her most was her aloneness in it.
Time alone and aloneness could not be more different. While time alone can be rich with reflection and calm, aloneness is fraught with isolation and sorrow. And while I know countless people who pine for a bit of time alone in the Christmas bustle, I know not one who was seeking the suffering of aloneness. In fact, the Christmas story gently directs us, one and all, that aloneness has no place in God’s design. For there, deep within the supernatural angel-filled miracle of God attending earth in human form, are a few ragtag pedestrians there not by chance but by heavenly providence.
There is much theological deliberation as to why angels would reserve their astounding announcement of the birth of a Saviour for the unlikeliest of recipients. Shepherds literally and figuratively existed in the furthest margins of society and were considered lower class, with little influence. Even still, they were the chosen firsts to receive “good news that will cause great joy for all the people” (Luke 2:10). Clearly, shepherd imagery is sacred throughout Scripture. Perhaps the grandest words of comfort known to humankind come from the 23rd Psalm, beginning with “The LORD is my shepherd.” And in the New Testament, Jesus declares himself “the good shepherd” to Pharisees too filled with fear and ignorance to understand (John 10:11). Of course, Abraham, Moses and David had all been shepherds who’d received the promise of deliverance, perhaps synergetic to the honour of the angel’s broadcast and an angelic choir’s chorus. Ultimately, Christian scholars generally agree that the angels’ extraordinary announcement and song delivered to those who were considered socially, politically and economically unimportant is God’s profound statement that there is no one too lowly or insignificant for His abounding love and light. So, I find little fuss in understanding the “why.” But I find great intrigue in the “what for.”
There are no degrees hanging on my walls that would suggest I might have any scholarly insight into any of this. In fact, among scholars, metaphorically I am merely a shepherd. Even so—or maybe because of this—I find myself brazen in light of God’s acceptance of my own ineptness and can’t help but think out loud that much of it is simply about the blessing of presence. Bringing humble assurance. Providing warm affirmation.
Who can even begin to imagine how Mary felt when the angel Gabriel shocked her with his astonishing appearance and then with his unthinkable message? How could anyone subscribe to the words of an angel met in an apparent dream, as Joseph did? And still, both accepted their bewildering and divine appointment. Surely, all of this serves as the ultimate example of what it is to trust God beyond all human rationale. And so there is no doubt in my mind they would have carried on to the manger in Bethlehem with or without the whole shepherd scene.
But it didn’t go down that way. Those shepherds had a sweet role to play, unbeknownst to them as it was.
The gift of their presence.
For when they arrived in Bethlehem, jazzed and jabbering to anyone who would listen about what they’d been told and by whom, Mary “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). Words, tone, the comfort of affirmation and simple presence—to treasure and estimate the worth of in her heart.
I never learned the name of the young woman at the laundromat. I stayed just long enough for her to pull herself together and complete her laundry. Clearly, she was in great need of expert direction and counsel for the days, weeks and months ahead. But on this night, what she needed most was a friend. Not a poor substitute found in a stranger in a strange costume—but a real friend. The kind of friend that Henri Nouwen calls out in his book Out of Solitude:
When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions or cures, have chosen to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in our hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing…not healing, not curing…that is a friend who cares!
Or perhaps a friend who would simply join in folding laundry on Christmas Eve. Oh, that we might choose to be that kind of friend.
But even if not a friend, that we would always choose to be a people that bring the presence of a kind word and tender heart to all those we encounter. To friends, loved ones and strangers alike.
For whatever reason, I have never felt I pass muster to receive indisputably bold signs from God as I hope and guess my way through life. No flashes of light, writing on the wall or booming voices. While this is treason to the very theology I subscribe to—that God might choose to guide even me in such a manner—it remains a reality of my own insecurity. So I am shy to look for them and lack the confidence to ask for them. Rather, I am glued to the notion of God taking care of me in my smallness through gentle words of encouragement, simple acts of kindness or the warmness of acceptance. Often from a friend, or loved one. But, too, surprisingly often from an acquaintance or even a complete stranger. Simply, thoughtful gestures and generous words received as gifts, regardless of the source. Much of my wellness, and all of my journey, has been the result of these. And so, if I was ever challenged to stake a claim on a single notion of who God might want me to be, or any of us to be—prolific champion of the faith and resounding voice of leadership versus lowly participant in godly goodness—I would absolutely chance erring on the side of the latter. More shepherd than king.
Throughout our unusual twenty-minute encounter, I was able to guess at but one more thing. Her missing lambs on Christmas Eve were likely a little girl and a little boy. For the final portion of her folding was what appeared to be a single set of little girl’s pajamas and a single set of little boy’s pajamas. Folded slowly and lovingly, with the boy’s pajamas placed on top of the pile. Tiny soft flannel pajamas imprinted with several images of a single familiar face. Perhaps a face that will always remind her little boy of being home, as he grows, as he ponders, wherever he might be. A friendly face I had come to know so well during my own little-boy years.
Fred Flintstone.
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REFLECTION AND DISCUSSION
The Value of a Quiet Presence
“I have no doubt that ultimately the best recipe for truly binding up the broken-hearted includes fewer words, slower movements and a quieter presence than most of us cook up.” We live in a hyper-public culture of “love flash mobs” and orchestrated events where we record and share in some of the most private, vulnerable and sacred of moments. In such a culture, there is tremendous value in choosing to be a quiet presence, gentle in our approach and quiet in our generosity and kindness. There is beauty in kindness for its own sake, especially when there is no audience, choosing simple, thoughtful acts of kindness for one rather than for the masses.
So often the best gift we can give is simply to be present with someone, coming alongside them, creating space for them, honouring them and their story. Whomever we encounter, wherever we encounter them, a kind word, a hand on the shoulder could mean so much more than we know.
Can you think of someone in your life who has made you feel truly seen and understood? Who has created space for you and honoured your story?
What was it about them and their way of being with you that made you feel seen, heard, understood, honoured? What was it they did or didn’t do, said or didn’t say?
The Space in Between
Like in a laundromat by an intersection on Christmas Eve, often the most meaningful opportunities to come alongside someone as a quiet presence are not part of our plans at all. Most often, these opportunities show
