The Real Joy of Christmas -- Part II

Here it is:  the evening of Christmas Day.


This writer's premature commencement of celebrating the Day began in early December with active participation in Christmas concerts with the Houston Choral Society and Antioch Baptist Church, followed by the mid-month Christmas Candlelight Concert at South Main Baptist Church, and then two Christmas Eve worship services (5:00 p.m. and 11:00 p.m.) at South Main, and two really nice gatherings -- one with family and one with friends.  


And what about today?  The Day?  
Events?  Nicht
Concerts?  Nada
Parties?  Nein
Lots and lots of presents?  Beaucoup -- but not the tangible ones of which most folks will think.


Today was a day of uncommon peace.  No frenzied phone calls.  No traffic.  No let me think about it response after I laid out a myriad of reasons why The "X" Plan is right for my audience.  No.  No.  No.  Today I overslept, not being fully awake until 9:00 -- that's normally mid-morning.  So what was the day all about?  Nothing.  And everything.


Today I joined my daughter and her husband for an afternoon meal at one of the finest rehabilitation facilities, located in the Texas Medical Center.   We joined a close family friend who has been encsconced there for a few weeks now.  We ate a meal prepared and served by folks who were not on "holiday," which made me try to imagine what was going through one man's mind as he handed me a plate of Cornish hen, yams, green bean casserole and a wheat roll, with a smile and a Merry Christmas!.  The free-flowing fountain of carbonated beverages was bypassed in favor of a bottle of Tropicana Pure Premium orange juice with some pulp.  (Why drink trashily when there's good stuff to be had?)  I stood at the checkout, wondering what happened to the cashier, and when I stopped a passing employee, she said It's on us today.  Merry Christmas!


Visiting a place like TIRR can put one face-to-face with the results of one's mistakes or the bad decisions of others, resulting in severely broken bodies, or, as in the case of our friend, an illness visited upon him without invitation or provocation; it just sneaked in one day and made itself at home.  Our quiet visit was often interrupted by my son-in-law (truly he is an angel on special assignment to see after my Sweet Pea), as he would leave our table to assist other TIRR residents in their high-tech wheelchairs, and their guests as they maneuvered among the tables to be seated.


In the countenance of a young teen we saw the rawest anger, so strong that it pierced my heart.   We saw a woman, perhaps my age or a little older, with the sweetest spirit, so sweet that Daughter could not help but comment.   In a moment of bare-naked candor, Daughter asked our TIRR resident:  When did you stop being angry?  He replied, I was never angry, just afraid.  I would wake up and survey my body, starting with my toes and working my way up to determine if anything was different; and sometimes there were differences; that would make me afraid.  But after the second surgery, I wasn't afraid anymore.  


After our meal we returned our TIRR resident to his room, and as he got situated, Daughter said you know, any of us could be in here.  I know I've had some close calls.  But this has made me mindful to be careful.  Our TIRR resident agreed, adding that he knows that, comparatively speaking, he's still in pretty good shape.  


I stood at the window, looking out over the forest of concrete and steel in the Texas Medical Center, thinking about all that our TIRR friend has endured:  an illness that spans three decades, the unjust, unfair and unwarranted treatment visited upon him, the  people who could and should have stood by him and did not, and how when he answers his phone and is asked How're you doing? -- will always answer -- Pretty good.




So what about This Day?   That's what I've been talking about here.  Can't you see?  This day of uncommon peace had nothing to do with brightly wrapped packages containing tangible gifts.  The gift of this day is the uncommon peace -- the kind of peace in knowing that even though things are not as they once were, I'm still okay; that undeserved gifts and consequences deserved but withheld (we Believers refer them as Grace and Mercy) are blessings that go far beyond the inventories of the finest stores.  The gift of this day is the uncommon peace in seeing one who has every reason to be bitter and angry, resentful and hateful, and instead enjoys moments of scathing humor on the one hand, and deep-seated gratitude on the other.  After all, he's still in pretty good shape.


This day we celebrate what was, what is, and what is to come:  God in the flesh, coming to earth as a baby, growing into a man, gathering disciples, teaching them how to live, love, suffer, endure, and make more disciples, teaching them the same.  And one day, He will return.  That is the real joy of Christmas.