“And everyone went to his own town to register. So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. (Luke 2:3-5).
We walk our heritage. What roots us moves us. Our family lineage reveals our steps. Past, present, future. Whatever our “was” has shaped our “is,” and now we journey its truth. And if we know the truth of Truth, then our steps are forged and shaped by the confines of a wooden cradle.
Both at Bethlehem, and then at Calvary.
Neither could contain him, yet both were the necessary pause of his sacred heart. I cannot fathom the worth of such surrender, but I am trying. It’s been difficult for me this year. I’m not sure as to the reason why, but regardless of the struggle, my obedience remains steadfast.
Each day I awake with my feet pointed eastward and my eyes cast to the sky. My heart looks for signs and wonders and lingers in the hope of catching a single glimpse of heaven’s Applause—the One who slipped into my heart, even as he did his mother’s on the night of his birth. Every now and again I witness the splendor of that hope. This past weekend held a few such moments.
On Saturday, my family, alongside the members of our adult choir, pilgrimed through the hallways of four local nursing homes. We sang our faith as we went. Carols—one of the purest measures of the Christmas tradition that remains untouched, despite the worlds attempts to the contrary.
One by one, doors began to open. Smiles began to form. Minds that have long since closed off their capacity for reasoning began to mouth the words in unison with ours. I saw tears. I wept some of my own. Hugged necks. Gave good wishes and watched my young children walk their heritage in a way that would tug at the heart strings of even the most cynical. Why make the journey?
Because we are a Jesus people, and the family bloodline runs deep. He has called us to the hallways of life. To the least of these who need to remember the hope of a long forgotten story that is closer now to its conclusion than it has ever been. Especially for them as they stand on the edges of their “next.” Perhaps the reason behind their smiles. Greater still, the reason for their remembrance of the words.
There’s something about the song, friends, that never loses its power … that forever holds its worth. That always speaks the Truth.
After leaving our group, we decided to continue our pilgrimage and stopped at a local church to view a live Nativity scene. We watched as a real baby struggled in the cold and with the confines of his own wooden cradle. I imagined, alongside the imaginations of my children, what it must have been like on the night of our dear Savior’s birth. 
Less noisy, I’m sure. Surrounding highways don’t bode well for atmosphere. Certainly less cameras, unless you count the eyes of heaven. Most assuredly, that first Bethlehem night embodied more light than the illumination of my flash photography. I’m quite certain that the angels created a brilliancy untouched by human comparison. Still and yet, for all of the ways this manger scene fell short of the real, it came through on the one measure that mattered.
Remembrance.
And we Jesus people were better off for the time spent walking the memories of our family bloodline. A story that no longer belongs to one couple, but instead belongs to all of humanity. To you and to me. To those who’ve come before and to those who are soon to follow. To all who are willing to cradle the baby Jesus close to their hearts and claim him as their own.
There’s something about that remembrance that never loses it power … that forever holds its worth. That always speaks the Truth.
Our final stop of the evening took us to a well-lighted neighborhood, notorious for huge participation in the Christmas season. House after house. Scene after scene. A festival of lights, and a feast for the senses. Our favorite house sits toward the back; the owners go to great lengths to tell Christ’s story in completion. From the angel announcing the wombed arrival of Jesus to Mary, to Bethlehem’s cradle, to Calvary’s cross, to Easter’s resurrection. Each scene is worthy of deliberate pause.
Thus, we obliged. Stopped the van long enough to linger in the moment and for me to take a few pictures. When I returned to the car, my daughter was in tears. When I asked her as to the reason for her wet, she replied, “Mommy, I don’t want Jesus to have to die again.” Her heart was hurting, and I understood. I don’t think she has ever seen a depiction of Christ’s crucifixion that grabbed her emotions at the level that this one did.
The story came to life for baby girl as she witnessed her family bloodline in deeper measure. She’s only just begun to trace her roots, but the cross’ hold is one that never loses it power … that forever holds its worth. That always speaks the Truth.
Indeed, we walked our heritage this past weekend, and it wasn’t hard to see Jesus. He came to us in a song, in our remembrance of his birth, and through the tears of child whose faith is being shaped by a Father who intends for her steps to be forged by the necessary pause of his sacred heart–Calvary’s pause.
An intention that calls to each one of us from the cradle and from the cross and that beckons our feet homeward to remember our bloodlines and to register our names. That is the truth of Truth. That is the walk of Christmas. May we all, like Joseph, return in expectant obedience to the scene of our Bethlehem beginnings. It’s our privileged right to do so, for we are of the family of the Most High God, and a baby—his Son—awaits his birth in our hearts and through our witness.
Come quickly to Bethlehem this day. Your salvation draweth nigh. Seek him now, while he still may be found. As always,
~elaine
PS: The “Ancients” are coming for lunch at my house on Tuesday, and you know how I love my ancients! Wish you could share the table with us. Shalom.
I had one of those rare moments yesterday. A moment that spins golden and breathes pure. A moment that is often easily missed if eyes and minds are focused otherwise. Fortunately, my eyes and heart were prone for the whispers of a better focus—
