Only One of Millions

Snowflakes float in silence—not like the torrents of a thunderstorm. No lightning. No thunder. Only the soft glow of millions of ice flakes tumbling out of the darkened sky.

When I was a child, snowflakes falling on a cold afternoon always made decorating the Christmas tree that much cozier. We would have cocoa and dig all of the dusty boxes out of the back of the attic. In each box, like so many other boxes from similar attics around the world, were the ornaments my brother and I crafted from macaroni and glitter, pipe cleaners and cotton balls, construction paper and yarn. Each, my brother and I proudly hung from the branches of our live tree—the smell of pine tingling in my nose, the prickle of the needles stinging my young fingers.

Each year, I claimed setting up the Nativity as my special task. It was Zen. I had to feel inspired as to where to place the shepherds and sheep and cows. As I contemplated the shepherds’ path to the stable, I examined each contour of the figurines’ robes and beards, and in my mind, I miniaturized myself and climbed into that scene with them.

The living room would darken and dim until it was a night of a thousand stars, and I smelled the sweetness of hay. I stood beside these shepherds, and with my own eyes, beheld the miracle of God born as flesh and blood, just a fragile infant not wanting more than the simplicity of a warm place to sleep. The baby’s dark eyes would meet my own, and I would see that he was human, one of the millions of us born throughout the history of the world. He would cry, smile, bleed, eat, shit, breathe, sleep. His humanness would draw me to him more—an infinite deity who weakened himself to prove the depth of his love for me. His sacrifice made his connection to me feel more authentic.

In the larger narrative of the Bible, one word always looms large (and often seems overlooked)--choice. From beginning to end, the notion of choice is woven throughout each book. Each person has a choice whether or not to accept that infant born thousands of years ago was God incarnate or that a man named Jesus was crucified and resurrected. If a person accepts the Bible as the Word of God, then, apparently, God does not want it any other way.

Personally, I love the simple beauty in the concept of choice. How much more valuable do we feel when someone chooses to love us? Choice can never be coerced or forced. Love feels even more powerful when it is on purpose. Our bonds with lovers, friends, even family are held together because we choose to accept each other into our lives and care about each other.

During this time of the Solstice, a season pulsating with our attention to the heavens, the world celebrates miracles, generosity, renewal, and our love for each other in a variety of festivals, holidays, and ceremonies. If only we could all choose to live in peace and respect the choices that each of us make in life.

In my living room as a child, my imagination would return me to normal size, and I would take a sip of lukewarm cocoa, satisfied with the placement of each figure in the Nativity. The furnace vents would rattle; Christmas records spun on the turntable. The feeling of anticipation hung in the air like the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. I was too young to understand how privileged I was to be nestled securely in a house on such a day.

These days, I try not to take such things for granted and to remember that I am only one of millions—a life, like so many others, eventually to be forgotten, buried beneath the struggles and triumphs of each new generation, swirling for a time in this great blizzard of humanity. Once there was life that made a difference, and it is my choice to celebrate that through kindness, acceptance, and giving to those who only want the simplicity of a warm place to sleep.