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Empty Manger
#1 · December 16, 2003, 6:38 am
Posted by: bigguyhereagain <bigguyhereagain@...>
<>< Empty Manager ><> 
Where is he? I rummaged through the box. The Christ Child was missing—just when I'd decided that putting up the Nativity scene my parents brought me from the Holy Land would finally get me into the Christmas mood.
As soon as I got home from the office I pulled out the box from the back of my closet and dug into the bundles of tissue paper. Two sheep of gold-brown wood, three stately wise men and a leggy camel, an ox and donkey and a stable with a star. Then came Joseph and Mary. But the Baby Jesus was missing. Forget setting up the crèche. I'd sit Christmas out this year.
The next morning I headed to work, my head down and hands thrust into my coat pockets, as if steeling myself for the onslaught of decorated store windows and tourists loaded down with red and green shopping bags. Somehow this year I was feeling not only melancholy, but overwhelmed and cynical. Had I simply grown immune to the annual epidemic of Christmas spirit?
That's when I saw her—the woman with the grimy green hat. She'd become a regular on my block, slouched and smoking in a doorway, or digging through a trash can. I guessed she slept at a homeless shelter, though occasionally I saw her sprawled on the steps of a nearby stone church. I'd volunteered in a soup kitchen for years and usually wasn't put off by street people. But this woman was hard to take, cursing passersby and shouting at cars. That day she lurched in front of me, thrusting out a swollen hand. "Got any money?" she rasped.
"No," I snapped. She took a step closer and I quickly crossed the street to get away from her. I found myself directly in front of the church. In a small concrete courtyard set off by a wrought-iron railing was the beautiful manger scene they put up every year. Wise men, shepherds, a man in a robe and a woman in blue all gazed down at a wooden manger filled with straw. And centered in the hay, plump arms open, lay a plaster Baby Jesus. A halo curved around his head in a golden crescent, swaddling clothes covered his infant midriff. Here was Baby Jesus, in the midst of corner delis and shoe stores, the hustle and bustle of city life flowing around him like a river.
I stopped and took it all in. For a fleeting instant I almost felt the old spark of Christmas. Then I heard her, the bag lady, yelling and cursing. Well, at least two of us in this city didn't have the spirit of the season in our hearts.
Yet over the following days I found myself passing by the church's crèche again, drawn perhaps to the simple, ancient scene to help make up for the incomplete one I refused to put up in my apartment.
I'd once written an article about Saint Francis of Assisi, the gentle and visionary monk who had created the first Nativity scene in 1223, in a cave on a mountainside in central Italy. At a time when only the wealthy were allowed into the church's inner sanctum, Francis was determined to emphasize the Christ Child's peasant birth and pay tribute to the humble animals Francis called "sister and brother." With his friend Giovanni di Velita, the lord of Greccio, Francis set up a simple hay-filled manger in a rocky crevice. Monks tethered an ox and donkey next to the empty crib.
On Christmas Eve worshipers came from miles around and processed up the mountain, carrying candles and torches that lit the velvety blackness like a galaxy of stars. The crowds gathered in hushed awe around the scene. Some onlookers reported they actually saw the form of Baby Jesus appear on the hay; one observer was sure that the glowing infant opened his eyes and smiled lovingly at Saint Francis.
How real the Christ Child was to those people, I thought the next time I passed my neighborhood Nativity scene. Here, centuries later, as the winter winds whistled, the absurd thought crossed my mind that the infant, covered only by a painted strip of swaddling clothes, might be cold. What a crazy idea, I thought, pulling my coat tighter around me, continuing down the block.
Christmas was only a few days away when I came hurrying up the street one sleety morning. From under my umbrella I glanced at the Nativity, then stopped. Mary and Joseph stood vigil, faithful as always—but over an empty manger. There was an indentation in the straw, but no baby.
