My Christmas Tales

Every Christmas he would sit with her.  If any words were exchanged they were not about what haunted her. Memory. Running. Running as Russian tanks approached.  Baby in one arm, child holding the other hand. Ice on the ground. Biting air. Lungs and muscles burning with strain. Running.

She realized they were not going to make it.

She put her baby down and continued running with the child in hand.

That memory, the ghost of a baby sacrificed for the child, a human being facing God’s dilemma.

Every Christmas he would sit with her.  Silent. He told me there are no words for that kind of suffering.

Compassion is defined as: To suffer with.

He did not claim to be compassionate, he only said he suffered with her so she would not suffer alone. He did not say he suffered, I heard it in his voice, saw it one his face.

Grace

Kindness

Compassion of the highest order he would not admit to.

Without teaching, he taught me to give space, make room, be with the suffering; this is the way the heart educates us in love.

https://ma.tt/2024/01/birthday-gift/

More than ten years ago I read a book titled The True Saint Nicholas by William J. Bennett. Bennet writes “a mysterious, fragrant liquid began to seep from the bishop’s remains” that healed the body and spirit. The liquid is myrrh. At the time I thought it would be cool to witness the manna of Saint Nicholas. Just to see it. I did not hope to receive any special blessing from it because I’m not Catholic, or Orthodox Christian, so just witnessing it would be miracle enough for me. The thought passed as I continued reading the book.

Fast forward to a couple years ago—I asked my friend Father Athanasius for some myrrh. At the time Father Athanasius was the lead priest at a local Russian Orthodox Church which has an icon of the Virgin Mother holding the baby Jesus that weeps myrrh. The myrrh has a hint of rose and the icon and the myrrh it produces are confirmed miracles. After searching for the myrrh he emerged and said, “I don’t have myrrh, but I have this”, and held out a small bottle with a picture of Saint Nicholas on it. “You’re giving me this? I asked incredulously. “Yes.” “This is super rare,” I said. “I know, he said, “I can get more, I know a guy.” Did I mention he has a sense of humor?

A passing thought became an answered prayer. It wasn’t the first time for me. There have been other instances where passing thoughts became answered prayers. But that is a story for another time. This is about holding a miracle in my hand.

The weird thing, and I’ve mentioned this to Father Athanasius too, is I’ve held the miracles of the myrrh from the icon of the Holy Mother and baby Jesus, and from the remains of Saint Nicholas in my hand, and nothing in my life has changed. Father Athanasius’s replied with what many of you are probably thinking too, “nothing as far as you know.” I know. I know. Miracles aren’t always what we expect, but until I recognize the blessing of being touching the manna of Saint Nicholas I will see the miracles in my hand as affirmation of my spiritual journey—which is to share the truth that there is more to life than meets the eye.

So my only purpose in sharing this story is so that you know, on some level, that there is more to you than flesh and bone and that there is more to life than birth, death and the struggle in between. And maybe, just maybe, in that recognition, you will discover a richer more meaningful life than you thought possible. I hope you have a passing thought to have a life of love and miracles which become answered prayers.