Silent Night, Holy Night

My friend, H, had a link to this story on her blog, and it touched my heart. Okay.. it made me blubber like a pregnant woman (which I am not) or baby (which is arguable).

By Glenn Register

As I stood in front of the tiny bassient in the quiet room of the preemie ICU, the day finally caught up with me and I was unable to sing another word. It was as if the sight of that tiny girl, six months old and barely over six pounds in weight, opened the floodgates of my emotions, and the events of the last several hours came crashing down on me.

I had arrived at the hospital in the early afternoon, led there by that undeniable whisper that we often feel in life. This time the message was simple: Go sing at the hospital. I went. After wandering around for at least half an hour arguing with myself, I told myself that I was going to either go home or start singing. I flipped a mental coin and entered the first room of the day. "Would you like a Christmas song?" I asked, in a voice that sounded a lot more confident than I felt at the moment. "I'd love a song!" was the enthusiastic reply. I sang. Guitar slung over my shoulder, I sang and sang. I sang for the sick, the dying, and, in once instance, in a double occupancy room, I sang to a sick fellow and his "recently deceased" roommate. I soon gained confidence, and, as the afternoon slid into evening, I felt invincible, able to walk through a brick wall if occasion required.

Somehow through all of this I was able to retain just enough distance to continue functioning. I remember the beautiful young lady in the pediatric unit, all of fourteen or fifteen, who began sobbing quietly during the song Silent Night. I had raised an eyebrow at her mother who was sitting nearby; she nodded and I continued, watching as this young girl's shining black hair shimmered with the shaking of her shoulders. An elderly woman, full of gratitude and leaking tears at an alarming rate, thanked me again and again. I began to see, as the day progressed, that I was the recipient of the greater blessing, as time after time, I felt of greatness and witnessed courage up close and magnificent. Confined by circumstances beyond their control, sequestered away from holiday lights, parties and the warmth of home and hearth, not one of them offered a single word of complaint. On the contrary, one elderly lady expressed her thankfulness at being in the hospital and receiving such good care. In a way inexplicable my own courage began to grow and I saw my life as never before, and my challenges shrank to a pitiful size as I drank in their collective courage and goodwill.

This feeling of invincibility remained with me until, as I mentioned earlier, I stood before the bassient of that tiny baby girl. That "stainless steel" feeling evaporated and I became my old goofball self, full of weakness and inability; Joe Normal. Gone were the huge sword swinging shoulders, lost was the ability to lead men into battle, forgotten was the clarion call of superior deeds. I was returned with a a nearly audible thump to my old self. With one notable exception; For as I stood there tears on my everyday face, I felt as never before of the wonder and glory of The Christ Child, born in poverty, laid, not in the antiseptic cleanliness of a modern hospital, but in the filth and grime of a barn, "wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger." And I saw, for a brief moment, of the greatness of the Savior of mankind, and what His life had brought to me and mine, and what it would yet bring.

After a minute or two of fiddling around on the guitar waiting for my voice to return, I was able, after a fashion, to continue the song, Away in a Manger, then on to Silent Night. Somewhere during that second song I "connected" with that infant girl and it was as if we sang together in praise of the Babe of Bethlehem. I will never forget her or the gift she helped me receive, there in the back room of the hospital, away from the pomp and ceremony that has all but swallowed the Christmas season.

I think of her quite often, and more especially when the holidays approach, for that was to be her only Christmas Eve. I believe that I will see her again when my time here on earth is done. I'm a little sketchy on the details but I think we will meet in that other realm. I certainly hope so, for I have things to tell her, things of the heart, Like what an honor it was to sing for her, Like how much more Christmas means to me now, because of her, Like just how much I would love to sing with her again, just one last song, just like before.


Silent Night, Holy Night

Merry Christmas everyone. May we all remember the babe wrapped in rags and lain in a humble feeding trough who gave his life that we may have life eternal.