I often think to have peace, I must have silence or at least quiet. And the reality of my life is that silence is non-existent. As I write the girls are drawing and putting the pens back into a metal tin, the noise reverberates through the house. Mr is watching cricket and occasionally exclaims at the telly (or the kids). The washing machine is humming in the background and there is the (blessed) hum of the air conditioner.
I have been pondering the peace of the Christmas story and the carol we sing, “Silent night, holy night”. I love this carol and will continue to sing it, but I now know the untruth at the heart, that night wasn’t silent. Anyone who has had a newborn knows just how much noise they make, even the funny little grunts and gurgles when they are sleeping. And I don’t think the animals in that stable suddenly stopped their braying just because Jesus was there.
Then there are the shepherds on the hill, tending their flock at night-time. I think the scene was probably a lot more quiet before the angels appeared praising God and singing. I really don’t think they did that quietly.
So I think the first Christmas was filled with noise, and yet there was still peace. And in the noise of our post-Christmas household, that is what I am seeking too.