The Oates Journal (ISSN: 1098-1446) is a publication of the Wayne E. Oates Institute addressing issues related to spirituality, ethics, and healing from the perspective of pastoral care and counseling.

She sat alone in her living room on Christmas Eve, her old wooden rocker creaking gently as she rocked, a brightly painted footstool supporting her tired and hiking booted feet.  Next to her on a low table, a teapot she'd made years ago in her mother's memory exuded aroma of jasmine and radiant heat.  Her picture window was wide open to the scene outside, bamboo screens set aside, so she could sit in darkness and watch fat flakes of snow drift onto the dogwood, azaleas and holly bushes in her yard.  A single candle her only light, a warm mug of tea between her palms, an old prayer shawl around her shoulders, she sat and waited for Christmas to come.

No tree this year, no lights or stockings, no midnight Mass, no family coming to town -- just the season of hope and waiting she had always loved.  Her house and mind together held the memories of so many Christmases, some full of joy and others sorrow, but all of them tender, all of them sweet reminders of the One who had loved her since she was a child, the One whose love had saved her, the One she'd tried and failed, in so many ways, to serve.  Not that she failed utterly -- this she knew -- but that, as one of her many favorite poets had written, "No gift is proper to a Deity."

Her life had been full of both suffering and grace, and this year, this Christmas Eve, she sat in peace, glad to be alone with her memories, glad to be holding a fragrant cup of tea, glad to be watching this perfect snowfall outside her window with nowhere to go and nothing to do.  She'd spoken with her scattered children earlier in the day, and with her only still-living friend.  She'd mailed no cards this year, purchased no gifts except a few for her children -- mailed weeks ago.  She'd baked no cookies, planned no Christmas meal.  Her supper earlier --  a cup of soup and a piece of the bread she baked the day before -- her favorite kind of meal -- had satisfied.  Now she watched gently drifting flakes as they slowly covered her yard, her trees, and the street beyond in glistening light.  A candle within, a streetlight without, and perfect silence.

She felt his presence before she saw him, an odd sensation.  No movement on the street outside, no traffic sounds, nothing to mar the surface of the snow, yet there it was, this deep interior awareness that he was on his way.  She felt neither fear nor excitement, only heightened awareness and watchfulness.  She gazed into the darkness down the long narrow street that led to her home and waited.  She sipped her tea.

After a long while gazing, she saw, far down the street, a tiny human figure walking alone at the side of the road, making slow progress, his feet buried in still-falling snow.  She sensed in him both love and loneliness and she knew somehow that he'd been walking for a long, long time.  Though she sat in near-darkness and could not yet see his face, she knew he was looking directly at her and that her home was his destination.  She wondered if he'd want a cup of tea and thought she should get a cup for him before he got to her door, but she didn't move to rise.  Instead, she sat transfixed by his steady passage through the snow.  As she did so, within her arose an opening, a blossoming, as though she was meeting at last her destiny, her fate.  She was ready.  Her heart knew peace.

She wasn't aware of standing to open the door, yet there she was, her hand on the knob, the door swung wide, and he there, stomping his feet, reaching for the storm door, his face in shadow, his head and shoulders flaked with snow.  He opened the outer door and entered in.  They didn't speak.

He slipped off his coat and she took it, shook it gently and turned to hang it in the closet near the door; he gently brushed the snow from his hair with his fingers.  When she turned to face him, he took her in his arms and held her as though in long reunion after years of separation.  At last, she took his hand and led him into the living room.  They sat together on the old sofa at the far end of the room.

"I'm so glad you've come," she whispered and squeezed his hand.

"I know," he said, and slipped his hand from hers and drew her near.

She put her arms around him, too, and they settled into the cushions together.

"This old couch has held so much life," he said, and stroked her hair.

"Yes."

"As have you."

She nodded.

"I just had to spend one more Christmas here with you," he whispered.

"I'm so glad ," she answered.

"I brought you a gift," he said, and reached into his pocket to retrieve it.

"You are my gift," she answered.

"I know."

He took her hand in his and gently placed a small, smooth object in her palm, then closed her fingers around it.  "You can look at it later," he said.  "Just hold it for now."  And she did.

They sat together in each other's arms in silence for a long, long time.  It seemed to her that there was no place, no space, as they sat there, where they were not completely one.  Finally she slept.

When she awoke, he was gone.  A blanket from her bedroom covered her; a pillow held her head.  Slowly she became aware of the object still clasped in her left hand.  She sat up, opened her stiff fingers, and there he lay, the Christ Child, a tiny porcelain figure, eyes wide open, smiling, warmed by the heat of her hand.

"You came," she said.  "You came."

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