Christmas gift shines from the light on a 'silent night'

[This column originally appeared in the Friday, December 18, 2009 edition of The Daily Dispatch. We believe that our readers will enjoy what we hope to make an annual tradition.]

Christmas Moon arrived for her annual visit early on the holiday morn. Bowing to the still Earth — cloaked by the cold breath of Winter — the sliver of Christmas Moon cascaded over the frame of a newly built house surrounded by barren fields.

“Merry Christmas,” said Christmas Moon, illuminating this sacred morn with the accompaniment of a host of star-glittering winks.

“Merry Christmas,” answered the infant House, as faint puffs of gray smoke waved greetings from her freshly bricked chimney.

“Tell me, young House,” Christmas Moon said to the structure modeling a coat of fresh white paint, “what do you see from within your sturdy walls anew? What do you see of Christmas this very morn?”

The excitement of the home’s first Christmas beamed from within her timbers. House answered: “I see a father. I see the young man bent before a fireplace, his muscled arms and agile hands kindling a fire to warm his family on this most special of days.”

“Yes. I see this, too,” answered Christmas Moon, smiling on the newborn House. “What else do you see?”

“I see a mother, her nimble fingers sewing the last stitch of a doll’s dress.”

House continued sharing the early morning scene with Christmas Moon — shoeboxes filled with oranges, apples, raisins and nuts! All goodies the father purchased on the eve of this festive day.

Merriment-filled, House turned to her new friend.

“Tell me, Christmas Moon,” said the infant House. “What do you see?”

Wee-hour darkness already fading as sunrise threatened the silent night, Christmas Moon answered, “I see your youth. As I have seen others in their youth.”

Confused, House replied, “I do not understand.”

And as Sun broke forth, Christmas Moon whispered, “But one day you will.”

Christmas Moon disappeared, and House soon felt the quick steps of excited bare feet as they met her chilled floors.

As the seasons passed, House and Christmas Moon reunited early every Christmas morning. And each year, their communion began the same.

“Merry Christmas,” said Christmas Moon, her greeting illuminating a few faded shingles.

“Merry Christmas,” answered the maturing House to her annual visitor.

“Tell me, House,” began Christmas Moon, “what do you see from within your sturdy walls? What do you see of Christmas this very morning?”

House answered, “I see a father. His steady hands are building a fire for his visiting children this Christmas morn.”

“Yes. I see this, too,” answered Christmas Moon to her friend. “Tell me, growing House, what else do you see?”

Saddened, House answered, “I see a mother. I see her praying for her son, who is away battling a war in foreign lands. And I see the silent worry on her husband’s face, as he continues to build the fire. “

After a moment of silence, House looked to Christmas Moon.

“Tell me, Christmas Moon,” House began. “What do you see?” “I see that you have grown older. Still, I see there are things you have yet to learn.”

Confused, House replied, “I do not understand.”

And as the sun invaded their privacy as he did each holiday, Christmas Moon whispered, “But one day you will.”

As the ancient moon disappeared, House felt the quick steps of mother and father, preparing breakfast for their now grown children; those who were present, at least.

The Christmas communions of Moon and House continued as each year passed.

“Merry Christmas,” said Christmas Moon, illuminating the sacred morn over a weathered House clearly showing her age.

“Merry Christmas,” answered House, as faint puffs of grey smoke waved greetings from her chimney, now missing a few bricks.

“Tell me, seasoned House,” said Christmas Moon. “What do you witness from within your great walls? What do you see of Christmas this very morning?”

Excited by this Christmas, House answered, “I see a grandfather. I see the old man, silver-haired and with soft arms building the fire for his children and his grandchildren.”

“Yes. I see, too,” answered Christmas Moon. “What else do you see?”

“I see a grandmother. She’s hanging the final ornaments on a Christmas tree. And she’s wrapping boxes, filled with oranges, apples, raisins and nuts. All goodies the grandfather purchased on the eve of this great day.”

Satisfied with this most festive of morns, House turned to Christmas Moon.

“Tell me, Christmas Moon,” said House. “What is it that you see?”

Darkness quickly fading as sunrise, as always, threatened her peace.

Christmas Moon answered, “I see you have grown older, as I have seen others grow older. And yet, I see you have more to learn.”

Confused, House creaked, “I do not understand.”

And as the sun broke forth, Christmas Moon whispered, “But one day you will.”

As Christmas Moon disappeared, the old House felt the quick step of excited bare feet as they met her chilled floors.

Several years later, Christmas Moon arrived for her annual communion with House, accompanied by glimmering stars who’d long shifted since their first meeting.

But no smoke waved greetings to Christmas Moon. House, her foundation slumped, paint chipped and windowpanes cracked, sat quiet among the barren fields.

“House?” called Christmas Moon.

But House did not answer.

“House,” Christmas Moon called out again. “Tell me, what you have seen? Tell me what you have witnessed within your old walls.”

And with that, House began to cry.

