A Vision of a Silent Night

By now, I’m sure I took a wrong turn somewhere.

I try to remember where I was coming from, and where I was going. My past is a foggy memory, and my life seems removed. Irrelevant.

So I travel this path, dark and dusty and rocky. My moccasin slippers seem ill-equipped for the stones and the hills. I see dim lights ahead—some sort of small town? I wouldn’t be able to see anything if it weren’t for the sky. I’ve never seen such a brilliant sky at night, not even out in the middle of nowhere where all the stars that usually hide reveal their presence.

There’s one star that’s particularly bright. If I’m not crazy, it seems to be pointing downward—as an arrow? This is a strange night and a strange place. A prickly sensation passes over me. I would suspect a dream, but it’s so real. I feel a chill in the night air. I smell something smoky, like the remains of a bonfire at a campground. I turn and view a logical world, as far as my eyes can see. This isn’t the nonsensical meanderings of a sleeping brain carrying out the day’s thought garbage. I can hear the bleating of sheep on a nearby hill. The leaves of the trees rustle with whispers when the wind gently pushes their branches.

Beyond that, it is a silent night.

What else can I do? I follow the star. It appears to be pointing at the little village anyway. I reach the outskirts of the small town and wonder where I might find a place to wait out the night until I can figure out how to get home. Somehow, I have stepped into a story. I have been brought here to remember.

“Perhaps a journey every soul must take,” I whisper.

I see movement in a small cave with a rickety shed built over the entrance. I feel a holy pull and I step forward, my heart racing and my soul sensitive with passion, because by now I’ve recognized the significance of where I am. I can’t get to the stable fast enough.

Are you here? My spirit calls to him, my eyes flood with tears and the hair rises on my arms as a chill passes over me. Are you really here?

I almost forget there are others present who do not see this night as a memory. I stop in respect and allow the young man and the girl in the corner to see me before I interrupt.

“Good evening,” I say in a reverent voice, for my eyes have found beauty. To one not paying attention, he might look like any other newborn, with red, wrinkled skin and a head of dark hair. His blinking brown eyes view his world for the first time.

But he is the loveliest sight to me, and before I realize what I am doing, I’ve dropped to my knees. My head is bowed. It is the only response that feels appropriate.

They seem to understand. The man smiles tentatively and beckons me closer. The girl—I suppose I never realized how young she really was until I see the light in her eyes, barely more than a child. Younger than me by decades. She is uncertain and awkward in her movements as she holds the baby. I feel a wave of empathy and sit next to her, touching her shoulder. It is thin and small.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You’re going to do a great job, Mary.”

For some reason, she understands my words, and I understand hers, though she answers in a different tongue. I praise the Keeper of this vision for allowing me to know her heart.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice high and quiet. “He is a beautiful child, no?”

“The most beautiful I have ever seen, and I have four of my own,” I say with a smile. I have a motherly reaction to the naivety I recognize in her features. I ask after her condition, glad to see things have been cared for and she is holding the baby against her chest and under her coarse cloak where he will be able to stay warm.

“The midwife came and saw to things,” Joseph explains. He moves away, reclining in the straw, exhausted. His eyes close and in seconds he is softly snoring.

“It has been a long night.” Mary looks at her husband with sympathy. “He has taken care of me. He is a good man.”

“A good man makes all the difference,” I say with understanding, before my eyes return to the baby’s face.

I am unable to speak and overcome with awe. I can only watch him for what seems like hours. Finally I make myself break the silence because I have to speak the question. A question that is nearly cliché in the holiday season, but here, it cuts through my heart with meaning.

“Do you know, Mary? Do you know who this is?”

She turns wide brown eyes on me. She nods. “This is the Messiah.”

She whispers it; as if she’s afraid I will reprimand her for being foolish. Little does she know.

“Do you know what this little Messiah is going to do for us?” I dare to reach out a finger and touch the little fist that has broken from its wrapping and gives an unsteady wave. The tiny fingers wrap around mine and hold fast. He grabs hold of my soul at the same time, and I almost can’t breathe with the love that comes over me—but not my love for him. His love for me.

“He’s going to save us.” Mary’s voice holds an element of fear. She must truly have an idea of the true nature of the saving, though her people believe the Messiah will be a political conqueror who releases them from their bondage. I search her somber eyes and think she knows more than she is confident enough to say. But what mother would want to say it? She has just experienced the powerful nature of love that gripped her body, mind and being. It is the gift of God—the protective blessing of a mother’s love.

But Mary’s mother-love won’t be able to protect forever. I suspect she knows that.

I reach for her shoulders, intent that she hear my words. How many times had I longed for a chance to return in time and speak to her? “Mary, I’m so thankful for you, and that you are willing to do this. To spend your all on this little one, knowing he belongs to the whole world, and to all of time and eternity. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be you right now, knowing the price of our sin, knowing God is hiding somewhere in that bit of baby flesh. God is going to get you through this. He’s going to give you exactly as much grace as you need to do this. And we’ll all be thanking you thousands of years after you’ve done it.”

She lifts eyes brimming with tears. I sense she understands. She gives a quick nod. We sit in silence after that. Shepherds come and go, and Joseph wakes to check on them. Eventually dawn begins a tug of war with the light of the star, and inevitably the sun wins the battle.

When day comes, Joseph packs their belongings and prepares to move his family out of the stable. Their day will be routine, dull and irritating. They will wait in lines to register and pay taxes to a king who doesn’t care about them. They will find a place to stay. In a few days they will walk into the temple and have their son dedicated. In the meantime there will be meals to fix and fires to build and animals to care for. They will talk about money, about travel plans, about friends and family they have left back home. They will make decisions about what to do to care for the little Messiah who has been sent, for whatever divine reason, into their humble, struggling family.

But Mary will know the whole time. She will see that dark spot on the horizon, and she will be altered because of it. How could she not? I see her ultimate sacrifice, and though it will pale in comparison to the suffering destined to come upon him, hers will not be small or trite.

“Thank you,” I say one more time before they walk away. I go back the way I came, toward the place where vision meets dream, and dream meets waking, safe and sound in my own comfortable bed.

I remember the last glance I stole of my Savior. I know they say newborns don’t smile.

But that one did.