Christmas at the Cov

A few weeks ago, we began rehearsing for a drama that residents of the shelter where I work would present at our Christmas Eve service.  The first night, tucked away into a small corner office with a table, chairs, and an overhead light, was attended by a few young men my coworker had roused from the relative calm of their unit while most of the residents attended a karaoke night downstairs.  We were few, but we were about to begin something beautiful.

My coworkers and I began to outline our task: to create an artistic presentation, whether incorporating acting, poetry, dancing, and/or singing, that would be shared at the outset of the Christmas Eve service in a couple weeks' time.  Comparing some of the basic elements of the Nativity to what some of my residents have experienced on their journey to Covenant House--finding themselves young, uncertain, and pregnant (or with a pregnant partner), not having anyone make space for them in their time of need--we began to discuss some ideas for the presentation.  How do you bring the Christmas story to your life when your circumstances land you in a shelter?  Someone wanted to sing a pop Christmas ballad, someone reluctantly considered writing a poem, and another young man offered to be an actor in a drama.

As we continued discussing, it became clearer to me that perhaps the exposition to our project had been insufficient.  So I paused our brainstorming and asked if everyone was familiar with the story--the Christmas story--we would be portraying.  Hesitation.  Would anyone feel comfortable telling the story for everyone?

Silence.

And then--"You mean like Tiny Tim?"  "Oh, no, you mean like when Jesus died?"

How do you bring the Christmas story to your life when you don't know the story?

I began to tell The Story.

So there was a young woman, and she was pretty young--like maybe even 13, 14, maybe a little older.  But young!  And she was supposed to marry this guy, Joseph.  They never slept together or anything, but the girl (her name was Mary) got pregnant--not by some guy, but it was a miracle.  As in she hadn't had sex, but she was going to have a baby.  Joseph was kind of unsure at first, because he knew he wasn't the baby daddy, but he was still with Mary.  Maybe you can imagine some people here know what that's like, to be really young and kind of scared and having a baby--or to be with a girl who's having someone else's baby.  I know a lot of the young women I work with on my floor do.  But the whole thing, her being pregnant, was a miracle, and the baby was supposed to come and fix everything that's wrong with the world--the pain, the sadness, the hurt.  So eventually it was time for her to give birth, but she and Joseph were on a trip.  They went to all kinds of different places, but there was no space for them.  Everyone at all the hotels told them that they were full.  But one guy told them they could stay in his barn, at least so they wouldn't be outside--

M: "You mean like a car?"

me: "Yes!  Exactly!  So think of if someone were in this situation today--maybe instead of a barn, someone might offer them a car as a place to have their baby when there was nowhere else."

M: "What about Airbnb?"

me: "Well, yeah, now we have Airbnb, but think about if even all those rooms were full.  If there was really no place to go."

M: "Wait.  So... is this really happening?"

me: "Uh, yeah, definitely.  I mean, this is our first rehearsal, so in about two weeks we're going to be performing whatever we come up with together.  And we're going to be beginning the service, so it's going to be important that we help tell the story."

M: "No: Is this happening?"

pause.  slow dawning of revelation.

me: "Well--No.  But it happened!  Like two thousand years ago, this really happened.  It's a real story.  And we're just trying to tell the story to remember it when we're celebrating Christmas."

M: "So it's not happening?  You're sure?"

me: "Yeah.  At least not right now.  But we're going to tell the story."

M: "Oh.  Okay.  I just wanted to check--I mean, they can have my car.  It's in Massachusetts, but I could get it and they could use it if she needed it.  Or, well, I work--I could pay for their Airbnb.  But you're saying it's not happening?"

I'd like to just leave it there; I think it speaks for itself.  But I will say one final thought: The same kind of radical generosity and care that M wanted so badly to share with a young, struggling, scared, homeless couple who he didn't know is a taste of the radical generosity and care that God showed for us when He sent his son--that tiny, homeless, unwelcome baby--into His world to save us.  And God's children at Covenant House look like Him.  Merry Christmas.