Mitzvah

On the third Sunday in Advent my wife and I have the congregation over to our home for coffee hour. The Deacons do the cookies and the serving. We just do the house. Now, you need to understand that I’ve been collecting angels for years, decades. Somehow Santa’s got thrown into the mix, so the process of decorating for Christmas at the McKirachan house is a little over the top. Hundreds of God’s emissaries in every attitude and function adorn every nook and most crannies in our home. The Santa’s from all over the world take up any space left over and lately nutcrackers of all sizes and genres are infesting the den. Christmas is a tsunami around here. We always get a live tree, nine feet tall, not including the golden angel atop. This year I put 1200 lights on it before the ornaments. Yup, I’m nuts. But that’s Christmas.
We usually get a jump on the whole thing from Thanksgiving on. It’s part of my Advent meditation. This year, no such luck. The church is very busy, for all the best reasons. All of a sudden it was deadline city. We had to get it done, now. So we did.
By morning of the Joy Sunday, I was patrolling to make sure none of the Magi had left the radiator to the east of the cresh. Wise guys have a way of getting ahead of themselves. I went out on the front porch to make sure the lights were on and there lay a Styrofoam coffin, about five feet long and two and a half wide. There was a simple note on the lid. “For David.”
“Chris!” She came to see if I’d broken something. “Look.” Her response was less than illuminating, “What is it?” Mine was equally insightful, “I don’t have a clue.” “Looks like somebody sent us steaks.” With that she retreated into the house, leaving me to figure out what to do. I carry a pocket knife for such moments. I split the packing tape sealing the box. The lid creaked as I opened it.
There lay, face down in the packing an angel, a very large angel. I lifted it out. No light weight this one. Plaster by the heft. I staggered through the house carrying it, again yelling for my poor wife. Her eyes mirrored mine. “Who? What? How?” My sentiments exactly.
I doubt we’ll ever know how this winged messenger made it to our porch or who lugged it there. It’s a mitzvah, a gift given without letting the recipient know who the giver is. It’s a grace. “For David,” is all they left of their sentiment. The gift stands for itself, right inside our front door. The angel’s hands are extended palms up. Giving? Receiving? Welcoming? It is now part of our Christmas story.
“And the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shown around them… And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.’” God bless us every one.