December Newsletter - Laura in India

"A Spider's Lesson"
A part of me enjoys bugs and other typical crawlers. I spent two
summers working in an entomology department; heck, I spent those hot
days prowling North Dakota fields for various insects and spiders.
Yes, these ecological essentials are my buddies. That is why I have
decided the mammoth-size spiders I have encountered here are anything
but normal. They are the phenomenon you see in textbooks, not your
bathroom.
Complete with a body the size of my face, eight shaggy legs and the
speed of an Olympic sprinter, these hairy beasts freak me out. That
is why I have rationally come to the conclusion that these
mini-monsters are not from the spider family. No, no. They are some
morphed descendent of the T-Rex. Of this I am sure.
My face-to-face encounters with them have been few, but enough. The
first: during a weekend stay at a girls' boarding school. I spent the
majority of mornings chasing these giants from behind pipes, from
under the sink, and out of the toilet. Of course, I did all this
while standing on a chair and waving a five-foot long broom. I must
have read in a travel guide that you should try obtaining the upper
hand when taking on the last of the dinosaur race. Being the
environmental conservationist, though, I left doors and windows open,
hoping to guide these crawlers back to nature, instead of invoking the
second mass extinction.
That was until Spiderman showed up on the ceiling. As I waved the
broom in the air, coaxing the terror from the corner, instead of
crawling down the wall as any sane spider would, this guy leapt out of
the corner, hung mid-air for a moment before parachuting down to the
ground. That was it. I lost it. I could not control the shouting or
wild broom thwacking. Next thing I knew, SkyDiving-Spidy was nothing
more than a pile of goo on the floor. I confess, I felt victorious.
I welcomed the moment by triumphantly calling my roommate, Christina,
to share my jubilation. A part of me feels I crossed over from girly
tourist to cultured traveler; another part of me hopes I never see
these creepy crawlers again.
Later that day, I was preparing a devotion on Mary, the mother of
Jesus. As I scanned the room for any of the beastly intruders, I was
struck with the thought of Mary's courage. Here I was, standing on
chairs, using broomsticks to rid my clean and sheltered bedroom of
spiders; Mary was fully vulnerable as she gave birth among all that
creeps in the night. Can you imagine?
I suddenly realized how glorified and glamorous we have made the
entire Christmas story. Our nativity scenes portray everything in its
perfection: fresh and wonderfully golden hay; a manger that is a
perfect size for the babe; Mary is spotless and comfortable; and the
stable is clean and perfect. No spiders.
We've turned the birth of Jesus into a Disneyesque, magical
performance, masking the realities of the time.
Imagine seeing a nativity scene in its honest and revealing authenticity.
Hay and straw that is anything but new. Sure, a fresh layer has been
laid for the night, but the layers beneath it hold the fertilizer of
tomorrow. And this is Mary's maternity ward. Would such a place pass
the regulations of hospital sanitation?
A manger, worn by age and weather. Wood that has been replaced
several times, so straight edges are only a memory. Perhaps the
inside is splinter city. A manger leg that was kicked by the cow a
few months back, leaving a permanent teeter to the trough. And that
pesky sheep who keeps poking his nose into the crib, finding a baby
has replaced his habitual food. Was Mary busy shooing a sheep's snout
away from her Lord as she welcomed the wise men?
Oh yes, and Mary. Did one of those giant spiders perform its
parachuting act just as her contractions began? Did flies bite her
legs and toes? Did a mouse scurry over her hand in the final stages
of labor? I cannot imagine every saying this again, but I hope the
pain of childbirth was a distraction from other possible distractions.
Finally, the stable. Plenty of holes, cracks, cobwebs and dust. I do
find comfort, though, in thinking about the smell. Some may find it
foul, but I always thought my cousins' barn had a sweet aroma.
Naturally sweet.
Yes. Imagine that nativity scene.
Would you want that decorating your mantle?
To satisfy our craving for the perfect holiday, we have given the
Christmas story a makeover, giving it a glamorous facade to fit the
lifestyle and taste of the privileged. We have forgotten the lowly
beginnings of Christ and replaced it with porcelain and crystal, glass
and glitter-the rich man's holiday. How ironic that we have created a
perfect nativity: the Hilton of stables, the Baby Gap of swaddling
clothes, the purebreds of lowering cattle. For Christmas is anything
but the glorification of worldly excellence.
The beauty of Christmas lies in what we have called imperfect being
claimed as perfect through the birth of a Savior. Everything our
society considers unworthy made worthy: the glory of the Christmas
season.
So, why is it that Christmas has become a time of selfish perfection?
A perfection defined by our worldly standards. Is this where we find
Jesus, the Christ? Are we honoring the baby Jesus at the palace, with
its royal splendor, or at the stable, with its spiders and dust?
Where is Jesus found? Among the so-called worthy of us, or among
those we have deemed unworthy?
My fear of the dinosaurous -spiders remain, but my respect for them
has grown. For their ancestors may have been the first to see the
newborn King. How unworthy I am to even share a bathroom with such
precious creatures.