Silent Night?

I’m having a delightfully busy day as I prepare for my children and grandchildren to begin arriving, some of the families staying overnight for a night or two and my daughter’s family from Texas arriving this evening and staying for two weeks. I’ve cleaned and baked and prepared food, all with a joyous heart as I anticipate their arrival. Tomorrow I will attend a Christmas Eve service and it will close with the beautiful singing of “Silent Night” as all in attendance borrow flames from a person nearby and the room fills with the glow of lit candles. I usually get teary during this, which is likely no surprise to anyone who knows me since I cry when I’m happy, sad, angry and when I laugh too much. So…yeah, I get teary. But I was thinking about that today. My tears aren’t usually attached to the arrival of the Christ-child, although I’m endlessly grateful for the salvation his arrival affords me. It’s often just the beauty of the song, the atmosphere created around me and the memories attached to it as I envision my younger children standing next to me with their candles lit and eyes bright with the wonder of the season. I miss that terribly and when my heart is exploding with loving memories like that it comes out in tears. The song “Silent Night” is a lovely tune, but I have to chuckle to myself when I consider the likelihood of Jesus’ arrival actually being a silent night. The busy town was packed with visitors arriving for the census. They were in a stable with a bunch of animals who likely made their presence known. Mary gave physical birth. That’s rarely a quiet event. Jesus was a baby. Babies cry. Yet somehow I get it. In the chaos around this heavenly arrival, a silence stilled the night. All heaven held its breath as Mary pushed the very son of God into this world. Messiah was here. The noise didn’t matter. With the arrival of this child came the peace, hope and joy all of mankind is seeking. The one part of the song “Silent Night” that does bring tears of eternal gratitude is in the third verse when it says, “Radiant beams from Thy holy face with the dawn of redeeming grace, Jesus Lord, at Thy birth.” Redeeming grace. That’s what arrived on that noisy but silent night. If you, like me and so many across the globe, attend a candlelight service tomorrow, don’t just get lost in the beauty and nostalgia as I’m sometimes likely to do. Consider the miracle. The Christ child is here for you. Amidst the chaos of the world around you, allow that truth to bring you a silent night of wonder and gratitude. Merry Christmas, dear reader!