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Christmas has changed significantly for me since I was old enough to remember Christmases.  One Christmas Eve when I was three or four years old, I recall driving from Musquash to Saint John in the middle of a snowstorm to attend mass, imagining I was Santa Claus flying through the snowy night sky. To adult me, this would represent a harrowing, steering-wheel clenched fiasco, but the four year-old in me remembers it as magical.

I have another distinct memory of one Christmas Eve mass at St. Jude’s in Salisbury when it used to occupy the old Salisbury Legion.  I sat in the front row directly in front of the statue of Mary, separated from her only by the organist whose name was Effie Geldart.  I had attended mass in this church many times but that Christmas Eve I felt as though Mary’s gaze was cast directly upon me.  I looked around a bit to see if anyone else could tell she was staring at me, but no one noticed anything special. At one point during mass, I leaned over to Effie and pointed out to her that Mary was staring at me.  “It looks that way, doesn’t it?” she smiled.

I spent a long time staring at Mary that night and Christmas Eve took on another sort of magic for me, magnetic and spellbinding.

Forty-something years later, the entire seasons of Advent and Christmas hold yet another kind of magic.  These liturgical seasons of light during the darkest days of the year, bring forth evidence of those in various stages of preparing for Jesus’ birth.  Yes, darkness threatens to overwhelm us, but in the same way, we decorate our houses and communities with colourful lights at this time of year, there are heroic acts as communities expertly collaborate to bring Good News to those who need it.  These acts light up the darkness, illuminating the good.

Having visited Nazareth and Bethlehem helped draw me closer to the nativity story in a way that is difficult for me to explain.  In my mind, at least the heat, the desert, the constantly parched throat, the sounds of the streets, all helped me to understand a tiny bit better what life was like for the Holy Family and this brings the stories to colourful life.

I seek meaning in the nativity narrative and the lives of the Holy Family.  What do these have to say to me in 2022?  This year it came to me through a prayer written by theologian and Trappist Monk, Thomas Merton. While we cannot know her emotions or what she was feeling inside, we know Mary’s response to Angel Gabriel’s shocking announcement of a virgin birth was a faith-filled, “Let it be.”  How could she have been certain of the events to unfold, other than certain scandal?  Mary’s leap of faith is what came to mind when I encountered Merton’s prayer, and in a world where folks seem 100% certain about almost everything, this will be my prayer for 2023.

The Merton Prayer “My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.  I do not see the road ahead of me.  I cannot know for certain where it will end.  Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.  But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.  And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.  I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.  And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it.  Therefore, will I trust you always, though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.  I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.”

Trevor Droesbeck
Archdiocese of Moncton, Office of Evangelization and Catechesis