My Silent Night
I’ve always been taught about the sacrifice Christ made for me, but there was an essential preceding sacrifice. Mary’s sacrifice. And before that, Eve’s. Of all the miracles, the miracle of these women’s courage, willingness, and trust is what inspires me most—it is what I hold on to.
The miracle of it all is what can make some dismiss the cost of the sacrifice. Mary brought the Son of God into the world, but who He was did not spare her from the pain and discomforts women endure. An angel told her what would be, but that did not save her from the heaviness of the worry and sorrow mother’s carry. She did what was asked of her but was not spared from fear or grief.
And what of Eve? Her question, “is there no other way?” to me signifies the weight of the choice she had to make. It wasn’t easy. It likely felt terrible and terrifying, and yet it was right. And she did it.
Miracles are most often described in light, joyful, and faith inspiring ways—but sacrifice precedes the miracle. Effort precedes the miracle. Patience precedes the miracle. Pain precedes the miracle. Courage precedes the miracle. Endurance precedes the miracle. Choice precedes the miracle. Even divinity is not spared, but instead sustained. And so are we.
When I think of Christ’s sacrifice, I think of all that preceded it. I think of His mother. I think about the night she held him, knowing she was holding much more than what appeared. I think of the sustaining peace of that moment she might have held onto, knowing what was to come.
The last year the song Silent Night has been painfully sacred to me.
All is calm, all is bright.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Last week though, as I listened to this song being sung, I was transported back to my own silent night, and the memory started changing from pain to peace.
The night after my own baby boy died, I held him all through the night. I used my body heat to warm his, and I couldn’t even pull him away long enough to look at him. I wanted to remember the feeling of holding him. I knew pictures wouldn’t capture that feeling. That night was all I had. I don’t think I will ever be able to articulate the sacredness of that night. Time stood still. Heaven and Earth collided in a tragically beautiful way.
It was silent in a way I had never experienced before. My mind was quiet. I was seeing the world with my soul, and the only earthly things that mattered were the ones that matter in heaven too. That night was a gift. And though I wouldn’t wish what happened to me to happen to anyone, I do wish everyone could experience the divine silence of that night.
That kind of clarity is slippery, it’s hard to hold onto. Maybe that’s why I hold on to Mary’s story so tightly. To be the mother of Jesus must have come at a price incomprehensible to my mortal mind, but I am so inspired by it. She knew, and she still chose it. She willingly walked into it. Her faith and her knowing did not save her from the unbearable pain but did help her endure it so well. In so many ways, her sacrifice saved us.
I can’t speak to exactly what Mary or Eve might have felt in all they faced, but when I feel like I can’t take one more step, it is their examples that help me find the strength. It is their willingness that keeps me trying. It is their courage that helps me stand up. It is their sacrifice that gives me the responsibility to take what has happened and use it to build faith and trust—the responsibility to become the miracle.