Sharon, Mary and the Innkeeper
Get ready for some touching Christmas reading, written by my way-back college friend Sharon Mangus for her home-town paper in Indiana.
I know not always how God comes,
but God comes:
in an obscure stable,
in splashing waters,
in the breaking of bread,
and often my friend, incarnate in you;
for God, I believe, still comes in the
flesh, in people. Now and always, may
Christ within you keep you a sign of
living love, and love living among us.
---Bonnie Belasic
Growing up in southern Indiana in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, I never experienced a Christmas Eve service at a Protestant church—that was the dominion of the Catholics back then. Midnight mass with incense, candles, chanting, and covering your head seemed exotic to my Baptist sensibilities. Protestants and Catholics didn’t mingle much in those days. In the Donna Reed era, we Americans not only held tight to separation of church and state, we were pretty firm on separation of church and church too. But despite the lack of Baptist fanfare on Christmas Eve, every year my mother made an effort to distract my sisters and me long enough from thoughts of Santa to read the age-old story of Jesus’ birth. I can still see mom in her robe, curled up on the sofa, Bible on her lap like an anchor. The anticipation of Christmas morning was almost more than three little girls could bear, but we usually stretched out on the floor and at least half listened to the narrative from Matthew. I always had a problem with that innkeeper. How in the world could anyone deny a room to a lady ready to have a baby any minute, especially one who had ridden on the back of a donkey for miles through the desert? One thing I knew for sure: I would NEVER be like that mean-spirited innkeeper. I would’ve found room somewhere for that tired and weary couple.
But on Christmas Eve 1997, an opportunity to play the part of the innkeeper presented itself to me, and I failed my audition miserably. I got flustered when I saw Mary in need at a 7/11 store that night; I hesitated a moment too long, and I missed my chance to make a difference.
I encountered Mary at the end of a miserable Christmas vacation. As parents in the age of overindulgence, my husband and I had treated our teen-aged sons to a Colorado ski trip for the holidays. The trip was supposed to be the vacation of a lifetime, but as all “perfectly” made plans are wont to do, our family’s trip went awry. One son was nursing a broken heart from his first failed romance; the other was full of adolescent angst due to lack of direction in his life. They didn’t support each other in their sorrows. The weather in Breckenridge was bad for skiing. Try as we could, Mom and Dad could not make the boys happy. Arguments mounted, and tension crackled like the fire in the condo fireplace. The ride back to Denver was less than jolly. None of us had much to say to each other on the plane back to Indiana. It was Christmas Eve. Mentally weary from the emotional strain, and physically tired from a full day’s travel, we headed home from the airport. The night was dark and drizzly. The needle of the gas gauge was pointing to empty. We stopped at a mini-mart in Franklin near midnight to fill up our tank, but nothing, it seemed, would fill our empty spirits.
And then I saw Mary. She wasn’t a glowing Christmas Card Mary. She looked weary that night too—pale and thin, with stringy uncombed hair and a jacket much too thin for the cold damp Indiana weather. Standing in line at the register, the garish white light played over her. Her rough chapped hands tightly clasped a couple of cheap plastic toys. The kind of trifling toys that overindulgent parents might’ve put in their children’s Christmas stockings. No, probably not. The quality wasn’t quite up to snuff for the Santa that visited homes of the overindulgent.
A radiant moment of opportunity presented itself, and the mother who had too much, hesitated—unsure of what approach to take with the mother who had too little. Uncertainty prevailed that Christmas Eve. The mother who had too much vacillated and was indecisive. And so …she did nothing. The innkeeper moment God placed in her path that night passed by quickly, and was left unfulfilled.
The mother who had too much cried softly the rest of the trip home. She felt miserable for falling short, and was grieved that her angry son had observed her fumbling lack of compassion and generosity.
Years have passed, and this mother still carries the weight of that missed opportunity. I still look for Mary every December. I always find her when I’m willing to slow down my holiday hustling long enough to hear that still, small voice of God. But no matter how many Mary’s this overindulgent mother has met and ministered to in the ensuing years, she’ll never forget the one she met at a 7/11 in Franklin. God comes to us with opportunities when we least expect it. Sometimes He’s there in a rough stable, and sometimes He’s in line at a mini-mart. You just never know. Try and keep a spare room ready.
