Christmas came in the subject line of an email during Advent at 4:00 am.
I was sitting by the window with hot tea, waiting for the first light of day after a long December night, fitful with worry and wait.
I worried about family, politics, economics, the environment, and all things relating to my soul.
4:00 am feels like the hour when an angel would whisper in dreams, when magi might follow a star, and when Mary could give birth on a holy night.
Predawn is the quietest and most intimate time. It is the time when shadows blur into reality, when fears move out of the corners of our hearts, and when dreams can take center stage and offer hope.
The subject of the email that morning simply said, "She was granted asylum." It was glad tidings of great joy.
These words are a cry of victory for human rights defenders. They are a song of joy that can change generations of lives. They are kin to the old phrase Ollie Ollie in Free that proclaims safety.
To be granted asylum speaks of justice to women who have known the dark side of anger, the short side of injustice, the underside of bridges and the walls of prisons.
The news came from Tina, a Mennonite Pastor in Tucson, and it felt akin to good news like “don’t be afraid,” “peace to all people,” and “a child is born.”
The woman who was granted asylum was living in Casa Cardo, a sister community of Thistle Farms, that opened to women and children seeking asylum in early this year.
Four families consisting of moms and kids, all survivors, surrendered at the border to petition for asylum. The horrific injustices they had endured included trafficking, kidnapping, and all manner of violence against women.
Thistle Farms had walked alongside Casa Cardo, raising money, offering training, and giving strength from the sidelines like shepherds in a field near the stables. In this season where polarization thrives and fears abide, I don’t think any of us expected this great news so close to Christmas.
The email went on to say that a judge had declared laws of asylum were written for such heroic survivors and let her depart in peace.
Silent and holy nights that mark Christmases can slip by easily amid the noise and lights.
Oh, holy night our hearts long for you.
The holiest nights are never what they seem from a distance. They are a surprise that washes over us. They call us to hope in dreams that cover us like a passing morning mist on a river.
From the distance of memory, holy nights sustain us through long days as they conjure nostalgia in our soft hearts.
Holy and silent nights aren’t the end of a story, they are sweet beginnings.
They remind us that respite for weary souls gives strength to go back out and love a world that is starving for joy.
O holy nights are silent because there are no words to attach to the requiting of love or the kiss of hope.
-- Becca Stevens