A criminal Christmas

 I spent one of the most memorable Christmases of my life under house arrest.

Hal and I were first term missionaries in Bolivia and ready to head off on a well-earned vacation on the Peruvian coast. We had our two toddlers with us and were looking forward to giving them their first time at the ocean, making sand castles, running in the surf, collecting shells—the whole bit. It was December, summer in South America. We were going to spend one night with our friends in the coastal city of Tacna, on route to the beach house we had rented.

Before crossing the border between Bolivia and Peru, Hal parked the car and began the legal red tape for entering the country. We noticed that the immigration agent who would process our documents was drunk, but he seemed to know what he was doing. After a few hours of going from one office to another, our travel permission was stamped and we were off.

The trip over the mountain pass and down to the coastal plains took the rest of the afternoon and we were tired when we reached Everett and Alda’s home. Everett suggested we exchange our money for Peruvian pesos that afternoon, so he and Hal headed off to the local bank. The bank clerk took our $250 traveler’s check, looked over our documents, then told Hal he would have to check in at the police station first.

Hal and Everett walked over to the police building. The police had been notified and were waiting. They immediately told Hal he was under arrest and made ready to lead him to a cell. Our crime—neglecting to declare our money at the border!—thanks to the drunk agent who apparently forget to inform us. Everett began reasoning with the officials and at one point actually got down on his knees and pleaded for them to place Hal under house arrest, promising to be a faithful jailor. It worked.

Back at our friends’ home, we noticed the security guard out in the street, keeping watch lest we should try to escape. We expected that we could resolve this snafu within a few days and head on to the beach. That was not to be. We remained under house arrest for six weeks. That included Christmas.

By God’s grace, we all found ways to cope with the situation and enjoyed our time together in the small house. We spent times in agonizing prayer, other times playing board games, with lots of good food and conversation. Even the kids seemed happy (not knowing what they were missing).

After about three weeks, city officials apparently decided we were not hardened criminals about to flee. The security guards in the street disappeared. We were given permission to visit one particular beach just outside the city limits. That meant we were able to celebrate Christmas day with a beach picnic in the summer sun of a Peruvian December. I wrote this poem:

Christmas, 1974
Tacna, Peru

Not snow, but foam
blankets these gentle slopes.
Shells and sand crabs
adorn the ground
and announce the season.
God’s glory spews skyward
in a sun-spangled spray
and gulls cry out
our carols today.
Squatting here before a
baloney-and-bread banquet,
it seems not incongruous
to celebrate the Babe
in this place,
to sit in the sand,
join hands
and sing out,
“Joy to the world,
the Lord is come!”

To make the rest of the story short, we were eventually pardoned and able to head back home. We never did make it to the beach cabin. But now, these many years later, the memory is a happy one. It reminds me that Christmas is more then snow and presents and being in familiar settings. We were with friends, we celebrated the birth of our Savior, we banqueted on baloney. It was truly one of my most memorable Christmases.

The old ones in the Christmas story

 The center of the Christmas story is a baby. All other characters circle around him—the young and somewhat bewildered parents, shepherds stunned from the angel choir, a merciful inn keeper, and the animals in the cave that may have intuited with their beastly brains that something unusual was happening.  

Other characters never make it into the creches we put up in our living rooms or out on our streets. These are people who were, in one sense, peripheral to the main events, who came before and after the night of the birth. They were old people. And while their roles may seem secondary, God chose and called these men and women to play an essential part in the story.

Two old men and two old women. Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth enter the stage well before the birth of the baby. Simeon and Anna don’t make their appearances until a week afterward.

Zechariah and Elizabeth were both from the priestly tribe of Levi, and Zechariah served as one of the priests at the temple in Jerusalem. We read in Luke’s gospel that “both of them were upright in the sight of God, observing all the Lord’s commandments and regulations blamelessly.” They both also carried a secret sorrow; they had been unable to have children. In a family-oriented culture, this sorrow burned within even into their old age. We read that “they were both well along in years.”

At a high point in the Jewish religion calendar, Zechariah was chosen to go into the temple alone and present the offering of incense to the Lord. It was a holy time, and many people waited outside the temple, praying for God’s forgiveness and blessing.

You know the story. While at the altar, the angel Gabriel suddenly appeared and scared Zechariah half out of his wits. After telling him to calm down, the angel’s message was even more frightening in its utter strangeness. Zechariah and Elizabeth would give birth to a baby who would grow up to become a mighty man of God, part of God’s plan of salvation for his people.

Zechariah’s incredulity was greater than his fear and he responded, “No way! We’re too old!” The angel didn’t bother addressing his doubts; he just struck him dumb. And so Zechariah remained until the birth of the baby John.

I wonder how he explained all this to Elizabeth. He was literate and undoubtedly wrote to her. It didn’t take long for Elizabeth to believe, what with the child growing in her womb. She was secluded for five months, probably due to her advanced age. It would have seemed a precarious pregnancy. But when her close relative, Mary, now pregnant with Jesus, came to visit Elizabeth, the old woman understood, not only about John, but about the child Mary was to bear. She was wise. She responded in praise. Her response greatly encouraged her young cousin who would need it in the days, months, and years to come.

