Just like any other day.

"'Hints?'
'Oh, they mean very little in cold print - or cold speech;' he said, shivering in his overcoat. 'And they mean nothing at all to another human being than the man who catches them. They are not scientific evidence - or evidence at all for that matter. Events that don't, somehow, turn out as they were intended - by the human actors, I mean, or by the thing behind the human actors.'...'I am - I really am, God knows - open to conviction.'
-The Hint of an Explanation, (short story) by Graham Greene

This last Sunday was really special. Occasionally at Church on the Street there's a day, that upon experiencing, I know I won't forget. When Debbie, my mom and I arrived at the park it was undoubtedly buried in snow. Because we have such sweet members there were already three guys out shoveling. Everything went smoothly, besides one tussle between our most elderly gentleman and our most mouthy one. I'm assuming the weather was having everyone feel their oats a little. After we were done eating lunch I was able to have a conversation with not only one of my favorite members but also a guy who has been with us from the very beginning. Generally we take communion about every other week and so I had asked this gentleman if he would like to join us. He simply said:
"If only communion could save me."
My fundamentalist, youth group evangelist side began to turn a little in my head, urging me to explain what I thought I knew about salvation and how, if he were smart, he would "make that decision." Good thing love and reality have taught me to shut my mouth. And so we sat on our rain washed pews, drinking lukewarm coffee, neither of us feeling the need to fill the silence. After a few minutes we began talking again. He spoke some of disappointment, of being cold, and how sad he was that faith wasn't enough. Somewhere in between the streets and church outreaches he had been taught that he wasn't good enough. If only he were cleaner. If only his vices weren't so obvious.
I asked him what he was going to do for Christmas.
He said nothing.
That it was just another day.
And suddenly I was jealous.
I was tired of thinking about Christmas.
I was tired of trying to muster up the magical propaganda of this day being more holy than any other; as if devotion at this time of the year meant more. I didn't want to see another nativity scene and I hated the thought of church christmas programs. In my mind I silently burned to the ground all the shopping malls and christian prefixes attached to the holiday.
In America we attribute a lot of worth to empathy. And so I thought, what if this holiday season we became as empathetic as we could to the baby christ?
What if we became weak and vulnerable?
What if we became poor and uncertain of what will happen tomorrow?
Chances are we'd look a lot like the man who saw Christmas as just another day.

I'd be lying if I said my walk of faith has been joyful or even certain. I've been wayward, inconsistent, and irrational and probably a profound stumbling block for many along the way. But everyday I experience these "hints". Hints that cannot be explained by anyone or anything but the spirit that creates them. I've found them to be most predominant in the broken places, in broken people, as if there were anyplace or anyone who existed above these measures.

Yesterday I thought a lot about my friend.
I wondered if he found a warm place and if he perhaps got to open a gift.
I'm not sure he would have cared either way.