I’m writing on the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. A wise time to go within… to listen for the crisp call of angels. As the light fades to gray, a bright red bird perches in a dark, barren tree. Now, all things are more easily seen. The air leans hard against us, heavy and cold. On this silent night, I anoint myself with myrrh, a gift from a modern magi. The faint earthen smell travels wearily through my house, the place I call my nest. The gift is a comfort on this dark night. I imagine that very same smell lingering in the home of the holy family when the angel again appeared, this time with a dire warning.*
As the star-telling magi are making their way home by another way, the young parents, having just received the finest gifts for their son, run for their lives. The angels provide early cover, a divine advantage. Mary leans against Joseph as he pulls her close, the baby quiet at her breast. She wished her heart could settle so she could eat like her son. “What have we done?” whispered the young father to himself as they ride. Their lives would go dormant for many seasons, hiding in a strange land.
It was this week, all those years ago, that my mother got sick for the final time. The passageway between the birth of a Christ child and the light of Epiphany was the hardest one for her. For all of us. I did not see or hear angels, but she did. After she died, a friend who helped her decorate for Christmas that year, told me that she only wanted to put angels out. One of them sits upon my beside table now. On my desk is a porcelain statue of Mary holding her child, looking down in adoration. I recognize that gaze. I would like to think that the angels came to mom, just as they did to those young parents, with the news that it was time to leave. A graceful exit provided.
For the young refugees, the angels of their salvation spoke often enough for them to believe that they were traveling right alongside. It was the angel’s call to do so. Whispering in their ears when they could, pausing to let them catch their breath, showing them the safe channel within the river of great pain and love. It was the size of their hearts, nearly bigger than the passageway itself, that led them. It was the struggle of giving birth to their true selves, or a movement of great change. The angels provided the path, though they cannot walk it. That is our call, and why we were made. Chosen children, all of us.
*Matthew 2:13-23, The Message
–Jim Marsh, Jr.
