Many people this time of year make the first ornaments to adorn the tree symbols of Jesus' family. Mary came from the house of David, as did the spouse chosen for her, St. Joseph, so King David is a prominent feature. Even before Jesus' birth, God emphasized the importance of family by calling Joseph to his ancestral village, Bethlehem. Symbols of the patriarchs beginning with Adam often go on the Christmas tree first. "O Root of Jesse's Stem," come and deliver us!
Which brings me to subject of this post. My husband and I watched a movie last night about the famous Christmas editorial, Is There a Santa Clause? It was penned by journalist Frank Church and appeared in The New York Sun on September 21, 1897. One of the most reprinted editorials in the English language, the original was uncredited and Church was only acknowledged as the author after his death in 1906. He never wanted notoriety and most of his editorials were uncredited. This particular one responded to the letter of a little eight year old, Virginia O'Hanlon.
Virginia O'Hanlon |
But there's another Christmas story that is totally authentic. It warms the heart with a true story of conversion from despair to hope. I read it on Fr. Gordon MacRae's website, Beyond These Stone Walls. I'll publish the beginning of the story and send you to Fr. MacRae's blog to read the rest. Don't miss it! Share it! We all need hope in these troubled times and Fr. MacRae's heartwarming story about James reminds us that Christ never abandons us. Advent is the season of hope when we watch in anticipation for Emmanuel, God with us, to come!
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Christmas in the Valley and on the High Places
by Fr. Gordon MacRae
On a Christmas morning buried in snow a young man in prison took a first trusting step from the valley of humiliation to seek the high places and a season of grace’Twas the night before Christmas, 2007, when a winter storm descended upon Concord, New Hampshire. I awoke that Christmas morning to a shroud of heavy snow that masked this prison world of concrete and steel under pristine whiteness. A howling wind encased the walled prison yard in drifts of snow while saner men hibernated through the long, cold Christmas trapped inside.
I don’t know what came over me that Christmas morning. By 9:00 AM my claustrophobia was in high gear. Still a source of anxiety after all these years, it reached its usual crescendo with a near panic-driven urge to be outside. Prisoners here have a brief hourly window to move from point A to point B, but it was Christmas. We were snowed in, and there was simply no place to go. But I had to try.
Our friend, Pornchai Moontri had been here with me for about two years then, and we had just landed in the same place. “Where are you going?” he asked as he saw me bundled up against the wind and the snow. I told him I wanted to get an hour outside and asked if he wanted to join me. “Brrrrr!” he shivered, shaking his head. So I boldly made my way alone to a guard station to ask if the outside yard might be open. “Are you nuts?” came the gruff reply.
Thinking it a rhetorical question, I just stood there. The guard grabbed some keys and I followed him outside to a caged in area buried in snow drifts. “You’ll be stuck out here for an hour,” he said as the gate closed behind me and a key engaged the frozen lock with grinding reluctance.
And I thought prison was only hostile on the inside! The wind was howling, snow was blowing wildly, and it was freezing. The yard was empty except for an old picnic table half buried in snow, and a solitary downcast hooded figure sitting there like a silent sentinel. He kept a wary eye on me as I decided to give him a wide berth and walk the perimeter of the yard through the drifts of snow. Had I taken in the scene a little sooner, I might have changed my mind and headed back inside.
Battling the drifts got old really fast, so I made my way through the snow to the opposite side of the table, cleared a wet section of bench, and sat down. His bare, freezing hands were balled into fists and his hooded stare fought against eye contact. It was up to me to break the ice. Literally!
My own wariness lifted as the balled fists and attempts to look fierce were betrayed by streaks of tears interrupted by my uninvited presence. There were over 500 prisoners in that building, and I had never before seen this menacing but frightened kid. So I asked his name. “James,” he said through a struggle to sound gruff. [Read the rest....]
Do you have a story of Christmas hope fulfilled? If you do, please share it. We need all the hope we can get these days. May God bless us all in these final days of Advent. Come, Lord Jesus, fill our hearts with Christmas joy!
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