December is a month filled with story, the story of God reaching down in love. This month’s prompt asks you to share a story about Christmas. It can be funny, poignant, sad, or inspirational.
I know what people think about shepherds. Crude, smelly, and not very intellectual. Our lives are ordinary, even tedious. It's hot in the daytime and cold at night. Sheep are stupid animals - they get themselves into a lot of trouble if there's no one watching them. You can't be a shepherd and be lazy. It might not take much education, but it does take skill and perseverance. We shepherds usually work as a team and keep an eye out for each other's sheep. It's more efficient.
I like the nights best of all. We find a bit of shelter from the wind, perhaps against a big rock, and build a fire. There's conversation. Mixed in with the chitchat some serious debate goes on. Philosophy, you might call it. Life, love, and politics. On such a night my life changed.
The fire was dying down. I lay on my back, wrapped in my cloak, watching the stars. How far away they looked, and how beautiful. Conversation dwindled to silence. My eyelids sagged, weighted by sleep. Then, blinding light. I awoke with a start. From out of nowhere appeared this glowing being. I know it was an angel, but to this day I can't completely describe it. I jumped to my feet along with the other shepherds. Then I cowered in fear. I was certain I would be struck dead. Instead, I heard a voice say,
"Don't be afraid. Listen to me. I have good news for you."
The angel went on to tell us about the birth of a baby, a Saviour, the Saviour we had been waiting for. He said it was news of great joy for the whole world. Before I had time to really think about his words, the sky filled with more angels, and music. It was as if the stars and angels whirled and danced together in a vast chorus of light and sound.
The sight tore at my heart and caused such an ache of longing deep inside that I clutched my hands to my chest. The song was perfect, the most perfect thing I'd ever heard. It made me long to join them, to raise my cracked warble in the same harmony of praise to Almighty God. Tears ran down my skin, and I knew the message of the angels was for me. God was sending his son into my stinky, dirty world.
Then just as suddenly as they came, the angels left. The stars had hardly changed position. The small fire still burned low. Everything was the same, and everything was different. We stood there, our hearts thumping wildly.
"Did you see...?"
"Could it be?"
"Let's go!"
The angel had told us where to find the baby, and we stumbled over rocks and tufts of grass in our eagerness to get there. We stood outside the stable, hesitant for a moment. A man appeared, tired, with a puzzled look on his face. None of us knew what to say to him. Then Jethro stepped forward.
"Please," he said, "we want to see the Saviour, the baby."
And then we all spoke at once, blurting out words about angels and music. The man smiled slightly, then beckoned us to enter.
My eyes were drawn to the baby, so helpless, lying in a manger. His mother watched us carefully but said nothing as we crowded nearer. I even dared to reach out and touch his soft, tiny head with my rough fingers.
We left soon after, seeing the fatigue on the young mother's face. I knew that I couldn't keep this news to myself. It was too wonderful, too amazing. I told everyone I met about the baby. And then, I went back to the sheep, to the hillside and the night fires, but I wasn't the same person inside.
God, who lived beyond the stars, was suddenly close. That night I caught a glimpse of him. Now when I go to the Temple and hear the priests' monotone reading of the glory of God, I think back and even now, my breath catches in my throat.
Lorrie Orr loves Christmas and is so glad for the gift of Immanuel, God with us. She writes from Victoria, BC, where she always hopes for a bit snow in winter, but celebrates whatever the weather. More of her writing can be found at her blog, Fabric Paper Thread, and on Substack, where she is posting excerpts from her memoir, Life is Short but Wide.
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