Eleven Days to Christmas...

        Do forgive me, my friends, we are once again in that glorious time of year, and I began it by forgetting that it was twelve days to Christmas yesterday. So, this year, we shall have eleven carols of Christmas!
    There we are.

    This week began with something that North Carolina rarely sees before Christmas and hardly ever beholds for more than a day.
   It snowed. Not only that, it snowed for two days in succession, on and off, and we got about eight inches in total, highly irregular, but greatly appreciated by me at least. There was a bit of disappointment at first regarding an event, it caused me to miss, but in the end, I was able to simply enjoy this, frosty and beautiful commodity we receive so little hereabouts.

    It was nice to have snow on the ground and Christmas decorations set about, it made me feel like I was in one of Thomas Kinkade's paintings, which, in spite of everything, I love so very much. One distinctive feature of snow is that it muffles sound, greatly quieting the overall aural atmosphere. As I tramped along through the woods and snow covered pathways of the park behind my house, I noticed that I couldn't hear so clearly the cars zooming along main street, or coasting down Granite Blvd. all was still and peaceful, I could hear the birds twittering, probably in confusion over the foreign white, fluffy ice, and the occasional slither of branches relieving themselves of an overabundance of snowflakes. That was it, and there in the silence, I began to understand why Christmas and snow have been so seamlessly wedded, and why the trope continues to persist in spite of contrary historical data perversely warm weather patterns.

      It's true that one thing about Jesus's birth on that night(or day) so long ago was that it was as inconspicuous and quietly managed as the falling snow is an understated white and muffles rather than creates sound. When Jesus was born there weren't any fireworks, kings standing around with bated breath, columns being feverishly typed up in the Bethlehem Times about a newborn monarch. Nobody knew, and, if possible, even fewer cared. For many people his birth was going to be a regular nuisance. And it was only the despised Shepherds and Eastern foreigners who were let in on the secret. "Still" is certainly a word to describe the incarnation.

     It's certainly an example to myself, and a lesson regarding inconspicuous entrances, slow beginnings, mundane experiences. We like to be Cinderella arriving so fashionably late to the ball that every eye is turned on her. We like to be the lightning in the sky that announces its preeminence with a thunderous boom. Nobody wants to be the snow, falling without a sound, nothing colorful or distinct about it, ignored and regarded as a bother, and yet snow is one of the most beautiful and awe inspiring phenomenons of creation.

     Maybe think about that as you listen to this beautiful Austrian Carol which makes an allusion to snow, and allusion to Christ's birth and an allusion to his coming without ever actually stating much of anything substantial. And yet, it's beauty lies in that it captures a feeling I imagine must have been present that night when Mary laid her baby in the manger, or the shepherds gathered round the infant in innocent wonder.
     Think about the ignominy of that day, and rejoice in the beauty and wonder of a silent night and the peace brought forth by a babe in a manger.

     I'll see you tomorrow for a more coherent post.

       Happy Advent.


 ~ Christianna