“I have heard the excited shouts of children, whose bare feet met my chilled floors each Christmas morn. I’ve watched these children grow to become parents themselves, and I’ve felt their children’s bare feet on my chilled floors. I’ve seen boxes of oranges, apples, raisins and nuts – handmade presents and homemade feasts. I’ve seen great trees, adorned with lights and ornaments. And I’ve seen them all come, and I’ve seen them all go. I’ve seen a mother and father turn into a grandmother and grandfather. And I’ve seen them go away, too.”

Through tears, House cried, “Tell me, Christmas Moon, tell me what else is there for me to see?”

Christmas Moon bent before House, illuminating her torn-shingled-roof, and began:

“On this very night, many years ago, I saw a young man, in search of a place to rest his wife, who was soon to deliver their first son. I watched as this infant, the Son of God, lay in a manger of hay, worshiped by kings, His promise of peace heralded by Heaven’s angels. I watched as the infant Son of God grew into a man, a healer, deliverer from evil — our Savior. And I’ve cried, as you are now, to see this Savior suffer crucifixion at the hand of man.”

The old House listened.

“I have seen loss, just as have you, ancient House. Yet I have seen the resurrection. I have seen love — the greatest love that grants us reason to celebrate life, despite such sadness.”

At that moment, House comprehended the meaning of this great life – she finally understood Christmas Moon.

And as the darkness faded into sunrise, the fallen House, never before silent on the inside, heard the heavens singing for the first time that Christmas morning. It was the most magnificent of any sound she’d ever heard. Despite the life and beauty that had lived for generations within her once-strong walls, none could match the splendor of this chorus. And suddenly, the house no longer felt old, no longer worn and collapsing. And as House said farewell to Christmas Moon, she joined the angels in singing:

Christ is the Lord;

Let ever, ever praise we;

Noel, Noel;

O night, o night divine;

Noel, Noel;

O night, o night divine.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Christmas gift shines from the light on a ‘silent night’

Listen to your own song, Elizabeth

Few topics blaze the headlines these days like the John Edwards political sex scandal — a scandal that has cast his wife, Elizabeth, into a media-blitzed spotlight.

The mere mention of Elizabeth Edwards' name elicits varied reactions, following the release of Andrew Young’s book, “The Politician.” The former top aide to John Edwards not only details the tabloid sex scandal that publicly emerged two years ago — he unflatteringly portrays Elizabeth Edwards alongside her husband.

Despite these recent events, the name Elizabeth Edwards doesn’t evoke such adverse associations within me. Instead, it awakens my memories of an unlikely graduation commencement message that still resonates nearly six years following its delivery.

It was the culmination of my college career — one that had been interrupted midway as I journeyed the railroad tracks of Europe to “discover myself.” And oddly, I had found myself — back home, working to pay off my accrued debt. Such reality had proved unromantic, and so I had returned to college. My parents’ persistent prayers answered, I was finally graduating.

Although thrilling, it was a day permeated by uncertainty. My future seemed somewhat directionless. And as my Peace College classmates and I sweltered in the May morning’s heat, I questioned both what lay ahead and why bathing suits weren’t deemed appropriate attire beneath graduation robes.

I remember fanning myself with a graduation program, periodically flipping its contents for amusement as Elizabeth Edwards approached the podium. The year was 2004, and soon her husband would accept the Democratic Party’s vice presidential nomination following an unsuccessful bid for president.

Her speech was entitled “Listen to Your Own Song.” She said it was a message we would seldom hear. And to date, I have not heard it repeated.

It was not a speech outlined in expectations. No such missive. Conversely, Edwards instructed my classmates and I to ignore the infinite expectations of others and to make our own choices. She charged us not to concern ourselves with the imposed expectations of family, community, nation and world; instead, she charged us to hold tight to our own sense of what was right. And not let go of it. Being true to ourselves, to our ethical core, and to our individual dreams would be our refuge, she said.

That would be our song.

Over the years, I have often discovered Edwards’ charge a difficult one to follow.

Through failed attempts, I have discovered that upholding one’s song is perhaps the greatest test in this life.

Nothing fully prepares one for the moment, if one dares, to halt taking cues from others and instead charge forward for one’s self — thus cultivating one’s own song.

I’ve experienced both pleasure and, more often times disappointment, by pursuing my own song’s rhythm, always influenced by my choices. With each failure, I have learned the necessity of evaluating all choices, and often, to ensure they represent the sort of song worth singing.

The times in my life when I’ve felt “lost” were the times I wasn’t being true to myself, my ethical core, or my individual dreams.

During these times, I believed my song had permanently disappeared — yet was thrilled when the familiar melody eased its way back into the very spirit of my life.

In adverse times, and my own failings, I revisit Edwards’ message — specifically one line that has stuck with me since its delivery:

“Don’t ever be afraid to say that this is not the path I meant to take; I need to get it right; don’t ever be afraid to start over and get it right.”

Edwards’ message, delivered on the front lawn of my alma mater, was the dial of a compass pointing with clarity in one definite direction — within the very spirit of every young woman seated before her.

And as Edwards faces adversities, I hope she will remember the charge she imprinted on the lives of the Peace College class of 2004 —- that she will listen to her own song. Hers. And to not let go of it.


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Listen to your own song Elizabeth