Merry Christmas to all!
This little Christmas story is my gift to you. It is based on the old legend that the animals can speak on Christmas Eve, in honour of their witnessing Jesus' birth.
The photos were taken just the other morning in the woods around our house.
ONCE upon a Christmas Eve, the woodland creatures began to stir. The forest was
dark, save for the patches of light the full moon tossed down through the
branches. It seemed quiet enough, but the whispers were growing.
It began with the mice, drawn into a
little clearing by the moon’s glow. One small mouse looked up and sniffed the
air. She twitched her nose, and a shiver ran from her whiskers down to the tip
of her tail.
“It’s here,” she spoke at last.
“It’s
here, it’s here!” A chorus of whispers swept through the clearing. A dozen
pairs of tiny eyes shone with the light of this understanding. From the perch
of a towering pine, an owl hooted. And the funny thing was, the mice didn’t run
for cover. They kept staring skyward, front paws raised in welcome.
Then the first mouse made a sudden
leap in the air and pirouetted into the center of the gathering. The others
crept close, trembling with the energy of midnight.
“It is Christmas Eve,” she said, and
a cheer went up from the mice. “This is the one night of the year we are given
a voice. This is the one night of the year we may gather without fear, and in
unity with all God’s creatures. For we have a story to tell. Just like our
voices, this story has been given to us. We cannot help but speak, and we
cannot help but tell. For this is a wonder greater than us all.”
As the mouse spoke, her voice
strengthened and rang out like a silver bell in the silent night. As the mouse
spoke, the gathering began to grow. The rabbits’ noses appeared first, and one
by one they lopped into view. Voles, squirrels and chipmunks followed. Then
came the gentle twittering of birds awakening and alighting on the branches of
birch and spruce. A pair of skunks flashed into sight, then mink, muskrat and
masked raccoon. Two white-tailed deer stepped quietly out of the shadows. They
did not so much as blink when the red coat of fox slid past them toward the
center of the clearing.
“Are we all here?” mouse asked, her
ears perked and eager. Creatures murmured, turning and looking around them.
Where the shadowy branches marked the edge of the moonlight, a silver wolf and
sleek black bear took their places. Once again the owl hooted to signal the
treetops were filled from raven to wren. The mouse nimbly ascended a moss
covered stump. She lifted her paw, and all the creatures fell silent.
“This is the wonder we gather to
remember,” she began. “That on this eve, an age ago, some of our humble kindred
witnessed the birth of a miracle. In far Bethlehem, forests away and across the
great sea, a boy child was born. He was a creature, like us, and yet he was not
a creature. He came by way of the back door, the way the lowliest among us
moved, and took up a bed where the animals fed.
“My own forefathers beheld this
child from the nooks and crannies where they hid. And yet they were not hidden
from him. In his eyes they recognized the glint of the sun, the glimmer of
water, and the gaze of their Maker. The fear that ties our tongues was loosed,
and they burst out in a song that seemed to rumble through the whole earth,
tumbling out of their mouths and rising to the heavens. Our tamer cousins, ox
and donkey, were soon to join their praise, and it wasn’t long before the
hillside pastures rippled with worship.
“That glorious night, we were given
a gift. The glimpse of a world made new, of the meeting of heaven and nature,
and a taste of the promise that the lion would one day lie down with the lamb.
This was the child who would lead them.
“The
Creator has come! This is our story.
Creation is
saved! This is our song.”
The little mouse’s voice was soon
drowned out in a great hoopla of fur and feather as the hushed gathering turned
into one prancing, pawing chorus of “Glory
to God in the highest!” Even the trees clapped their boughs for joy and the
nearby river leapt out of its winter bed in shimmering delight. Overhead,
northern lights twirled and crackled, lighting the black sky with streams of
brilliant red and green.
When the voices faded, tears were
glistening on the mouse’s whiskers.
“The Lord is come,” she said at last
with great solemnity. “Let earth receive her king. Let all of nature sing. This
gift is ours, for one holy night. The story is ours, to spread abroad in field
and forest, hill and plain, beneath the ground and beyond the treetops. Let it
be told in every burrow and den, every stable and pasture, every attic and
secret shelter, and in every nook and cranny. For he came for both great and
small.”
The mouse looked to the bear, who
nodded his velvety nose and bowed.
“This holy night, we have been given
peace on earth, and a voice to proclaim it. Tonight, we are all his messengers.
Let the story be told!”
“Let
the story be told!” the creatures echoed, and before you could be sure they
were even there, they disappeared into the dappled shadows of the woods.
Where ears were open, the whispers
could be heard that night. The ancient story was remembered, and the future
foretold. And for the favoured ones, mostly children, the legend came alive and
was welcomed with wonder.
*
* *
As the dawn of Christmas Day broke
over the frosty forest, a bear slept soundly in his rocky den, an owl dozed in
the thick cover of an evergreen, and a little mouse curled her tail over her
nose in the warm corner of an old shed.
But if you listen very, very closely,
perhaps you may still hear the whisper that danced through the woods once upon
a Christmas Eve.
~lg
