It
was the night before Christmas Eve and the atmosphere in the house was
electric. Like pulling untethered helium balloons from the ceiling at the same
time, I finally gathered my family at the kitchen table for dinner. After the
meal, the children helped clean up dinner, making the kitchen feel like a
bustling metropolis of busy elves. And they were happy to do it. They knew that
for each service they performed, we would add a link to our paper service
chain. The colorful chain now stretched across the kitchen and almost touched
the Christmas tree in the adjoining room.
I
rested on the couch, reading to my one-year-old, and admired the service chain.
A content sigh involuntarily escaped my chest. Our family focus for this year’s
holiday season was service. I had been praying all month to find ways to serve
those around me. Some days, the opportunities naturally presented themselves.
Other times, I had to work a little harder to search out ways to serve. Day by
day, the chain grew to be a colorful and beautiful reminder of our efforts.
When
the kitchen was clean, the family gathered around the Christmas tree to hear
the traditional, nightly Christmas story. Turning the lights off, the room
still warm and glowing with the colored lights of the tree and the reflection
of shiny ornaments, we settled into our places. My husband, Sterling, started
the story, lying on the carpet with a pillow under his head. Slowly, each of
the children made their way to the floor next to him, nestling into his
shoulder or laying their head on his stomach.
My
breath caught in my throat with emotion. I wondered at the comfort and
blessings I enjoyed with my family, most of which were stolen moments like this
when we were all together and getting along. In my heart I repeated the same
prayer I’d been offering all season. “Lord,
please help me extend my blessings to those around me. Help me find ways for my
family to serve.” A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
I motioned for Sterling to keep reading.
I
pulled the door open, shuddering as the frigid night air slipped into the
house. Standing in the yellow porch light was a woman whom, though we were not
acquainted, I immediately determined to be a young mother. She wore a colorful
knit hat and a nondescript coat buttoned to the collar. A warm scarf was
wrapped around her neck. In her gloved hands she held a cookie sheet full of
fresh cookies and breads.
“I’m
selling homemade goods,” she said simply. “Would you be interested in buying
anything?” She looked at her tray, surveying her offering with pride. “I made
them all myself.”
I
quickly scanned the well-presented tray. The breads looked full and moist, the
cookies perfectly browned, some topped with chocolate treats. I looked back at
the woman. Her cheeks and nose were rosy pink with the cold, her eyes hopeful.
Curls of brown hair escaped her hat and framed her face. I looked at the tray
again, knowing that my kitchen counters were already over flowing with treats
from neighbors and co-workers. I really had no need or room for what she was
offering, so I shook my head.
“Thank
you but we really don’t need anything tonight.”
She
smiled but her eyes looked down. She whispered a subdued, “Merry Christmas,”
and left. I quickly closed the door on the cold air that had seeped into the
house and returned to my family.
Resuming
my place on the couch, the image of the woman’s face haunted my mind. I
pondered what had just happened and my heart began to race. “Who was that
woman?” I thought. “Why was she selling her goods door to door so late at
night? Where was her family? Her children? Maybe she really needed help.” I
shifted anxiously in my seat, vaguely aware of my family and the story being
read. I raised a hand to my chest in an effort to calm my runaway heart and my
inner dialogue continued. “Couldn’t I have purchased something? Why didn’t I
invite her in? She could have warmed up or had a cup of hot chocolate. I could
have purchased her whole tray and sent her home to be with her family!” The
thoughts piled on like a rolling avalanche until I couldn’t stand it. And then
the realization came. That was the
answer to my prayer. She was the answer. She was standing on my porch and I
turned her away.
Without
a word and hardly a glance at my husband, I grabbed my winter coat and raced
out the door. I needed to find the woman. A quick glance around told me that
she was no longer on my street. She had to be somewhere. I started to run down
the cold, dark street, lit only by sparse streetlamps. At the opening of the
cul-de-sac I looked both ways and pled with God, “Please help me know where to
go!” Hopeful, I turned left and started walking at a brisk pace. I scanned each
door step for her shadow, getting more discouraged with each empty street. All
the things I wished I would have done or said raced through my mind like a cold
wind of regret.
Rounding
a corner, I saw the tail lights of a truck ahead and a glimmer of hope surged.
Maybe that was her. The truck was several homes ahead of me when I started
running. I didn’t know what I would do when I caught up with the truck. I was
just consumed with the desire to find her and somehow make up for my mistake in
turning her away. I pushed myself to run as fast as I could but my sprint ended
too soon as the truck turned onto an empty street leading out of the
neighborhood and quickly out-distanced me. Out of breath, I stopped and watched
the tail lights fade to darkness.
I
bent over, resting my hands on my knees to support myself. I tried to catch my
breath but disappointment caught in my throat, lending itself to a ragged sob.
I turned slowly and looked around me. Brightly lit houses lined the streets.
Christmas lights sparkled, outlining the eaves of houses, and decorated trees
glittered in the windows. Inside, families were together, warm and comfortable.
It was a stark contrast to the empty hollow I felt inside.
As
I walked the silent streets back home, the weight of my failure hung heavy on
my shoulders and swirled around me with the cold mist of my breath. With each
step, the reality of my new identity became clear. Tonight, I was the
innkeeper. Tonight, I was the one who said, “No.”
Suddenly,
I considered the innkeeper as I never had before. Had I been in Bethlehem that
night, would I have seen the innkeeper wandering the streets, searching for the
couple he had turned away? Perhaps he had also run into the night chasing
shadows, hoping for the chance to say, “I’m sorry.” I hope the humble innkeeper
found the lonesome couple and asked forgiveness as he led them back to a warm
stable. I hope it was he who tidied the barn and quieted the animals as he
piled warm sweet hay in the manger that sacred night.
I pressed my fingers into my eyes
and wiped the tears pooling at my chin. I was returning home empty handed,
nothing to show for my search but a humbled heart and a contrite spirit. But
the burning in my chest convinced me I had not wandered the streets alone. Part
of the miracle of the baby Jesus is that He is also our Redeeming Lord. I considered that God loved me enough to
send the woman to my door in the beginning. He knew me and loved me enough to
allow me this journey of steps in the dark and cold, to find deeper
understanding of the worth of souls, both mine and hers. And He walked with me
through the empty streets, teaching me along the way until I was safely home.
The
future may cast me as the remorseful innkeeper again and God’s grace allows for
that inevitable occurrence in each of our lives. But there is one door that
must be tended with the utmost care. Jesus Christ tells us, “Behold, I stand at
the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come
in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me” (Rev. 3:20). As the keeper of
this door, I must not fail to open my heart, might, mind and strength to His
love and grace that makes my offering, though meager and flawed, sufficient.
