By Luciana Ballesteros-Heras
It was Christmas Eve, and beneath a canopy of scintillating stars, lay a rural village blanketed under a vast cloth of snow. The warm yellow glow of a flickering candle shone through every window as parties clad in red and green promenaded across the white streets, hastily scuffling through the snow to the midnight Mass held in the ornate cathedral situated in the center of the quaint town. Agog with holiday delirium and yuletide feverishness, the entire village was consumed by a ravenous cloud of glee and jubilation—except for the irritable Silas Frost.
He was a rather cantankerous character with a reputably surly disposition, the crotchety kind that secluded himself from congenial society out of spite and contemptuousness. He was one of those obstinate, intransigent individuals with the unchecked impulse to be contrary.
“Such superfluous fuss over a Baby,” he grumbled sulkily, expressing his ardent objection to the mirth and joviality.
As the rest of the world was engrossed in jubilant revelry, Silas yielded to exhaustion and fell into a deep slumber. Mr. Frost lived in an isolated world of unperturbed silence and quietude. The grandfather-clock signaled midnight with an ominous chime, and it was upon that moment that the peaceful, hushed accord of his universe unraveled. The air grew cold, and the howl of the wind grew into a distorted moan as the branches of a bare tree rapped against the frosted windowpane. Ill at ease, Silas tossed and turned, unsettled by the eeriness of the situation. Then with a sudden rapture of light, an angel, decked in glittering white with her delicate glowing face encased by golden curls, appeared before the bewildered man.
“God wishes you meet the Baby,” she whispered tenderly to the dazed Silas.
The following moments were foggy in Silas’s memory, but he next found himself amidst a verdant pasture tending to a crowd of restless sheep, accompanied by two fellow shepherds, both clad in plain brown tunics and faded sandals dilapidated enough so that they could be perturbed by the damp grass beneath their feet. Silas sank his hand into one of the sheep’s tangled fleece, while his other hand gripped tightly around a shepherd’s staff. Compelled by the need to comprehend the situation properly, he was cornered into confronting his most dreaded fear—people.
“Where—where are we?” he stammered timidly, inquiring of the neighboring shepherd.
“Why son, you are in Bethlehem,” the man replied, rather confoundedly.
It was evident but now undeniable that Mr. Frost had strayed far from his dour abode, although even he had underestimated how far he had traveled, both in distance and in time. The sky was now a vast sea of blackness, save for one incandescent star shining effulgently in the distance. The desert wind had a gratifying chill to it, unlike the gelid, blood-curdling winter air which Silas was so accustomed to. With a sudden rapture of light, a choir of silver-winged angels appeared before the shepherds. Their mellifluous voices swelled through the air as the euphoric words “Glory to God in the highest” thronged the stillness.
“Do not be afraid. Come and meet the Baby Who has come to save the world,” they implored, and with that the seraphic company departed.
Instilled with the burning flame of hope, those who were once faithless now hastened speedily to meet the Messiah, guided by the light of the aforementioned radiant star. At last, they sighted one brilliant ray of light falling upon a lowly stable. They entered the abode eagerly but abjectly, heads reeling and hearts pounding. They encountered a smiling couple, benevolent and blithe, kneeling before a manger filled with hay, for lying in that accommodation trough was the object of their gaiety: a Baby—the Baby for that matter—wrapped in white, swaddling clothes.
“Come and meet the Baby,” whispered the lady, who was decked in blue, to Silas and his companions. The three complied and ambled over to the unconventional crib, knelt down reverently before the Child, and stared amorously into His sparkling eyes. Silas froze, not out of surprise or fear but simply out of awe and wonderment. He felt as though he was gazing through a window that looked into Heaven. A little tender hand slipped into his. He gripped it with an affectionate ardor as he remained entranced with the Child’s loving stare. Upon that momentous night, forever revered in history, the Creator entered creation, and the saved met his Savior. The world rejoiced at her King Who came to bless the earth with His touch, and to this day He Who arrived not with regal fanfare nor with a flamboyant welcome but humbly and meekly in the quiet of the night, still awaits your visit. Thus, come to the Lord’s house and meet the Baby Who has come to save the world.
