Celestial Messenger

The high school band played Christmas carols in front of the Presbyterian church last Saturday evening, as part of the community open house celebration kicking off the holiday season. A cold, northern breeze flowed down the street, and I buttoned up my jacket to the collar. I stopped to talk to a friend who lost her husband six months ago, wondering how she was coping with holidays. She said she keeps busy and engaged in the community, and that helps. A little. Soon she dashed away to attend to some business that had to be done before the tree-lighting ceremony, and I stood alone at the edge of the crowd among strangers.

When I moved back to my home town twenty-some years ago to care for my mom, it felt good to be involved in our beautiful, lively, artistic little community. In those days I served on committees, directed theatre, sang with choirs, attended festivals, concerts and vigils, and produced liturgical drama for some of the churches. But after I lost mom, 13 years ago, the combination of grief, exhaustion, and small-town politics wore me out and I withdrew from social events. When Covid hit I stepped down from the rest of my duties and returned my keys. Times and faces have changed now, the entire world has shifted, souls have departed, and memories have faded. But I felt strangely disconnected in this familiar place as I stood listening to the music and watching all the lights and commotion around me.

The local movie theatre across the street had transformed their parking lot into a holiday market space, festooned with lights. Lighted candy canes, a personal favorite, hung from every telephone pole through the length of town. The center of town was closed to traffic, and the glittering shops, decorated with swags of cedar, enticed shoppers with coupon drawings and holiday treats. A choir of third graders began to gather below the tree, and a parade, featuring Santa and Mrs. Claus seated in the back of a cherry-red 1954 Chevy 3100 pickup truck (with a Corvette 454 engine in it), was scheduled to start once the tree was lit. People wearing Santa hats milled about talking, laughing, sipping hot apple cider and nibbling popcorn. As I watched them, I felt both a part of, and apart from this community and instead of getting into the Christmas Spirit, I felt my spirits slipping into melancholy. Until I glanced up and saw a tiny light in the sky far above the village.

The heavenly body was not the star of Bethlehem. It was not a planet or a moon or any of the singing stars. It was an airplane coming into SeaTac. But for me, it might as well have been the Christmas star, because it reminded me that my personal “community” extends well beyond my village. And that made me smile. Covid may have separated us, but it also expanded our reach through online events, classes, and social media platforms like Zoom, Substack and others. My community now includes people around the world who are dear to me, as I am to them. Life may have changed for us, but we are not alone.

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but I do set goals and intentions. As I stood shivering in the cold, I decided it would do my heart good to connect with my local community again. I don’t say that lightly, because it isn’t easy. Small towns, even charming ones, are notoriously cliquish, gossipy, and competitive and it can be hard to break into established groups and organizations. In large cities we may feel invisible, but in a small town there’s so much shared history that we’re often judged, not by our own character, but by who we know, our friends, our frenemies, and our families. Even the “nicest” people with the best of intentions do this.

Jesus talked about this. He said you can never be a prophet in your home town. I imagine he rolled his eyes when he said that. And Superman wasn’t so super-duper on his home planet, either, because of the kryptonite. Sometimes the people and places we love the best don’t allow us to shine. Sometimes they do their level best to prevent us from participating, contributing ideas, or even having a voice.

But I can’t let that stop me. There’s an entire world out there, as the Celestial Messenger in the form of an airplane reminded me. So, why should I even bother getting involved again here? I barely know anyone anymore but I’m sure the same barriers and gate keepers exist. Why should I make the effort?

Because, despite its limitations, this little community with all of its quirky, exasperating, oddball, and spectacularly creative characters is quite dear to me. They bicker in meetings on how to provide affordable housing. They argue about diversity, environmental regulations, and accessibility. They are as spikey as rusty nails and as sweet as gingerbread, and they positively glow in the heart-melting carols of the third graders. It’s not about how they see me, or whether they see me. It’s about them. I don’t know what they might need from me, but I need to show up because I love them.

And it will do me good because, as Dolly Levy said, I need to feel my heart coming alive again, before I’m all used up, before the parade passes by.