The Hope of the Star
My granddaughter, Amelia, in her innocence, is enamored with the Nativity Story. She talks about Mary and Joseph and the birth of baby Jesus. She places straw in her makeshift crib “waiting” for Jesus to be born. She sings songs, looks to the night sky for the manger star, and adjusts her Advent calendar each day in anticipation for the big day - Christmas. Her wonder and enthusiasm are infectious. How fabulous that in the sweet seedlings of Amelia’s life, all will be well on Christmas morning. Honestly, I wish that pure hope of a child could linger forever.
Those of us a bit “older” know all is not right with the world. I admit I’ve been struggling a bit these past weeks. I’ve been trying to place building sadness for so many I know who’ve found themselves in the kind of struggle one would never invite. Lives destroyed by tornadoes, dreams threatened by blind-sighting diagnoses, and navigating this Holiday season with an empty seat at the table. My heart breaks. Sometimes it seems too much.
As many of you know, I write all the time about the possibility for good to rise despite sorrow. But, I was having a hard time and felt in a bit of a conundrum. How do I reconcile so much sadness and heartache with the call to be hopeful?
On a recent video call, my 6-year-old Amelia answered the phone with such excitement and proceeded take me on a tour of her house. She was glowing with Christmas spirit as she ran from room to room updating me on all the homemade Christmas décor. Even her designated seat in their family car was decorated with hanging ornaments and glitz. And then she told me a story. She could hardly get the words out in excitement as she reported a Santa sighting in the night sky; sleigh, reindeer and all. “Nona, it was really Santa!” I believed her, given the surety what Christmas magic means to her. So, what does Amelia have to do with my conundrum? She inspired me to take another look at the Nativity story and the sky they found themselves beneath.
I imagine the unknown. I think about their aloneness. I think they must have been afraid; having no assurance in what was around the bend. I try to place myself in the midst of their angst-filled voyage. Can you imagine their stress? And then, they looked up. The journey towards a most prominent manger was guided by the brightness of a star in the dark sky. For a moment, light and clarity propelled them forward. Amelia’s enthusiasm reminded me that the journey towards the iconic manger thousands of years ago was guided by a star in the night sky. They found their way by simply looking up.
I’ve reset myself a bit. Although the uninvited journeys for so many will remain heavy and laced with fear of the unknown, I do think there is something to be said about placing yourself beneath a vast sky and trusting in the glow the stars have to offer. When life gets hard and we threaten to sink into the unknown, we just have to remain illuminated by the presence of hope. There are millions of stars in the sky. I say find one to call your own and accept the invitation to join the ranks of many who are naming stars right along with you. Merry Christmas everyone, and remember, just keep looking up.