Christmas in Present Perfect Tense
In early December, I was talking with my spiritual director about Advent, about the deep ache of it, and the deep wonder. I was talking about my specific losses and fears, as well as my specific joys. I was talking about the hope that was showing up even in the midst of grief. She listened, and nodded, and repeated back to me each insight I skimmed over in my breathless rush to get it all out. And then she gently asked if I wanted to take some time to listen to my soul, which was a nice way of telling me to stop talking, to pause.
And so I closed my eyes. She led me through a lush valley to the base of a mountain, which I began to climb. The effort of it–the feel of the brush against my ankles, the bare earth against my palms–was exhilarating and frightening. For some reason, I wanted to get to the top. I could feel my muscles tensing and releasing. I could feel the soles of my feet carefully settling into each foothold. The higher I climbed, the more deeply I settled into my body and the stronger I felt.
I reached a plateau near the top. Out of breath, I sat down and looked out over the valley, but a thick fog had settled below me. The view was not the amazing one I had expected. A sense of deep disappointment settled over me. I wanted to climb further, or to descend again, but I was out of breath. I stayed put.
And then, in the distance, I saw a woman climbing toward me. At first, all I knew for sure was that she was draped in blue. As she grew closer, I could make out her olive skin, the strength in her arms, the way her feet seemed to know where each foothold was without much effort. When she reached me, she said nothing–she simply sat beside me and linked her arm with mine.
After a long silence, I asked, Who are you?
Elizabeth, she said.
Like, Elizabeth from the Bible?
Yes.
What are you doing here?
You called for me, she said.
I hadn’t called for her. I had barely ever considered her, except in the cursory ways everyone thinks of her at this time of year. But, I didn’t argue.
We watched the valley for some time. The sun, still visible despite the fog, was midway through the sky, and we seemed to be waiting for it to rise fully, or to set–I wasn’t sure. I felt restless, tired, but still, her arm linked in mine, the warmth of her body beside mine, was such a comfort.
And then, I heard movement in the brush along the mountain’s other side. As I turned to see what was happening, I saw a small hand reach up, grabbing onto the edge of the plateau where we were sitting. And then, my Thea Koula pulled herself up and made her way toward me, brushing dust off her pants.
This past September would have been her 100th birthday. We lost at 97–the oldest of six, she had outlived almost all her siblings, despite having had a very hard early life. It’s no secret that she was one of my favorite people.
As she stumbled toward me, she was giggling loudly. Her entries into family gatherings–she was always late–were often accompanied by giggles.
Hello, hello! she said. I’m late as usual. Then she sat on the other side of me and linked her arm with mine in exactly the same way Elizabeth had, and her body settled. I could hear both of them breathing now.
After awhile, I said to her, I miss your New Year’s table. It was always my favorite holiday tradition. The other day I bought some dried apricots because I remember you always had them. I don’t even know if anyone else will like them besides me.
She didn’t say anything, just squeezed my arm. I wondered if the two women on either side of me were aware of each other. I wondered if each knew who the other was. But I didn’t ask, because I was suddenly overcome by how alike they were: both were symbols of deep welcome, of the way one human can truly see and know another. I had felt that welcome, that knowing, from Thea Koula all my life. And Elizabeth had been that person for Mary.
\
I thought of how Elizabeth was the only one who got to hear Mary’s words in person:
He has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts. He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty.
Can I ask you a question, Elizabeth? She nodded. You were the only one to hear Mary’s words, my favorite verses in the Bible, spoken out loud. Why was that?
Because I was there, and I was listening, she said simply.
And what do you think about them now, when none of it came true?
As I spoke, the fog began to slowly dissipate. I realized I had asked the question bitterly. I realized I was weeping. We’ve lost so much, I said, and the two women grew closer to me, held me tighter.
After a time, Elizabeth responded, It’s not about whether or not it has come true. It’s about living as if it is true. That is how we make it true, generation after generation.
I’m writing this very early on Christmas morning, after spending Christmas Eve separated from half my family due to COVID. The four of us who tested positive ate a simple meal, opened gifts, lit the Advent candles, watched church on a laptop perched on the coffee table. At my inlaws, the other half of the family was gathered, with the four year old at the center of the room, loving Christmas as only a four year old can. We talked over a screen.
Later, when we were all back in our own home and everyone was tucked in, my spouse and I, masked, put out the stockings and the Santa gifts and exchanged our own gifts for one another five feet apart. None of it was ideal, but we made the best of it.
Somehow after so many years of reading and re-reading the story of the Annunciation, followed by Mary’s decision to flee to Elizabeth’s home, I’d never realized that Mary spoke the Magnifcat not in future tense (God will scatter) but in present perfect (God has scattered). As I recently explained to my eighth grader who is learning about verbs, the present perfect is used for actions that occurred in the past but continue into the present.
Christmas always happens in the present perfect tense. We celebrate ancient traditions, and make them new. We gather with loved ones, and remember those lost to us. We hear the same story year after year but it is always, also, new. We remember the specific child born; the specific children murdered; the specific family forced to flee their homeland. And we recognize that these actions continue into this time, too: children born, children killed, families fleeing.
We see, eventually, that we are a part of the story, the ones who can make the Magnificat true as it has always and never been. We are the ones who can tame our own pride and call it out in others. We are the ones who can recognize unjust rulers and lift up the humble. We are the ones who can recognize our own thirst for power and replace it with humility. We are the ones who can fill the hungry with good things, redistribute the wealth in our communities. We are the ones who keep Christmas in the present perfect tense.
Comments