Christmas Eve

How did these little papers come to be there? Did they fall from her handbag when she took out her handkerchief to dry her tears as she entered the village church, to pour out her soul with her supplications on Christmas Eve? Or did she look through them tenderly, and the wind carried some of them off, and tears kept her from seeing? Perhaps, perhaps... But here is some of what was in them:

Christmas Eve... Will you go today to the great oak? Will you stand there to remember the long days we delighted in — or do you bear a grudge? ... I wronged you... With hardness of heart I trampled the sacred gift that a woman gives to the man she loves... I felt my own cruelty, and your love rising above my neglect; but I did not ask your pardon then, lest you settle it all with forgiveness... But today, the birthday of the Lord of Peace — today, while you are in your world brimming with memories, and the voices of the guns roar in my ears, and I huddle in the corners of the damp trenches — today, I think, you will forgive.

And then — do you remember that holiday when we sat watching a moving picture about the last war, in which the women gathered in throngs, draped in black, before the tomb of the Unknown Soldier... each one bowing before it to shed a tear for her hero, not knowing where he lies... You wiped away with your handkerchief a tear that sprang from your distracted eyes and murmured, "Thank God the tragedy will never be repeated" — but it was repeated, because the world's ambitions would have nothing less than its repetition...

Christmas Eve, Mary — see, our guns have fallen silent, and theirs as well... See, we and they climb out of our trenches, and for a few minutes we have become friends; we stretch out our hands to shake theirs and they stretch out their own; we trade cigarettes and sweets and whatever we possess... We do this in keeping with the rule laid down by the Lord of this feast when he said:

Love your neighbor as yourself; let him who has, give... We do this for minutes only — as though the message of the Lord of Peace were a message for minutes... or as though the hands that lead us and direct us understood that this message, the message of love and giving, is a lofty message that must be followed... but for minutes. Imagine it!

Christmas Eve, Mary — but where are we from the message of Christmas? I seem to see the black clouds over the village's waters, grieving and pained, refusing to turn to snow to adorn the village.

And I see the faint lights in the shops and the humble houses clothed in mourning, choked by the hand of man — that hand which has turned into a destroying, strangling hand.

I seem to see the neighbor "Ibby" sitting in the stillness of night to think of the far-off husband who has not yet seen his child, and to ask herself: will he ever see him?!

And I see Grandmother "Betsy," delivered at last from the little ones' questions, sitting down to shed one tear for the mother lying at rest over there, and another for the father, of whom she does not know where he is.

And I see the sick mother "Patrice" praying in her little hut: "O God, I am a woman wasting away, and I shall die without seeing my son. Bring him back to me, that I may see him and then he may close my eyes."

And I see the old pastor's children gathering around the Christmas tree — not to sing "and on earth peace," but to pray devoutly: "O God, grant the earth peace."

Christmas Eve, my darling — and what will you do with it? I seem to see you carrying little gifts, to mend aching hearts with them... and I seem to see you consoling and binding up wounds — you, who are yourself in need of consolation, and of someone to bind your wounds...

Oh, you valiant women! Each one carries the weight of mountains on her shoulders, and yet she stands up bravely to do her duty to the full...

It is as though the great writer Norman Angell had seen you with the eyes of his imagination, when the war had ended and the bells of victory rang, and each of you stood at her window, lifting her child to see the soldiers returning after a victory his father had bought with his life... Then flowed the tears that hope had held back and despair set flowing; the steeled strength gave out its light, and the wounds of bleeding hearts broke open... He saw you, and cried his immortal cry: "In war there is no winning side — all alike are losers."

Christmas Eve, my darling — but have people understood the message of the Lord of Christmas??

Acre — Palestine