I didn't know whether I wanted to cry, or shout and scream like the bag lady in the green hat. I couldn't believe someone would steal the Christ Child! Just like in my crèche at home, this baby was gone too.
The sleet spattered on my umbrella, and I headed down the street feeling completely dejected. Who would do such a dreadful thing? I was almost to the subway when out of the corner of my eye I saw a huddled form in an alley by a parking garage.
Hunched against the wall was the woman in the green hat. But she wasn't cursing or panhandling. She was bent protectively over a bundle in her arms wrapped in a blanket. As she rocked it back and forth, a corner of the blanket fell away and I saw a plump plaster arm, then the curve of a golden halo. Cuddling the infant even closer to her chest, she kissed its painted brow.
I stood watching, and for a split second I had the incredible notion that the baby opened its eyes and smiled up at the hovering woman. Then there was a gust of wind and the woman pulled up the blanket to shelter the baby. I could see her lips moving, and I heard a wisp of drifting melody, raspy but sweet on the frosty air. "Silent night, holy night . . . "
She never looked up; I never approached her. But I knew without a doubt that the spirit of the Christ Child had never been missing. It might be where I least expected it, but it was never far away. That weary woman and those rushing crowds were as much a part of the manger scene as the ungodly chaos and ineffable holiness in the little town of Bethlehem so many centuries ago.
I quickened my pace, then turned one more time before going into the subway station. The woman emerged from the alley and headed back toward the church, the infant figure still held lovingly in her arms and her green hat suddenly vivid against the gray cityscape.
That night the December sky gave way to an enormous white moon. I unwrapped my parents' Holy Land figures and arranged them on my mantel. The missing baby didn't bother me. Like the worshipers in the Middle Ages to whom Baby Jesus was so real that they saw him in an empty manger, I too knew his spirit was present—at the center of not just a single holiday season, but of my life.
As soon as I got home from the office I pulled out the box from the back of my closet and dug into the bundles of tissue paper. Two sheep of gold-brown wood, three stately wise men and a leggy camel, an ox and donkey and a stable with a star. Then came Joseph and Mary. But the Baby Jesus was missing. Forget setting up the crèche. I'd sit Christmas out this year.
The next morning I headed to work, my head down and hands thrust into my coat pockets, as if steeling myself for the onslaught of decorated store windows and tourists loaded down with red and green shopping bags. Somehow this year I was feeling not only melancholy, but overwhelmed and cynical. Had I simply grown immune to the annual epidemic of Christmas spirit?
That's when I saw her—the woman with the grimy green hat. She'd become a regular on my block, slouched and smoking in a doorway, or digging through a trash can. I guessed she slept at a homeless shelter, though occasionally I saw her sprawled on the steps of a nearby stone church. I'd volunteered in a soup kitchen for years and usually wasn't put off by street people. But this woman was hard to take, cursing passersby and shouting at cars. That day she lurched in front of me, thrusting out a swollen hand. "Got any money?" she rasped.
"No," I snapped. She took a step closer and I quickly crossed the street to get away from her. I found myself directly in front of the church. In a small concrete courtyard set off by a wrought-iron railing was the beautiful manger scene they put up every year. Wise men, shepherds, a man in a robe and a woman in blue all gazed down at a wooden manger filled with straw. And centered in the hay, plump arms open, lay a plaster Baby Jesus. A halo curved around his head in a golden crescent, swaddling clothes covered his infant midriff. Here was Baby Jesus, in the midst of corner delis and shoe stores, the hustle and bustle of city life flowing around him like a river.
I stopped and took it all in. For a fleeting instant I almost felt the old spark of Christmas. Then I heard her, the bag lady, yelling and cursing. Well, at least two of us in this city didn't have the spirit of the season in our hearts.
Yet over the following days I found myself passing by the church's crèche again, drawn perhaps to the simple, ancient scene to help make up for the incomplete one I refused to put up in my apartment.