I know not always how God comes,
but God comes:
in an obscure stable,
in splashing waters,
in the breaking of bread,
and often my friend, incarnate in you;
for God, I believe, still comes in the
flesh, in people. Now and always, may
Christ within you keep you a sign of
living love, and love living among us.
---Bonnie Belasic
Growing up in southern Indiana in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, I never experienced a Christmas Eve service at a Protestant church—that was the dominion of the Catholics back then. Midnight mass with incense, candles, chanting, and covering your head seemed exotic to my Baptist sensibilities. Protestants and Catholics didn’t mingle much in those days. In the Donna Reed era, we Americans not only held tight to separation of church and state, we were pretty firm on separation of church and church too. But despite the lack of Baptist fanfare on Christmas Eve, every year my mother made an effort to distract my sisters and me long enough from thoughts of Santa to read the age-old story of Jesus’ birth. I can still see mom in her robe, curled up on the sofa, Bible on her lap like an anchor. The anticipation of Christmas morning was almost more than three little girls could bear, but we usually stretched out on the floor and at least half listened to the narrative from Matthew. I always had a problem with that innkeeper. How in the world could anyone deny a room to a lady ready to have a baby any minute, especially one who had ridden on the back of a donkey for miles through the desert? One thing I knew for sure: I would NEVER be like that mean-spirited innkeeper. I would’ve found room somewhere for that tired and weary couple.
But on Christmas Eve 1997, an opportunity to play the part of the innkeeper presented itself to me, and I failed my audition miserably. I got flustered when I saw Mary in need at a 7/11 store that night; I hesitated a moment too long, and I missed my chance to make a difference.
I encountered Mary at the end of a miserable Christmas vacation. As parents in the age of overindulgence, my husband and I had treated our teen-aged sons to a Colorado ski trip for the holidays. The trip was supposed to be the vacation of a lifetime, but as all “perfectly” made plans are wont to do, our family’s trip went awry. One son was nursing a broken heart from his first failed romance; the other was full of adolescent angst due to lack of direction in his life. They didn’t support each other in their sorrows. The weather in Breckenridge was bad for skiing. Try as we could, Mom and Dad could not make the boys happy. Arguments mounted, and tension crackled like the fire in the condo fireplace. The ride back to Denver was less than jolly. None of us had much to say to each other on the plane back to Indiana. It was Christmas Eve. Mentally weary from the emotional strain, and physically tired from a full day’s travel, we headed home from the airport. The night was dark and drizzly. The needle of the gas gauge was pointing to empty. We stopped at a mini-mart in Franklin near midnight to fill up our tank, but nothing, it seemed, would fill our empty spirits.
And then I saw Mary. She wasn’t a glowing Christmas Card Mary. She looked weary that night too—pale and thin, with stringy uncombed hair and a jacket much too thin for the cold damp Indiana weather. Standing in line at the register, the garish white light played over her. Her rough chapped hands tightly clasped a couple of cheap plastic toys. The kind of trifling toys that overindulgent parents might’ve put in their children’s Christmas stockings. No, probably not. The quality wasn’t quite up to snuff for the Santa that visited homes of the overindulgent.
A radiant moment of opportunity presented itself, and the mother who had too much, hesitated—unsure of what approach to take with the mother who had too little. Uncertainty prevailed that Christmas Eve. The mother who had too much vacillated and was indecisive. And so …she did nothing. The innkeeper moment God placed in her path that night passed by quickly, and was left unfulfilled.
The mother who had too much cried softly the rest of the trip home. She felt miserable for falling short, and was grieved that her angry son had observed her fumbling lack of compassion and generosity.
Years have passed, and this mother still carries the weight of that missed opportunity. I still look for Mary every December. I always find her when I’m willing to slow down my holiday hustling long enough to hear that still, small voice of God. But no matter how many Mary’s this overindulgent mother has met and ministered to in the ensuing years, she’ll never forget the one she met at a 7/11 in Franklin. God comes to us with opportunities when we least expect it. Sometimes He’s there in a rough stable, and sometimes He’s in line at a mini-mart. You just never know. Try and keep a spare room ready.
posted by Laer at 9:08 AM
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