Christmas lights blaze down every street! Christmas displays crowd every storefront, even in my small village in Picardy! Garlands and glittering ornaments sparkle in the butcher's window, the baker's, the Co-op.
Christmas: the feast of light, of joy, of family. That is what I see, what I feel, what I touch. And me? I feel like a poor child—empty-handed and cold-hearted before this "Christmas display" that surrounds me: glittering and... out of reach.
Even when Gérard was here...
The gentle family vigils waiting for Midnight Mass? I have never known them.
The walks to church, parents and children arm in arm, feet crunching in the snow, blue and white beneath us? I have never known them.
Coming home together into the warmth of the house, sitting down to steaming hot chocolate? I have never known them.
We have never experienced these joys so simple, so natural for so many families.
Now Gérard is in heaven, Thaddée is in a center for the severely disabled on the other side of France, and Loïc is in my arms. Christmas has become for me the moment of unbearable solitude. Night falls, and I see nothing. I call out, and silence answers. I reach out my hands and touch nothing.
So if what Christmas means to everyone else means nothing to me—is it still Christmas for me? Perhaps you want me to let go of this sweet convention of Christmas? Perhaps then Christmas might become something more. But what? What, Lord?
Do you come for me?
Return to what matters: I open the four Gospels.
Matthew: "Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and his name shall be called Emmanuel."
Emmanuel: God with us.
God with us?
Mark: "A voice cries in the wilderness: prepare the way of the Lord."
You come? Do you come for me?
Luke: "Because of the tender mercy of our God, a light from on high will break upon us, to shine on those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace."
Your visit to bring me light and peace?
John: "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us."
Dwell among us?
Here I am, with Loïc in my arms. Among us? Where are you, Lord? I do not see you! I do not feel you! I do not touch you!
"If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him."
Loïc accepts life completely, with his whole heart: watch him lost in wonder before a glint of light, playing in the water, savoring something sweet, laughing loudly, raging and hitting if he doesn't get what he wants. Loïc loves life, surely—and you said, "I am the Life."
And I too love you, even though I often kick and balk like a mule at your demands and your calls, which I find excessive. To whom else would I go? You alone have the words of Life. Loïc—this small child so unprepossessing, this fragment of fragile flesh—in him your dwelling?
And me, forever ready to rebel, hollow with loneliness? In me your dwelling?
"It is expedient for you that I go away; for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but if I depart, I will send him unto you." It is true—I do not see you or feel you or touch you. But your Spirit, Lord, your Spirit is here. You said it yourself: you are here, your Spirit dwells in us.
How I sang as a child: "Behold Emmanuel"... Emmanuel: God with us. I believe, Lord. Come and help my faltering faith.
by Camille Proffit, 1984
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