A Christmas Encounter

Besides a church service a week ago on a walker, last night was my first jaunt out of the house, leaning on a stick, since my hip replacement on December 11th. And what a wonderful evening it was. Rick, my beloved,  and I went to "A Celtic Christmas" at the Weinberg Theatre in Frederick, MD. 

The superbly energetic Irish dancing, singing, fiddling, and glorious atmosphere of frolicking love and mirth were palpable and infectious. The audience were captivated and enthralled. 

It was a glorious evening. 

However, something else stands out to me now as I think about yesterday evening's  adventure. It is a long-ago memory provoked by the meal we grabbed before getting to the Weinberg. 

Time was a little tight so we decided to dash into a Middle Eastern mainly take out joint that had a few inside tables. We chose to eat in. As we were scarfing down delicious spicy sustenance I glanced up and saw there was a young Middle Eastern couple with a beatific baby in a pram eating at a table across from us. They were a perfect reminder of the Middle Eastern Holy Family of so long ago - the family we were just about to celebrate Celtic-style. 

The lady and I smiled at each other - and suddenly I was in a time warp - whisked back through the decades to London, England, a few days before Christmas 1991. 

At the time I was one of 16 pastors at the largest church in England, an international Charismatic church in Notting Hill Gate. I was the recently-appointed first Director of Creative Ministries, setting up a new department that,  before I left and came to America, had developed and launched an award-winning magazine, a creative school and a theatre. 

I was in that London church that pre-Christmas day so long ago- when I saw a despondent man and a woman huddled in one of the back rows surrounded by a few old, battered suitcases. It turned out that they were from Belgium. The man had been promised an almost-too-good-to believe job in England. He was told he just had to get himself and his wife (no baby) to London and everything would be provided and he could start work straight away. 

The man thought this was a brilliant opportunity. Sold everything to have enough money for the journey and arrived, with his wife with just a few pounds between them. He explained that he couldn't get hold of the would-be-employer.  The employer was not answering his phone or taking messages. The traveler didn't have an address. He had spent almost their last money on accommodation the night before.  They had used their last money on a sandwich meal. 

After many more phone calls he realized he had been hoodwinked. There was no job, no accommodation, no money forthcoming. And they were stuck in London, far from home, with rudimentary English, days before Christmas, destitute. 

I phoned all the local shelters. They were full to overflowing. It was a bitterly cold winter and there was no room in any of them - with a long waiting list beside. 

I thought about my office setup. The church had run out of office space so they had housed me in a downstairs room of a building they owned next door. Three students lived in rooms on the top floors, I was in a back downstairs room next to the small shared kitchen, and there was a living room next to my office that was mostly unused. 

I trotted off to the senior pastor, an ex-professional ballet dancer, and explained the dilemma of our two visitors. I assured him that I had a good feeling about these two people, that they were not dangerous, but just had stumbled into an untenable position. Hesitant at first, he finally agreed that for that night they could sleep in the living room next to my office. It  had two sofas, and I told the pastor that  I would make it cosy with blankets and pillows. 

I got the travelers supper and they settled in for the night. The man was going to make a last desperate phone call to his would-be employer the next morning. 

The next day after another failed call, the couple realized for the last time that the promised employment door really was locked and bolted. 

They wanted to get home. If they could just get to their town in Belgium, they said, friends and family would look after them until they were on their feet again. But the had no money. No credit cards. 

They were babes in the vast metropolitan London woods. 

I went back to the senior pastor. By now it was Christmas Eve Day. He agreed that the church would pay for their rather-expensive bus ticket back to Belgium and  that the couple would reimburse the church when they were able to do so. 

The couple were delighted! They gave me their driving licenses as a good faith gesture so I could photocopy them and have a way of contacting them in the New Year if need be. 

I bought picnic supplies for their long journey. Then I drove them to the huge London International coach station, bought tickets on behalf of the church, got them on the coach, and waved goodbye to them as they finally  pulled out of the station, homeward bound. 

When I got back to my office I got out the photocopies of their driving licenses to file them. I hadn't looked closely at them before as getting the travelers ready to depart had been done in a flurry of hurry.

 

I stared at the licenses and did a double take. Then I  checked again, hardly believing  what my eyes had just seen. 

Of course I had heard the couple's first names, but I had no way of knowing their middle names until I saw their licenses. 

They were Joseph and Mary. 

They had sheltered with us at the church as there was no room at the Inn - or rather the homeless shelters. 

And they had been sent on a long journey to safety. 

The senior pastor was, to put it accurately although indelicately, gobsmacked when I told him. His eyes did the osculatory equivalent of a pirouette around the room. 

He preached about it in his Christmas sermon the next day. 

And no, we never got, or asked for, the money for the bus tickets. 

After all, it is not often that Joseph and Mary come to your door needing help at Christmas. 

Looking at the young couple in that Middle Eastern takeout last night swept me back into a time vortex. 

I hadn't thought about that couple in the church for years. 

I loved every moment of the Celtic Christmas with its exuberance, incredible talent, and festively dressed audience. But it is always good to remember the true meaning of Christmas. And recall the fear, uncertainty, and gratefully accepted meager accommodation of that night. 

So in these days before Christmas, whether you are living delightfully high on the warm family, festive hog, or alone, wrapped in sadness due to death, illness, or another sorrow - know that this is a season of miracles both domestic and dramatic. May those miracles flood into your life in unexpected, heart-warming ways bringing you unexpected nuggets of joy. 

Amen. 

Thank you Lord.