It is some time around 4 AM and I am walking home under a blaze of white stars, after my "shift" in our isolation unit, where nearly 1/3 of our babies are currently housed. Since I am spending most of my time home with the girls (as we brought them into our home December 05), I am working some of the overnight shifts when the girls are sleeping and won't be upset with my being gone.
Just past midnight as I was leaning over a crib changing yet another runny diaper, Nick Stolberg called out a "Merry Christmas", joking that the first package I opened for Christmas was filled with poop. Nice.
Now I am heading back through the dark with my little LED flashlight to sleep for a few hours before the girls wake and need my full attention. My feet crunch on the gravel beneath and as I allow my eyes to leave their tarantula scanning to glance up, I am awed at the expanse above. I stand still for a moment, turn off my flashlight, and soak in the grandeur. One delicious moment before fatigue (and maybe a teeny tiny bit of fear of what could be creeping in the dark) pulls me back to the ground I stand on.
I walk on thinking about how unlike "Christmas" this day and the ones leading up to it have felt. I have had moments in the chaos this past week of feeling sorry for myself wondering when we will have a window of time as a family to open our few presents, or feeling sad that I have not had enough room to really decorate for Christmas, and maybe a little miffed that the lights I ordered never showed up in the mail. No time for Christmas baking, no parties, no programs, no cheery gatherings with the family. No glitter, tinsel, sparkle, or cold, clean snow. Only the gritty, hard world of Haiti pressing so near the compound gate and now smothering us with babies sick with Cholera. Christmas does not feel sparkly or special this year. It feels raw.
I was reading first John 1 - Jesus took on fleshly form and decided to dwell with us. God in his eternal, brilliant, perfection decided to stoop into the grit of the world he created and become one of us -- how raw and unimportant his birth was to poor, unpolished, broken people in broken times, not in a comfortable home decorated for the season, but likely in a feeding trough with the smell of dung and warm animals around. Not too glamourous a start...
I have found myself aware of "missing Christmas" the past few weeks and thought about what exactly I am missing. Family, friends, beauty? Yes, all of that, but Christmas? I have started to think I am closer to Christmas than any other time or place in my life. Here, in Haiti, where hope of new creation and rebirth are not tidy theological thoughts I find God, oh SO present; Emanuel - God with us, so real.
My need for fullness becomes greater with each passing day of struggle, and as I walk through a million cricket chorus I can imagine the angels suddenly illuminating the night sky with glorious truth to some simple guys hanging out with their dozing herds. In this moment I realize I am celebrating Christmas in my heart, with the cry of fragile life fresh in my ears. I know beyond all understanding that God is present in this mess, and here with me and these sick kids and weary staff, and has come to bring hope and joy. and usher in his kingdom of peace!
Come quickly Lord Jesus!