Zechariah also finally got it. At the birth of their son, the couple defied cultural tradition by not naming the child after a father or grandfather. No one in the family was named John, but John it was, according to the angel’s instructions. Then the old man did a very wise thing: he praised and prophesied as the Spirit opened to him the significance of his son’s future ministry in preparing the way of the Lord.

I wonder how this old couple handled John’s strange ways and his leaving home to live as a poor man in the desert. But they were probably dead by the time John reached adulthood. They had fulfilled their role.

Now enter Simeon and Anna. Jesus had been born in a stable, received the visitation of astonished but worshipful shepherds, and now it was time for his parents to take him to the temple for circumcision, according to Jewish law. Eight days old. 

Simeon is described as righteous, anointed by the Holy Spirit. We don’t know his profession, just that he was “a man in Jerusalem.” He enjoyed an uncommon communion with the Spirit, receiving a promise that he wouldn’t die until he saw the Messiah. The Spirit urged him to go to the temple that very day, then revealed which baby was the Holy One. So Simeon did the unorthodox;  he approached the young couple, strangers to him, and took the baby in his arms and praised God. Under inspiration, he announced that the babe would grow up to be, not only the Messiah of Israel, but the Savior of the world. Heady words for Joseph and Mary, grappling with what all these events could mean. Then Simeon blessed them. I’m sure they needed to hear his words, walking them a little closer to understanding. Simeon was now ready to die in peace.

But the story continues. Anna was the oldest person in this Christmas story. Her husband died after only seven years of marriage and she was a widow for 84 years after that. That would make her over 100-years-old. (Some translations say she was a widow until she turned 84. Even that’s old in anyone’s book.) For all those years of her widowhood, her primary occupation was worshipping, fasting, and praying, so much so that some people thought she actually lived in the temple. That day, as soon as she saw the baby Jesus, she knew and “gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem.” That’s what a prophetess does. I just imagine Mary and Joseph, taking all this in.

Here's a poem commemorating Simeon and Anna.

Ancient Blessing
Luke 2:21-38; Psalm 92:12-15

Old people have a reputation
for wisdom, but that’s often
not the reality. Alzheimer’s,
dementia, or outright crankiness
can overcome personality in the aged.
In spite of that,
sometimes we are blessed
to know the green leaves
of an ancient tree, taste fruit
that sweetens with the years.
So with Simeon and Anna.
Faithful servants, approaching
death, both lingered on
in the hope of his coming.
Years of waiting met reward
in the courts of the temple.
Filled with joy, held by the child
they held in their arms,
they thanked God, blessed the babe
and his parents, and gave public
witness that has become
a permanent part of the story.
Thank God for the legacy
of such as Simeon and Anna. 

And thank God for using older people. Thank God that he’s not finished with any of us. Age is irrelevant in God’s story. Take heart. 

Peripheral people

 I remember a time years ago when I attended a social gathering for young adults in our church. I was my usual quiet, non-obtrusive self. At the end of the party, one of my friends looked at me and said, “Nancy, have you been here the whole time?” I don’t know why that memory is still so sharp.

In my teenage years, I dwelled on the periphery of whatever excitement was happening. I was always the last person chosen for the baseball team in PE class. In group assignments, I needed to gather my courage to speak up. I never raised my hand in class, although I usually knew the answer. I felt left out much of the time.

This was not the whole of my existence as a young person, and I do well to remember this. My family was warm and close; I always had a “best friend;” my church family accepted and encouraged me. And so on.

And as I matured, so did my feelings. I learned to focus more on others. I also developed a keen radar that detected when someone else was feeling peripheral and I tried to befriend that person. I still do that. 

Marriage to a good, loving man and then the children God gave us brought with it all a deep place of belonging.

Even so, that lonesome, overlooked feeling pops up every now and then. Even now.

Older people are especially vulnerable to the sense of being left out. Retirement and down-sizing don’t help. Nor do the aches and pains that limit our activities. Our culture itself seems to focus on the young and fit. I feel invisible at times in a grocery store or public gathering.

The cultural ignoring of the elderly is diminishing somewhat. We now constitute a larger voting block, so there are regular times then politicians do not ignore us. They court our favor with praise and promises. TV ads target the “golden years” more than they ever have. There’s money out there.

But that kind of attention does nothing to feed the soul or give a sense of belonging. It has little to do with us as people and more to do with being a growing segment of society. And being a social segment is not comforting.

One of the most painful peripheral places for me is large family gatherings, with brothers and sisters, in-laws, and all their adult children, grandchildren and the greats. All those beautiful kids whose names I can never remember. It’s a bright space of friendly noise, singing, and of course lots of great food. But the louder the noise level, the quieter I get. My introversion kicks in big time and I often just find a comfortable chair off to the side and try to look happy to be there. Pathetic, right?

Again, I do well to remember all the good spaces where I feel at home and accepted for who I am, regardless of age. And there are many. I belong to a Sunday school class that has become my church family. I serve as a volunteer editor on a well-known journal and my contribution is appreciated. I live in a retirement community where we residents are known and cared for; age discrimination is, of course, utterly absent, since we’re all older. And among my own grown kids and grandkids, the exchanges of love are real and warm. I have much to be thankful for.

And, most miraculous of all, God calls me his beloved daughter. My name is tattooed on the palm of his hand. Although God loves all his many many children, somehow we are all unique and uniquely treasured. Age is irrelevant. 

There are no peripheral people in the kingdom of God.