The Christmas candle

It was Christmas Eve. The snow outside was falling softly, softly. It already covered the fields like a thick cloak. Here and there a few cypress trees — a startling sight. For someone like myself, coming from the tropics, it never ceased to be a dazzling spectacle. It was my first Christmas away from my homeland. A mixture of melancholy and homesickness and at the same time expectation and serenity invaded my soul. I was in Berchtensgaden, a small city in southernmost Germany, one of the most magnificent landscapes in the Bavarian Alps, barely stained by the name of Hitler who had a hideaway build there in the midst of the mountains — one he never got to use.

The small 15th century Franciscan convent where I was staying was almost lost in the whiteness of the snowcap that was 2 meters high and 15 degrees below zero. Around 11 o'clock at night, I heard loud explosions coming from all sides, lighting up the snow, which looked bluish. It was the farmers coming down the mountains to midnight Mass. In its coarse simplicity, it was a way of inviting people to Holy Night. I concelebrated the Mass, sung by them in the Bavarian dialect. Dressed in knee-length leather pants, long suspenders, thick stockings and heavy overshoes, they could well have been the shepherds of Bethlehem. When everything was over, a great silence descended. Throughout the valleys and hillsides, one could see tiny trembling lights moving. It was them "returning quickly, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen" as the sacred texts read.

At about 1:30 in the morning, the convent bell rang. An old woman was at the door, wrapped in a thick gray coat. She had a lit lantern and carried a small package in her hand. She said to the brother doorkeeper: "This is for the foreign father ("Paterle") who was at the altar." They called me. She simply gave me this very decorated package with some brief words in Bavarian: "You are far from your country and your family. Accept this small gift. Today should be Christmas for you too." She shook my hand forcefully and disappeared into the night, blessed by the snow that fell copiously.

Later, alone in my room, as I was pondering images of Christmas at home with my family of eleven brothers — very similar to this one but without snow — I opened the package reverently. It was a large dark red carved candle on a thick metal stand.

A small light lit up the lonely night. Long trembling shadows projected themselves onto the ancient walls of the convent. Then I did not feel alone. Far from my country, the miracle of all Christmases had occurred: the feast of brotherhood. An anonymous woman of the people had understood the message of the Child who shivered in the cold between the ox and the mule. Make the stranger a neighbor and the neighbor a brother.

Yet today, after so many years, the Christmas candle waits every Christmas Eve on the shelf between the books. Every year, on Holy Night, it is lit. And it will always be lit. In lighting it, I will remember that happy night of snow, solitude, and homesickness. I will remember that gesture of giving more than just an arm. It brings to mind the gifting that is more than just giving. It represents Christmas in all its human and divine meaning. This candle is much more than just any candle. It has become a Christmas sacrament that still shines and acts today.

Free translation from the Spanish provided by AnneFullerton@mybluelight.com. Done in Arlington, VA in cooperation with Refugio del Rio Grande, Texas.