I’m not sure why, but I dug up that old Susan Boyle YouTube video this morning, the original revelation. The biggest surprise. The wake-up call. We were all a bit cynical.
I recall the one shell among a million I found the other day while walking along the shoreline. My eyes scanned back and forth, searching, then, victory. I picked up a perfect round shell. Unblemished. Uniform in caramel color, evenly spaced ripples. When I turned it over, I found its underbelly scratched and dented.
Or, on the same beach, a young runner. Lithe. Grecian in form, I watched her approach from the south. She ran at an even pace over uneven sand. Looking out over the water, she saw a kayaker in full swing. Her attention snared, she lost her balance. Her ankle twisted, limbs splayed. She performed the Nestea plunge a short distance away from me. I rose to assist her, but she was upright almost immediately, seeking to save face. She found mine. We both smiled. She brushed herself off, saluted me, and kept on running.
Last week, as I crossed the parking lot, I observed an African American woman about my age standing on the curb. She was neatly put together in a skirt and scarf, carrying one grocery bag in her right hand. As she stepped off the curb, she fell to the ground, convulsing, horizontal on the street right outside Publix. In the distance I heard bells. A call to worship from a raggedy looking man in a santa hat. He sat, unaware, by a red donation pot next to the electronic sliding doors. In the middle of the street, I was joined by two other middle-aged women who attempted to keep our convulsing sister from hurting herself. I shooed oncoming traffic, instinctively stretching out my arms in protection. From somewhere, a pillow and blanket emerged. On black asphalt, we three created a manger of sorts. Comfort more for ourselves, the caretakers, than for the victim. An ambulance was called. The tremors continued, foam erupting, until gradually her eyes closed and she relaxed. Her breath deepened. A fellow Samaritan said to her, “We’ve called an ambulance; you’re going to be okay.” I patted the victims shoulder. She opened her eyes and looked at each of us for a second or two, before whispering in a raspy voice, “Thanks so much for helping me.”
And then there is you, Christmas. You remind me of Susan Boyle with your cheeky grin and waggly hips. I am over forty. I roll my eyes. I’ve seen your kind many times before. I am supposed to be the Good Samaritan. Rescue you from yourself. It is a heavy load to bear. My heart thumps in my chest, running here and there attempting to breathe life into your convulsing form. I scrounge frantically for a pillow and blanket. It hits me while wrapping stocking stuffers. While planning menus. Cleaning the oven.
As imperfect as a shell or Susan Boyle on her best day. A runner tripping.
I am Christmas.
Gloria Dei vivens homo
“The glory of God is man fully alive.”
(thanks to Greg Wolfe for the Latin quote and meaning, Image Magazine number 63 www.imagejournal.org )
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