Save Our Sons And Daughters.

We meandered through the tents and noises, Roman soldiers scattered about, beggar boys running, fish spread in the market.  Women told stories of Daniel and sold leather with candles or oils or cheese to taste.  The camel stood matted and chewing, the goats rubbing against the fence.  Jewish boys twisted the cradle while the inn keeper nodded no room.  "Did you hear, a baby has been born?!" the people said, one after another, as if in a whisper, as if in awe.  Almost with mesmerized wonder, questioning where or how but beckoning to see.  So we followed their nudges, their coaxing, their marvel, enticed and allured at what it could be.

The doors opened to farm-like, with oxen and donkey braying next to sheep.  But it was the glory of voices that awakened, almost trilling and willing us to see.  "Noel!  Noel!"  They rang, haunting and joyful, filling the sky with soprano and alto.  Amazement and wonder, they proclaimed:  a baby!

And there, cradled by mother, wrapped in white linen cloths, was he.  Literally, tiny human-boy baby, held; hardly weeks old, snuggled but all-watching, savored, bundled, He.

We watched the wiseman tarry their gifts, their eyes a glow to see him.  We watched the children set their coins; sacred wasn't missed by these.  The songs of the angels carried with honor, esteem they shouted in their "Hallelujah" and "Glory!" For unto us, they said, was both this baby, this tiny human: He.

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I sat on my kitchen floor, later that evening, spooning soft orange squash into my son's mouth, Christmas carols enchanting my lips, singing softly, then loudly as the music played.  The modern classic tumbled off my lips, like the food from Judah's, "Mary, did you know, that your baby boy would give sight to a blind man? Mary did you know, that your baby boy would calm a storm with his hand..."  And I couldn't help but reminisce and roll back through the morning tour of Walk Through Bethlehem, with new, stark, powerful, almost piercing intensity, as the words caught my chest and belted now loudly, through me.

"Mary did you know that your baby boy would one day walk on water?

Mary did you know that your baby boy would save our sons and daughters?

Did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new?

This child that you've delivered, will soon deliver you?!"

And then I stopped.  I put the spoon down.  I almost flinched in recognition, in new understanding.

This baby boy would save my son and daughter!!

When we had walked through Bethlehem earlier, the journey kept me wide-eyed and interested, peering and peeking, but when the babe in a manger was revealed, all I could partake in with wonder, was that he was real.  Real.  Like not a doll, not a plastic manger piece, not a pretend carving or bumpy-empty blanket, but real-life flesh and bones, little pursed lips and blinking eyes.  So the god-birth aside, I could only gape at the actual human-form baby.

Yet now the words trickled through my spine like sparklers igniting.  Knowledge anew, faith enhanced, life-giving bright lightning.

Save our sons and daughters!

This baby boy, this manger wrapped child, was born to save my son and daughter!  This baby boy was He!  The game changer.  The one.  The man.  Born in human flesh but the power to conquer it.  Tiny ears, crinkled fingers, rounded toes, yet pounding through hell and all adversity.

And it hit me fresh.  This babe a manger, this reason for Christmas, this new celebration, was everything.

Save my sons and daughter!

Out of this language, this line, this child, everything in heaven and earth would be uniting.  No longer would my children be stuck in sin, in doubt, in despair, in death, but would breath the hope and life and joy of eternity!  My children!  My children!  Saved from death, to life in eternity!

And then my eyes started simmering with tears -- save my sons and daughters -- from death to life, to eternity...  Means to meeting Jan Wever, their grandmother, waiting for them with expectant arms and hot brimming tea, in heaven, for eternity.

Oh joy and gladness erupted from me!  The singing turned to coarse screaming with every bit of gumption and loudness and rejoicing I could exalt, and Judah could bare!

Save our sons and daughters!

This babe born in a manger, this Christmas-child, this innocent life, would conquer it all.  And now, no longer, nothing could separate us from love of God, which is in the Christ, Jesus, the son of God [Romans 8].  And nothing would separate my son and daughter from the meeting of my mother with her grandson and granddaughter!  Not heaven or earth, life or death, situations or geography, near or far, alive or dead.  She would meet them!  They would hug her! They would hold her!   They could talk with her! They could play with her!  Because this baby in a manger came to:

Save my son and daughter!

The chorus burst into bridge:

"The blind will see!

The deaf will hear!

The dead will live again!

The lame will leap!

The dumb will speak:

The praises of the Lamb!"

The music blared, my son stared.  My arms raised out in exclamation and praise and worship.

This is why we worship this babe in the manger.  This is why we pause and stare.  This is why he shakes the kingdoms.  This is why I celebrate Christmas this year.

For this babe in a manger, this ten-toed wonder, will save my son and daughter.

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Paired reading: Isaiah 9: 2-3; 6-7