Inspired by the Feast

The morning breathed — and how lovely is its breathing on feast days — and yawned forth cold, biting breezes that blew, tickling the pages of the bare shrubs, shaking hands with the gleaming ingots of snow... And the daughter of light rose from her hiding place, timid and apprehensive, looking out upon the world in bashfulness and modesty, as though she feared the massed black armies of night standing with weapons drawn — pitch-dark shadows and nights of deepest blackness... Then she sent out her golden threads, slipping through the openings and the chinks to those sunk in dreams, summoning them to rise early — for this day is a day like no other day... a day on which light and faith were born, a guidance to all the worlds... a day on which love and forgiveness found their way into human hearts... a day on which the greatest Savior was born, to stand as the eternal, undying example of tolerance and pardon, of love and faith...

And in a dark, dim room — dark save for a narrow chink where the curtains hanging over the windows parted — on a modest bed lay Suad, her eyes closed, sunk in a long slumber...

The inquisitive light crept in to her through the opening and gently tickled her cheeks, and before long it woke her from her dreams; she began to stir restlessly where she lay, passing her hand over her brow, and quickly closed her eyes again, to make herself believe she was still deep in her sleep... When she realized that she could not return to her quiet slumber, she threw the cover aside and, with a nervous movement, leapt from her bed and set about drawing back the curtains and opening the windows; then she stood on the balcony, contemplating nature dressed in her loveliest robes in celebration of the coming of the feast... From far, far away the ringing of the bells drifted to her, pealing and resounding... And in a far corner of the street her eye was caught by a cluster of children in their bright, embroidered clothes, up early to welcome the feast with rejoicing... And Suad sighed... and from her depths rose a burning sigh whose flame she felt mounting from her mouth and scorching her cheeks... Would that she had stayed an artless child like these — then she would have felt the feast, and pieced together some meaning for happiness...

God help these people — what fools! Do they impose it on all mankind to rejoice on one single day, saying to them: Today is your feast, O people, so rejoice?...

And then, what are these superstitions that have taken such hold of their minds, blinding their sight and leading them off the road, so that they have come to believe in these legends which people hand down generation after generation — holding celebrations for them, keeping evening gatherings, reviving memories?... How many, many years had this artless story been repeated in her hearing, and how many times had she seen it acted on stages and in the corners of houses and drawing rooms: a dark grotto... a small child in a little manger... a woman in simple dress crooning over him... strange folk arriving with gifts... a shining star appearing in the heart of the sky... anthems and hymns, repeated year after year until the ear all but wearies of them and the taste recoils...

Her imagination carried her back to those bygone days, when she still believed in such superstitions — when he was still at her side...

He had left her on a day just like this one, after promising to return — and after he had breached her honor; and so people took to wagging their tongues over her story, tearing at her with their fangs, chewing her over with their tongues... Friends and acquaintances abandoned her — those who draw near a person only for some end of their own, only for their private designs... Then before long the director of the company where she worked gave her to understand, gently and tactfully, that he regretted having to dismiss her from her work, because she had begun of late to neglect her duties, and had grown given to absences, forever glum and dazed.

So it was that she lost the one solace that helped her toward forgetting... Nor was fate content with this measure of cruelty; it went on to shower her with a hail of torments of every kind: she lost her mother, her one comfort — she who had always labored to lighten her burden, who had bent over her tenderly when everyone disowned her, and gathered her to herself with affection when near and far alike recoiled from her... Then his letters ceased, and she went half mad, spending the long hours weeping, sobbing, forever gazing toward the neighboring lane, in hope the postman might take pity on her and bring her what she was waiting for...

And fate would not rest until it had made her taste its torment in shapes and kinds without number; not content with the anguish of parting, the desolation of loneliness, and the cruelty of death, it brought down upon her a grave illness whose prey she remained for many months, during which she tasted pain in all its colors... Her color grew pale, her body wasted, and the marks of beauty faded from her face...

Why, then, should she go on living, when she had lost everything: lost family and friends and health and beauty... Why live, when she had become a heap of human refuse, thrown into a lonely corner of the stage of life... No one cares for her, and she cares for no one... No one knocks at her door, and she knocks at no one's door... She lives in the pitch darkness of black, gloomy thoughts...

Suddenly the chain of her thoughts was cut by a resonant, penetrating voice coming from a nearby radio, saying: Such was the life of Jesus — an unbroken chain of pain, torment, and deprivation... Let us take His life as an example, to guide us on the straight path in this earthly life. And let us not leave despair a way into our hearts to corrupt our faith — for whoever denies life has denied God... And let us take this feast as an occasion to renew our faith, to renew our spirits, and to renew hope within our souls; for the feast is not for holding parties, nor for giving banquets and exchanging toasts, so much as it is an occasion for renewing faith in souls, and for setting hope anew in despairing spirits and desponding hearts...

Let us always take refuge, in our trials, with Him who never disappoints a hope... with Him who said: Call upon Me, and I will hear the call...

And she fell to listening, intent and eager, for it seemed to her that this voice had come down upon her from heaven, and that it meant her alone among all people... Yes — through her successive trials she had not thought for one moment of anything but herself; her own self had been the axis of her concern, the seat of her care... Not for one moment had she fled to the sure refuge and the strong fortress — to the Deliverer from every strait, to Him who bore tremendous pains and great misfortunes with a wondrous patience and a hope that knew no despair.

She hurried inside and knelt in reverence before the picture of Jesus hanging at the head of the hall, choking on her tears... And she did not come out of her trance until a knocking at the door rang through the house... She rose, forcing herself up, dragging her feet... And no sooner had she opened the door than she nearly fell down in a faint... It is he... He has returned!...