A Prayer on Christmas Eve

The snow began falling around noon. By nightfall the cold, lifeless remains of fall lay silent under a shimmering fresh sheen of white. The little church sat off the town square, not far from the bandstand, draped in Christmas lights and the multicolored "Holiday Greetings" and "Happy Birthday Jesus" signs next to the life-sized nativity.

A family, or at least the small core of it able to be together this night, parked in front of the square and walked on the un-shoveled sidewalk to the little church. A husband and wife, soon to begin their 50th year together, their middle aged son. Christmas Eve, snow, family, the church, stained glass windows, heavy wooden doors, candles.

As in many other churches in many other small towns the service begins with the familiar carols. Almost all the women sing, the men stand, silent. These are Midwestern men. And Methodists, at that.

Then the children march haphazardly with miniature statues of the nativity, handing them to the preacher who arranges them on a table in front of the altar. Chaotic and cute. The four Advent candles, already burning, are joined by the final 5th candle for the birth of Christ, ignited by a long-handled Bic lighter, the kind you use to start your grill. Still effective, though, the 5th candle proclaiming, Christ, at last, is here. Darkness pierced by hope.

More singing, this time, soloists off-key to the pre-recorded music and contemporary songs about how Jesus is the reason for the season.

Next, bible verses, the prophecy of the birth of Christ. The immaculate conception. Then, strangely, we skip the story of His birth and jump to His death. Luke, chapter 20 something. No! Read the Linus chapter. You know: "For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord." Okay, it's the blood and the death and the sacrifice which saves. But on this eve of hope and renewal, as snow replaces the ashes of November, a little "born unto you" would be welcome.

Communion now, and yet more gore: the blood and body of Christ.

The congregants line up like sheep, making real the allegory. But it's an effective and comforting ritual. The husband and wife take their place and their son, who doesn't really believe but wants to, follows along.

They each receive the Host. The mother, who is first, then kneels and prays at the altar. The son follows her back to the pew. The father heads back to the pew but then stops and kneels at the end of the altar.

And prays. For life. For the defeat of the cancer that is destroying his body. For strength to fight the effects of the chemicals the doctors are pumping into him. For hope that the dire statistics the doctor has told him won't include him. For forgiveness for sins the son can't imagine. For renewal. For a second chance. For a cure that medical science says doesn't exist. For, perhaps, a miracle.

The son sees, hesitates. Then goes to his father, kneels. Arm across his shoulders. I pray, too, Dad. I hope too, Dad. I will believe too.

The father rises, silent, followed by the son, wondering about this very improbable public display of emotion that he couldn't have imagined happening in private.

More singing. Silent Night. Candle lighting. A benediction, greetings, hugs. The father laughs, son stands awkwardly but grateful among strangers who love his parents. Pausing at the church door, the son tells a story he remembers from a Christmas Eve church service long ago when his Dad made him laugh, one of those forbidden-in-church laughs that just can't be stopped. A laugh that still echoes.

The family leaves the little church and walks back into the hopeful night. Back to the warming car, the familiar home, the uncertain dawn. And the hopeful prayer.