A Memorable Christmas

“First story ever written in my life.” Steven Mayer

It is the coldest winter in recent German history (1963). Coal shortages and power outages compound record snowfall and freezing temperatures. A deep sense of religious tradition embraces the community as Christmas season approaches. Families gather and prepare their homes for the coming celebration. Living in a remote, rural village of a distant land, my missionary companion and I feel peculiarly isolated and alone, separated from those around us as well as our families back home.

On Christmas Eve, we realize that cards and gifts from our family will not reach us until after the holidays. Our small, unheated basement room is cold, damp, and dreary—a few icicles are on the inside window pane. A church member who works as a counselor and nurse at a children’s home in a tiny neighboring village offers a dinner invitation. We accept, hoping for a good meal and some pleasant distraction from our consuming self-pity.

As evening approaches, the wind is exceptionally harsh as we walk the two country miles to the village. The stars are so distant, and my hands are cold. We have never been there before, but it appears as many small German villages. A large Lutheran church and a stark and barren marketplace are at the center of the town. The homes are clustered together with common walls, and the streets are cobblestone with a few inches of snow. All reflect medieval age. Behind the church is a home, school, and medical clinic for orphaned children. It is the central focus of this small community.

Arriving at the school, Sister Mueller greets us and whispers that these children are special in the sight of God. They are developmentally limited; some not capable of expression or self-care. My missionary companion plays with a large group of young children and sits on the floor in a circle, rolling a ball to each of them. Their delight is apparent in their smiles and easy laughter. I read German Christmas stories to a group of older children who listen quietly, fascinated by pictures in the books. I wonder if these children will ever know the true meaning of Christmas.

Church bells announce the Christmas Eve celebration. Entering the church for the service, we are startled to see a huge Christmas tree with hundreds of small lit candles. The children sit around the tree. Sister Mueller beckons us to come forward and sit by the tree with the children. The service begins with the children singing carols in beautiful harmony. I will never forget looking into their faces as they sing the final carol:

Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God, love’s pure light
Radiant beams from thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!
Jesus, Lord, at thy birth!

I see the pure light in their eyes, radiant beams in their faces and a redeeming grace in their being. I am breathless and transfixed by gentleness and innocence.

Surrounded by little angels, precious, tender souls, teachers share traditional Christmas stories in simple words, and I read a scripture of the Christ child’s birth. Sister Mueller places holiday baskets in our laps, asking us to pass out fruit to the children. “Remember, only one for each child,” she says. I kneel next to the Christmas tree. As each child approaches me, I give apples or oranges to them. Their small arms encircle my neck and often kiss my cheek. The teachers and counselors weep, as do I. In that exquisite moment, our tears bring a deeper understanding. The true meaning of Christmas is evident to all in the presence of these beautiful children.

After the service, we help to dress the children for bed. We wash their faces, hands, and feet. We tuck them in for the evening and receive more hugs and kisses. Among the adults, no words are spoken, for we are swept away by grace and humility, by what the children have taught us.

My companion and I walk slowly back the two miles to our home, not noticing the harsh winter wind. The stars are so very close, and my hands, my hands, are warm.