pin, and for an obvious reason: Evie was not about to produce another Christmas baby, but she was very definitely pregnant.

  Her eyes followed mine. Rather defiantly, she said, “That’s why I’m here.”

  I thought of Evie’s indifferent parents, and I thought about Christmas Eve. I put my arm around her for a gentle hug. “Tell me about it.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “I think it might help, Evie.”

  Suzy, eight years old and still young enough to pull at my skirt and be whiny when she is tired, now did just that to get my full attention. “Let’s put out the cookies and cocoa for Santa Claus now.”

  Suddenly there was an anguished shout from the living room. “Come quick!” John yelled, and I went running.

  Guardian was sitting under the tree, a long piece of green ribbon hanging from his mouth. Around him was a pile of Christmas wrappings, all nicely chewed. While we were in church, our visiting dog had unwrapped almost every single package under the tree.

  Vicky said, “But we won’t know who anything came from…”

  Suzy burst into tears. “That dog has rui
ned it all!”

  Evie followed us in. She was carrying Rob, who was sleeping with his head down on her shoulder. Father looked at her with his special warm glance that took in and assessed any situation. “Sit down, Evie,” he ordered.

  I took Rob from her, and when she had more or less collapsed in Wally’s special chair, in front of the big fireplace, he asked, “When did you eat last?”

  “I don’t know. Yesterday, I think.”

  I dumped my sleeping child on the sofa and then headed for the kitchen, calling, “Vicky, Suzy, come help me make sandwiches. I’ll warm up some soup. John, make up the couch in Daddy’s office for Evie, please.”

  Our house is a typical square New England farmhouse. Upstairs are four bedrooms. Downstairs we have a big, rambling kitchen–dining room, all unexpected angles and nooks; a large, L-shaped living room and my husband’s office, which he uses two nights a week for his patients in the nearby village. As I took a big jar of vegetable soup from the refrigerator and poured a good helping into a saucepan, I could hear my father’s and Evie’s voices, low, quiet, and I wondered if Evie was pouring out her story to him. I remembered hearing that her father seldom came home without stopping first at the tavern and that her mother had the reputation of being no better than she should be. And yet I knew that their response to Evie’s pregnancy would be one of righteous moral indignation. To my daughters I said, “There’s some egg salad in the fridge. Make a big sandwich for Evie.”

  I lifted the curtains and looked out the window. The roads would soon be impassable. I wanted my husband to be with us, in the warmth and comfort of our home.

  I went back to the stove and poured a bowl of soup for Evie. Vicky and Suzy had produced a messy but edible sandwich and then gone off. I called Evie, and she sat at the table and began to eat hungrily. I sat beside her. “How did it happen? Do I know him?”