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Sarah Torbeck ponders Christmas in the midst of trauma: Can there a place for the Feast of the Incarnation? 


The halls were white and eerily quiet that evening. I remember listening to the sound of my boots as they fell into a somber rhythm that matched the surprisingly melancholic tones of a Christmas carol that was winding its way down the antiseptic halls and darkened rooms of Shock Trauma. 

I blinked under the artificial lights, as I made my way to the end of the hallway of the fifth floor, and peered over the cold, metal railing. The hall had been skillfully engineered to gather around an open atrium, that was several stories high, offering an open and airy effect. 

I gazed down into the atrium, staring uncomprehendingly at the surreal holiday images below. Colorful Christmas greetings festooned candy cane walkways, while grinning Santas and iridescent snowmen stood guard. In the center of the scene, there was a large, garish tree, with multicolored lights, and huge ornaments that seemed too heavy for the branches. 

 

Forgotten Christmas 

I stared unseeing for several minutes, before I realized that Christmas was upon me. I hadn’t really had any time to think about Christmas that year. I had been in the hospital with my critically ill husband for eons … or perhaps it was only a few weeks. Either way, time had become irrelevant, and I was only just realizing that Christmas was here.  

I glanced at my watch and realized that it was the early hours of December 25th. I closed my eyes, and grimaced. How could Christmas be here already? I thought about my heirloom Christmas decorations gathering dust in the attic, the un-bought presents, and the un-cooked feast.  

I hadn’t even put up my tree. 

Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed as I relived the past few weeks: my husband’s injuries, his life-saving surgery, the subsequent infections, chronic pain, and never-ending complications. I had indeed been holding a vigil, but it was not for the coming of the Christ Child.  

I hadn’t even thought about His Incarnation, until just this moment. 

Dear Jesus, I prayed silently. Can we just postpone Christmas for a few more months? I’ll be in a much better place then. My husband will eventually heal, and I’ll be able to immerse myself in all the things that mean Christmas.  

But not … tonight. 

Unchecked tears coursed down my face, as the trauma of the past weeks descended upon me. “Dear Jesus,” I whispered, “help me,” But I felt more than heard a deep, somber silence — save the singular strains of a reedy Christmas carol. 

 

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A musical missive 

Irritated, I begrudgingly opened my eyes and searched for the music’s source. I finally spied a lone saxophone player in the center of the atrium. His eyes were closed, as he deftly played a tune that I had initially failed to identify. I listened more intelligently now, and realized that he was playing “Silent Night. “   

I watched the musician a little longer — when I suddenly realized that he was now looking at me. I offered a weak smile, but he had closed his eyes once again. Intrigued, I made my way to the escalators and eventually found myself within a few feet of the now-mysterious musician.  

I watched him a little longer assuming that he might want a few dollars for his efforts, but his eyes remained closed—seemingly lost in the nostalgia and tranquility of the hymn. 

It was only then, that I realized the saxophone player was standing near a sign. I read it automatically, before I allowed the words to sink in:  

“Christmas Morning Mass; Hospital Chapel; 5 AM.”  

Well, I thought, at least I can attend Mass on Christmas. 

 

Reclaiming Christmas 

I made my way into the convenient little chapel and knelt on the back pew. I watched, as others slowly trickled in for Mass. I noted that many of the Mass-goers looked lost … like me. 

As Mass began, I listened to the familiar liturgies of Christmas: the hymns, the responses, the ancient promises of old and somewhere between the opening prayer and the Gospel, I began to notice a gradual warmth deep within my soul. I fought the impression at first (after all, I was quite overwrought); but eventually I allowed the warmth to tiptoe into my fragmented heart. 

The effect was radiant, yet unpretentious … as it gradually suffused my entire being: Divine Light, filling my wretched darkness, I whispered. 

Christmas had come after all. And in that moment, I realized that Christmas does not rely on dusty, boxed ornaments, or Grandma’s sugar cookie recipe. Christmas is a Person, who approaches as Light into a darkened world. He is Emmanuel, “God with Us.”  

And He is the very Heart of Christmas. 

 

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As Christmas dawned, I arose from my pew and walked into the atrium of Shock Trauma filled with awe.  My world — still tumultuous at best — had been transformed by the forgotten joy that only Christmas can bring: God is with us.  

I eventually made my way to the hospital lobby, where I found myself smiling and greeting those around me. Everyone was cheerful — in spite of their personal troubles, crises or traumas. 

I smiled a secret smile.  

I guess God was with them too. 

The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5) 

 

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Copyright 2024 Sarah Torbeck
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