Christmas nostalgia, a bit of sadness, joy that is incomplete

Now I am in the stable. I bend to touch the straw on the ground, bring a handful to my nose and breathe in deep, pick out a single piece and stick it in my mouth, bite down on the hollow stalk that tastes of something I cannot name, and salt.

Where are you? Running your hand along the splintered wood of the wall? Writing your name in trough-water mud with the toe of your boot? Over petting the cow, whose coat is moist in the heat? Maybe in a moment I will join you -- I have always wanted to feel the fur, but never quite gotten close enough.

But first -- we turn. The woman kneels there, a lock of her hair falling over one of her shoulders, curling ever so slightly at the end. She is tired but too amazed to care, and what does it mean to be clothed with the sun, and what else does she do on this night, before and after the moment that nameless artist must have wandered in, right? And set down his stool and carved the first manger scene, freezing her forever on her on her knees worshipping?

The man is there, too, rubs his nose, runs his hand through his hair, looks at her and smiles without realizing it. He stands -- no, he kneels, too -- knees to the ground not moving, this man who knows his Savior. "What is man?" does he wonder, I wonder? Then --

Do you recognize him? The baby? Like the Eucharist -- yes, I remember what that one man said -- "he stares at me and I stare back." My heart beats: "Upset my too-small certainties," tiny One. I love what Wendy Beckett wrote: "All he wants is that we accept, suffer, be involved, be left defenseless."

He is defenseless, arms at his sides, reaching up to me. I am left defenseless, arms at my sides, holding nothing. This open mouth, this lack of words, this feet-apart standing, I know -- we all want to be left defenseless.

Does he cry, does he coo, does he smile, does it matter? I have always wondered, and here is my answer. A baby in a manger crib. A baby in a manger crib.

Father Alberto told me that if at Christmas there is a bit of nostalgia, a bit of sadness, perhaps it is because there is a joy, but it is not yet complete. Whoever wrote the line in Numbers understood when they said it like this, "I see him, though not now; I behold him, though not near." I will accept this, enter in -- what a beautiful gift you give to me.

What do we do when we leave the stable? What is there to do? On one hand, nothing. On the other, everything. I step into the night air and blink for what is maybe the first time.