"Oh, Come, Oh Come"

Do you wonder if other people see what you see? Colors, for instance. We can never know for sure if we’re seeing the same thing. And what about thought patterns or daydreams? Do other people think about a thousand thoughts, some random, some linear, in the same way I do? Last Sunday, these thoughts occurred in about five minutes.

My pastor took his place on the platform while the choir was singing. He turned his head to the right to look back at the choir; then 180 degrees the other way. Oh yes, there she is. His wife.

A young trio sang the story of the angel, Mary, and Joseph. From my view in the choir, I saw a woman who had to be the mother; from the first note, she was enraptured, beaming.

Beautiful things. The husband - even at work - remembers his wife, needs to see that she’s there. The mother, proud and joyous, enjoys a moment that is part reward but mostly grace, as her child uses his gift so worshipfully, so well.

“Long lay the world, in sin and error pining, ‘til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.”

All is good in my world; I have four children and a son-in-law whose souls have felt their worth. They want to honor the Savior. They love the things their parents love. It’s almost too good to be true. On cold mornings, the alarm rings, and my husband turns it off. I don’t even have to know how to set it. He reads my blog, laughs, cheers me on, looks for me in the choir.

Looking out onto the congregation, singing Christmas hymns, aware of all these blessings without and within, my heart almost breaks from the fullness. But there are others who come to mind.

Yesterday I took a friend home from the hospital to her stark and cold apartment. Cindy is a nurse, single, a missionary waylaid by illness. She’d had a coughing fit, and could not exhale or inhale. “I thought I was going to die, and all I could think was that nobody would know.” She managed to open her front door to seek out a neighbor. The cold air opened the passage enough for her to breathe again.

She had a pinhole opening to breathe with, so the doctor put in a metal stint. She feels better, having breathed at 50% the norm for many months. The stint was an option before, but carries risks; it could migrate and puncture her aorta and she’d die instantly, so until last week she was waiting to see if she improved. She hadn’t.

She doesn’t complain; she doesn’t whine. She apologizes for “being so needy” lately. She’s excited about her Cocoa Puffs and chips. “All that organic eating didn’t help,” she reasoned.

She asks me to pray for her niece’s husband, recently sent home from Iraq. A big strapping sergeant sent in to deal with the aftermath of car bombs. He can’t eat meat anymore. He woke up one night to find himself holding a gun to his head. His wife wants him to sleep in the other room.

DeAngelo, 8, wouldn’t sit still during our tutoring session this week. Abandoning math, reading, I say, “Why don’t you write a letter? I’ll help you.”

He’s excited. “I’ll write one to my mom.”

“You start with “Dear” – D-E-A-R.”

He can spell “Mom” and does so with a flourish. I think we’re on our way. He’s engaged, concentrating.

He’s waiting. “What do you want to say to her?” I prod.

“Why do you hate me?” This rolls off his tongue as quickly as, “I gotta use.” He doesn’t look sad or introspective. It’s not a plea.

“Your mother doesn’t hate you, DeAngelo. She can’t help it.” On crack for years, shot in the face by one of her boyfriends, she can’t “deal” with the children. They’re being raised by their aunt who took them when their grandmother died a few months ago. There are seven boys in the house.

“Yes, she does. She hates me.”

I can no more convince him otherwise than I can get him to focus, settle down, do his work. I wonder when he crossed this threshold, entered this grown-up land of disillusionment.

“Oh, come, oh come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel. Who mourns in lonely exile here….”