Christ in the Desert, Christmas Eve
Nearly 40 years ago I went to visit my sister who was
spending her Christmas break at Ghost Ranch, a Presbyterian conference center
outside of Taos, New Mexico. She had spent time working there as part of the
college staff the summer before. Soon after arriving we grabbed snowshoes off
some pegs and trudged back into Box Canyon where our voices echoed off the icy
walls. During the long twilight, we slowly made our way back to the house
following a trail of twinkling lights, like sparkling crystals in the haloed
atmosphere. After a quick cup of hot chocolate we bounded into the back of a
pickup truck and set out over gravel and blacktop roads.
I had no idea where. It was Christmas Eve.
We arrived in pitch darkness at a monastery lit by
candlelight. The small chapel was packed. I can still recall the smell of wet
wool coats and candlewax. The monks began to chant Noël in Latin. A drowsiness descended
upon me.
Suddenly I was awakened when the mass was over and both
Benedictines and congregants moved toward a vestry for homemade wheat bread,
butter, and honey. There might have been jams.
It was after midnight when we left. I remember looking up at
the starry sky, piercing points of light, guiding our pickup back to the Ranch.
I was warm beneath the blankets; my heart bursting.
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