I'd once written an article about Saint Francis of Assisi, the gentle and visionary monk who had created the first Nativity scene in 1223, in a cave on a mountainside in central Italy. At a time when only the wealthy were allowed into the church's inner sanctum, Francis was determined to emphasize the Christ Child's peasant birth and pay tribute to the humble animals Francis called "sister and brother." With his friend Giovanni di Velita, the lord of Greccio, Francis set up a simple hay-filled manger in a rocky crevice. Monks tethered an ox and donkey next to the empty crib.
On Christmas Eve worshipers came from miles around and processed up the mountain, carrying candles and torches that lit the velvety blackness like a galaxy of stars. The crowds gathered in hushed awe around the scene. Some onlookers reported they actually saw the form of Baby Jesus appear on the hay; one observer was sure that the glowing infant opened his eyes and smiled lovingly at Saint Francis.
How real the Christ Child was to those people, I thought the next time I passed my neighborhood Nativity scene. Here, centuries later, as the winter winds whistled, the absurd thought crossed my mind that the infant, covered only by a painted strip of swaddling clothes, might be cold. What a crazy idea, I thought, pulling my coat tighter around me, continuing down the block.
Christmas was only a few days away when I came hurrying up the street one sleety morning. From under my umbrella I glanced at the Nativity, then stopped. Mary and Joseph stood vigil, faithful as always—but over an empty manger. There was an indentation in the straw, but no baby.
I didn't know whether I wanted to cry, or shout and scream like the bag lady in the green hat. I couldn't believe someone would steal the Christ Child! Just like in my crèche at home, this baby was gone too.
The sleet spattered on my umbrella, and I headed down the street feeling completely dejected. Who would do such a dreadful thing? I was almost to the subway when out of the corner of my eye I saw a huddled form in an alley by a parking garage.
Hunched against the wall was the woman in the green hat. But she wasn't cursing or panhandling. She was bent protectively over a bundle in her arms wrapped in a blanket. As she rocked it back and forth, a corner of the blanket fell away and I saw a plump plaster arm, then the curve of a golden halo. Cuddling the infant even closer to her chest, she kissed its painted brow.
I stood watching, and for a split second I had the incredible notion that the baby opened its eyes and smiled up at the hovering woman. Then there was a gust of wind and the woman pulled up the blanket to shelter the baby. I could see her lips moving, and I heard a wisp of drifting melody, raspy but sweet on the frosty air. "Silent night, holy night . . . "
She never looked up; I never approached her. But I knew without a doubt that the spirit of the Christ Child had never been missing. It might be where I least expected it, but it was never far away. That weary woman and those rushing crowds were as much a part of the manger scene as the ungodly chaos and ineffable holiness in the little town of Bethlehem so many centuries ago.
I quickened my pace, then turned one more time before going into the subway station. The woman emerged from the alley and headed back toward the church, the infant figure still held lovingly in her arms and her green hat suddenly vivid against the gray cityscape.
That night the December sky gave way to an enormous white moon. I unwrapped my parents' Holy Land figures and arranged them on my mantel. The missing baby didn't bother me. Like the worshipers in the Middle Ages to whom Baby Jesus was so real that they saw him in an empty manger, I too knew his spirit was present—at the center of not just a single holiday season, but of my life.
Romans 15:13. "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace, as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."
Mary Ann O'Roark
Mary Ann O'Roark
<>< Lessons From Trees ><>
It's important to have roots.
In today's complex world, it pays to branch out.
If you really believe in something, don't be afraid to go out on a
limb.
limb.
Be flexible so you don't break when a harsh wind blows.
Sometimes you have to shed your old bark in order to grow.
If you want to maintain accurate records, keep a log.
It's okay to be a late bloomer.
Avoid people who would like to cut you down.
As you approach the autumn of your life, you will show your true
colors.
colors.
You could be Brilliant!
In other words "bloom where you are planted and make the best of
what you've got."
what you've got."
Have a Blessed Day
Dave and Barbara
Dave and Barbara
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