Manger and shepherds

Look past the wreaths and Christmas lights. Christmas is coming quietly to Ofunato hearts this year. 

Round granny cried. "Ain't really cried since the tsunami, not in front of nobody."

It wasn't the cheery wreath she made in the meeting room at her temporary housing unit. It was Baby Jesus sleeping in a manger. Not in a palace, but with the poor. With the suffering, so that He could understand. 

She heard that Jesus is the kind of God who understands, and her tears started flowing. She needs Someone to hear what she told us: that her kids are far away, she's old, and doesn't know whether she can rebuild her house. More importantly, there's all those things she carries but has not spoken of. We'll hear whenever we can. The One in the manger can hear all the time. 

Once her tears started flowing freely, she started chuckling about crying so much. She headed back to her temporary home with a rather shimmery smile. 

At another housing unit, our task was to decorate the meeting room building with Christmas lights, along with adding lights to the Christmas tree they had already cut from the mountain out back, and decorated with whatever they had. 

We decorated, and they made us lunch. 

Did you catch that? That's right. They made us lunch. Do you hear the life in that? The tide is changing. The mamas and grandmas are clanging and chopping and cooking in their kitchens again. Company's here. 

Nothing like a home-cooked meal to bring out the stories. 

Oh the stories they had of barely making it. Of neighbors who didn't. Of gratitude to a neighbor who yelled "TSUNAMI!!! RUN!!!" Of feeling the car float. Of houses torn down, ones that could have been fixed, but where the bodies of their next-door neighbors had been found. Of their careers. One lady had sewn the wedding kimono for a famous singer. Of dogs saved. Of cats lost, and of kids grieving over their pets. Of relief that the wave stopped just short of the crest of the hill, which saved the next neighborhood over. 

They've lived this for nine months. It doesn't dawn on them that last year none of them would have considered this to be appropriate mealtime conversation. They need to tell their stories. 

The Christmas story was told here, too. The Baby in the manger was visited by shepherds, who were at the bottom of society. They were kicked out of town, and slept in the fields with their sheep. Yet it was the shepherds who were visited by angels to tell them that the Savior was born. They were the ones invited to come meet God's Son. 

"That's what we are. Shepherds." So said the leader of the  housing unit. His quiet smile lingered awhile. 

Merry Christmas.