Happy Birthday, Jesus

Christmases Past

I didn't expect it.

That this Christmas Eve was to be the low point of my world.

An antarctic of the spirit.

It did not seem like a day to rejoice in a birth that had promised the world a new path to the Lord. I held my puppet close to my heart, thinking, You don't get to sing 'Happy Birthday, Jesus' tonight.

You see, the special music we had been rehearsing for had been pre-empted from the printed copy of the Christmas Eve service.

Despondently slumped onto my seat, I saw behind me a gray sky, as if all the world had suddenly gone black and white, with no color at all.

For a long time, I sat, watching the clouds and the stars and the white Christmas lights, all jumbled up against the wet windowpane so that after a while there was no way to tell which were the real stars and which were fake.

Even when we got word in the course of the service that we could do the offertory (though not officially announced on the printed bulletin), what difference did that make?

I was in despair. Night had fallen onto my heart.

On cue for the finale, we lit a candle as together, we and the congregation sang the reprise, Happy Birthday, Jesus. 

But why did the room stay depressingly gray?

I couldn't help being choked in tears. It was the saddest birthday song sung on a night that had seemed moonless.

Silent.

Blacker than ever.

But wait... It wasn't about me or anybody else. It was about a baby boy. The reason for the season. 

So, even now, though haunted by the memory, my heart sings.

Happy birthday, Jesus!