The star of Christmas

I pull a book out of the basket.  Sam is heavy and warm in my arms, and I stretch my arm down the side of the rocking chair and grab the hard worn cover of The Polar Express.  I turn the pages slowly, smiling at my littlest boy as I point out the large black train that fills the page.  We take our time, replace the book, and pull out another.

The whisk turns speedily through the batter, combining the colors of chocolate brown and butter white.  I click it off, hear the hum of the mixer taper off to silence, and draw the spatula along the sides of the bowl.  There is a satisfaction in watching the rubber slide along the metal sides, slicking off the fluffy mixture.

My coffee starts to cool as I sip it slowly, reading the story of Christmas from a Bible that is soft and malleable in my hands, the leather feeling old and new at the same time.  I remember what it felt like to hear it at age ten, sixteen, twenty-five.  It changes every time I read it; I can identify with the wise men some years and with Mary in others.  I treasure the words, holding them in my mind's eye and drinking them slowly, like my coffee.

At the white hot center of the star is where I find Christmas this year.  From the center is where all of a star's rays begin and where they travel to.  This is the cosmic pause, the epicenter of humanity.

Romans 8:22 says, "For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now."

Isaiah 53:7 predicts the suffering of Jesus: "He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth."

Creation groaned for Jesus.  There was inspiring victory and crushing rebellion.  There were so many stories of life and death and the painful renewing of it all, morning after morning as the sun chased the night away for generations, and as the darkness followed the day.

Jesus then groaned for creation, picking up his dusty feet through moment after moment, until we nailed him to a cross.  He died for us and for us He rose.

Consider the pace of our history; the blinding light speed race that has carried us like a baton through the rise and fall of kingdoms, nations, and individuals.

At the center of our story is a moment when the groaning, of childbirth itself, quieted.  Into the night came the cry of an infant.  Look into his face.

Put aside the to-do list, lay down your work and your worry, and accept the offer to hold the baby in your arms.  Accept a smile from Mary and take him, the answer to all of history's crying.

This is the colossal breath creation takes.  All of the star's points lead to his birth, and all of its rays come from him.  Yet, for a moment, everything stops.  Breathe in, breathe out.  There was a moment when everything had to wait.

Tomorrow is, for me, a celebration of this deep inhale.  I cannot stop time from passing, but I can remember that moment when Mary had only to care for him, nurture him, and wait.  My intention is to wait, to experience a moment of not moving so fast, to consent to the fact that in the manger there was the gentle rise and fall of his little chest, and everything that would come had to sit on the shelf.

If only for a moment.