And if I believe that for me, and if I believe that for you, you can bet I believe that for Santa Claus! Even a pretend one. And on his account, paying homage as his imposter, I am always willing to gamble all the reindeer, a sleigh filled with toys and every elf worth his salt on it.
With no traffic waiting on me, I sat in place while the light turned green and pondered my unique place in the moment and if and how an act of compassion was requisite.
The etymology of the word “ponder” begins with the Latin word ponderare (“to weigh”), ultimately finding its modern meaning in the 14th century Old French definition “to estimate the worth of.” I can’t help but think that if we all received that definition and truly pondered matters, the societal plague of narcissism and self-righteous behaviour might be lessened substantially. How often have I thoughtlessly hurried my words and actions, arrogantly assuming that they would surely help fix things, change outcomes or better lives, when what I really needed to do was “to estimate the worth of”? I have no doubt that ultimately the best recipe for truly binding up the broken-hearted includes fewer words, slower movements and a quieter presence than most of us cook up. I cannot imagine any greater pathway to humility than a commitment to prayerfully ponder. And surely, if this loud and crowded world is starving for one sane attribute among its occupants, it is humility.
In the here and now of then and there, I decided that few words would be doable. Slow movements would be doable. But quiet presence—hmmm, tricky while dressed head to toe in red velvet. Regardless, pondering no more, I circled back to a doughnut shop that I had noticed was open and purchased a hot chocolate and muffin at the drive-through. Moments later I found myself bumbling out of my vehicle and sheepishly inching my way towards the laundromat door, praying that God would spare the young woman and myself, in any portion, from what one might assume would inevitably be a fearfully awkward moment and provide a tiny sanctioned Christmas miracle.
As I slowly opened the thick glass door, she lifted her head from her clothing basket. She looked at me blankly, sighed as if to say “whatever,” and proceeded with her folding as if no one had entered—let alone a fool in a costume. Too elsewhere in her head to be curious, too elsewhere in her heart to be afraid, too elsewhere in her spirit to be present.
“Just doing some Santa visits for friends,” I sputtered nervously.
She glanced at me, sacrificed a polite smile, and nodded.
I pondered. I estimated the worth of.
Without an ounce of confidence, but lost for any other recourse, I continued on, armed with nothing more than uneasy transparency. Working hard to be efficient with my words, I did my best to explain that the sight of her folding laundry in the only lit cubbyhole for miles drew me in, for no other reason than to offer a kind word and a snack while she laboured.
And if I didn’t know better, I would swear that she pondered in return. After several moments of silent folding she offered a faint word of thanks and reached for the cup and bag I had set before her.
In the very moment she chose to speak, I noticed it was children’s clothing she was folding.
“It’s the first time I have ever been without my children.”
With a deep anguished sigh, she continued, “I just can’t sit in the apartment alone and remember.”
Then, finally, “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”
And as though she had risked her final breath in life with these few words, she dropped her face into her hands, dropped her elbows onto the table, and sobbed.
There is no more of her story that I can tell, for there was no more shared. Where her children were, and how she lost them, was not revealed. No insight into a custody fight or an addictions battle, no clear signals of having been abused or having been an abuser, no indication if her children were destined for a group home or in residence with an ex, no clarity between the shame of consequence or the sorrow of a lost decision. Ultimately, all of it rightfully left as a complete mystery to me and overwhelmingly owned as a complete reality for her.
As vital as these truths would be for her in order to navigate a way forward, whether she had been wronged or done wrong didn’t feel poignant for me in those heartbreaking moments. What I grieved for her most was her aloneness in it.
Time alone and aloneness could not be more different. While time alone can be rich with reflection and calm, aloneness is fraught with isolation and sorrow. And while I know countless people who pine for a bit of time alone in the Christmas bustle, I know not one who was seeking the suffering of aloneness. In fact, the Christmas story gently directs us, one and all, that aloneness has no place in God’s design. For there, deep within the supernatural angel-filled miracle of God attending earth in human form, are a few ragtag pedestrians there not by chance but by heavenly providence.
There is much theological deliberation as to why angels would reserve their astounding announcement of the birth of a Saviour for the unlikeliest of recipients. Shepherds literally and figuratively existed in the furthest margins of society and were considered lower class, with little influence. Even still, they were the chosen firsts to receive “good news that will cause great joy for all the people” (Luke 2:10). Clearly, shepherd imagery is sacred throughout Scripture. Perhaps the grandest words of comfort known to humankind come from the 23rd Psalm, beginning with “The LORD is my shepherd.” And in the New Testament, Jesus declares himself “the good shepherd” to Pharisees too filled with fear and ignorance to understand (John 10:11). Of course, Abraham, Moses and David had all been shepherds who’d received the promise of deliverance, perhaps synergetic to the honour of the angel’s broadcast and an angelic choir’s chorus. Ultimately, Christian scholars generally agree that the angels’ extraordinary announcement and song delivered to those who were considered socially, politically and economically unimportant is God’s profound statement that there is no one too lowly or insignificant for His abounding love and light. So, I find little fuss in understanding the “why.” But I find great intrigue in the “what for.”
There are no degrees hanging on my walls that would suggest I might have any scholarly insight into any of this. In fact, among scholars, metaphorically I am merely a shepherd. Even so—or maybe because of this—I find myself brazen in light of God’s acceptance of my own ineptness and can’t help but think out loud that much of it is simply about the blessing of presence. Bringing humble assurance. Providing warm affirmation.
Who can even begin to imagine how Mary felt when the angel Gabriel shocked her with his astonishing appearance and then with his unthinkable message? How could anyone subscribe to the words of an angel met in an apparent dream, as Joseph did? And still, both accepted their bewildering and divine appointment. Surely, all of this serves as the ultimate example of what it is to trust God beyond all human rationale. And so there is no doubt in my mind they would have carried on to the manger in Bethlehem with or without the whole shepherd scene.
But it didn’t go down that way. Those shepherds had a sweet role to play, unbeknownst to them as it was.
The gift of their presence.
For when they arrived in Bethlehem, jazzed and jabbering to anyone who would listen about what they’d been told and by whom, Mary “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). Words, tone, the comfort of affirmation and simple presence—to treasure and estimate the worth of in her heart.
I never learned the name of the young woman at the laundromat. I stayed just long enough for her to pull herself together and complete her laundry. Clearly, she was in great need of expert direction and counsel for the days, weeks and months ahead. But on this night, what she needed most was a friend. Not a poor substitute found in a stranger in a strange costume—but a real friend. The kind of friend that Henri Nouwen calls out in his book Out of Solitude:
When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions or cures, have chosen to share our