Another Christmas evening and I'm home with a toddler, watching Christmas Eve services online. He's quarantined even though he wears his mask like a religion, unable to be vaccinated. That's not the inconvenience testing my theology.
A sweet neighbor stopped by this afternoon with a plate of Christmas cookies. She asked to use our bathroom, but I said "better not" since our home is in quarantine. Instead she pressed and let herself in so she wouldn't be inconvenienced in wrapping her children's gifts at another neighbor's house where she parks her RV. Unmasked, unvaccinated, she walked into my house. Her presence altered the energy of our home, with our dogs alarmed and barking as they should. It woke up Beau, who had settled in for the first nap of the holidays. My vulnerable child ran naked outside to the deck with our dogs, in the chilly rain.
I guess that's how I'm to love my neighbor today?
After she left, I went to the drug store to pick up photo prints for our last-minute family gifts. My mind kept turning the question, "How do I love my neighbor?" The drug store employees were clearly overworked and understaffed. I dug deep to my empath soul as I watched the shift lead manage multiple situations at the check stands with poise, grace and calm. Seven separate customers walked into the pharmacy unmasked. Some wandered the aisles sampling Christmas card messages. Each walked brazenly past the multilingual sign explaining the mask mandate for public health.
I apologized to the calm checkstand supervisor, on behalf of the customers defying the masking rule. He told me that it's been really rough. So many staff are calling out sick that everyone is working through the holiday. He gets tomorrow off, but the store will be open at 10AM like every Saturday.
This anxiety about protecting my only living child doesn't make sense to many of my own family members. I try the best I'm able to love, anyways, regardless of how well any understand my pain. It's harder, though, to have sympathy for those who claim to love God within the Church. Tomorrow we celebrate the Holiest Inconvenience of all: God born out of doors.
I pray my family understands the gravity of the Holy Inconvenience as we gather around a table under shelter from the snow. I pray we listen to the prophets in our midst, whose megaphones are not carried on cable news of any persuasion. I pray our hope and peace mimic the Holy Family, willing to be inconvenienced by government, for love, and willing to flee all comforts. I pray our joy reflects the shepherds interrupted by Glory. I pray our compassion is large as the astrologers who journeyed for years. I pray we can be quiet in worship, too.
Oh, how do we do any of this?
So the shepherds hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the words concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.
Luke 2:16-20
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