The Night Before Christmas at The Open Door Mission
It was a long, long time ago. We were all alone on Christmas Eve. Having read the second chapter of Luke and as the tree lights blinked slowly in the dark, my wife Debi, son Eric, and I considered what to do. Traditionally, one of our family gatherings—the McLey side of the family—took place on Christmas Eve. But as sometimes happens in families, in an attempt to accommodate multiple scheduling considerations, the McLey’s joined together on another day. So there we were, alone, quietly pondering what to do on the night before Christmas.
We hurriedly scanned the newspaper for word of a Christmas Eve service, but couldn’t find anything suitable. So on a lark I suggested that my wife call The Open Door Mission. We had long written checks to the Mission a few times each year. They were on our list of favorite charities. One Thanksgiving, we drove up to the back door and dropped off a couple of turkeys and some old clothes. We felt so noble. But in fact, it was the closest we had ever come to the inside of the building, or the people inside the building.
As my wife hung up the phone in the kitchen, it sounded like we had an invite. She said the person that answered the phone cheerily invited us to “Come on down.” Indeed there was a Christmas Eve service, it started in an hour, and we were invited. We had just enough time to change clothes and drive to the east side of town for worship. As we headed out the door, I ask my wife what kind gathering they had planned. It’s been long enough ago, that I can’t remember her exact reply, but the bottom line was—she didn’t have a clue.
I remember being warmly welcomed. Our hosts were gracious as could be. The usher wanted to make sure that we were comfortable and had a good view, so he took us to the middle section, about three rows back, as if we were special guests of some kind.
First, there were gifts for all, mittens, gloves, and warm winter coats. Toys for the children. Bags stuffed with toothpaste, shampoo, and hand soap. Each person had a wrapped present to open. As names were called, each person made the walk from the pew, down the aisle, and up to the front. As each present was given, many of the residents had tears in their eyes. A few seemed embarrassed. Their sense of gratitude was palpable, as if each one had been given a rare diamond.
As I surreptitiously glanced around me, watching the charity procession, something didn’t seem quite as I anticipated. I had expected a mixed group, patrons, donors, staff, and some residents. What became slowly, but increasingly apparent was that we were the only non-residents in the entire congregation. That horrible feeling of being overdressed and out of place rushed over me, a nauseously sheepish sense of foreboding.
We had crashed a private party and I nervously started looking for the nearest exit sign.
Before we could escape, the first group hymn commenced. As the early bars of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” filled the room, I smelled beer wafting through the congregation. Half way through the song, when the feeble old man to our left—with a weeks worth of beard stubble and a crooked smile—leaned down to put his arm around my eight year-old son, I realized the source of the beer smell.
Pastor Bob Timberlake delivered a message of hope and joy. It was short, sweet, simple, and moving.
As the night continued to unfold, I remember forgetting about myself. A warm glow, a relaxed sense of well being, saturated my soul. As millions worshiped around the world with us on Christmas Eve, I had the sense that on this night, we were exactly where we needed to be.
Then the band played. You have never seen such a rag-tag group of musicians in your life. The brass was tarnished and bent. Their clothes were threadbare and their instruments were out of tune and out of time. Still, they played. And I cried.
In “Hold Me Jesus,” Rich Mullins wrote:
And the Salvation Army band
Is playing this hymn
And Your grace rings out so deep
It makes my resistance seem so thin
Whenever I hear that song, in my mind’s eye I see those homeless men playing their hearts out, with kindness, gratitude, and love in their hearts. The lump in my throat twitches, and nearly explodes. And I’m thankful and joyful. Not because I’m not like them, but because I want to be like them. It’s the opposite of superiority; it’s something like humility.
As the service concluded, we were greeted sweetly by our new friends. Pastor Bob smiled, approached us, and hugged our necks. He asked us to come back for a tour after New Years Day and we talked about more personal ways in which we might be able to help the Mission.
As we left, he apologized that the group didn’t have a gift for us. Pastor Bob has since gone on to be with the Lord, but I hope on this night—The Night Before Christmas at The Open Door Mission—that he sensed through our misty eyes and feeble, Thank you, that his group had delivered a most precious gift, a heartfelt memory which our family opens every year at about this time.
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
curt…what a beautiful and precious gift! thank you for letting us peek inside your hearts and share it with you.
Reminds me that Christ still takes up residence in smelly stables like us. I’m jealous Curt. Thank you and may this Christmas be as meaningful.
Stay in One Peace
Mike
Beautiful telling of that night! Thank you.
Thanks for sharing this Curt.
Kelli, Mike, Cindy, and Aaaron - I’m grateful for your feedback and encouragement. Thanks.
Curt — thank you for this reminder. The fields are white, but the workers need care too.
Thanks Curt.
Good stuff.
Friends of mine, poor and in inner city ministry, welcomed me to join them for Christmas. I asked what they needed, and they laughed and said “toilet paper!” So I will take them a garland of TP rolls and we will all be much the richer for it!
With love.