Perhaps it's the deprivation, the poverty, the degradation or just plain awfulness, of a small family huddled in the darkness of a stable, that is abhorrent to some in today's materialistic world? There was no room in the Inn, but there was room in the stable. The Inn is the gathering place of public opinion, the focal point of the world's moods, the rendezvous of the worldly/moneyed, the rallying place of the popular. The stable is a place of outcasts, the ignored, the forgotten, the almost impossible things. Divinity is always were we least expect to find it.
I remember a past Christmas at the shelter. The faces; white, black, and some gray ; from weariness or illness. They were etched in stoic longing and loneliness. The remnants of the donated food (office parties) lay untouched on plastic trays. The muted sounds of "Joy to the World", echoed forth from a blurred black and white TV. Some covered their ears, some wept, some hummed along, eyes closed. Perhaps they were remembering a time long ago when they belonged and were loved?
Teresa, her bruised face swelling from a beating on the street, lay in a crumpled heap on the bench. As I put a blanket on her thin shaking body, I wondered that she hadn't been killed as yet? (Note - Teresa was murdered five months later for her canning money - near the city's yacht club). Henry, an elderly Black gentleman, brandishing his cane through the crowded community room, looked like an escaped scarecrow on the lam. In a whirlwind of decaying leaves, falling off his outlandish attire, he demanded better service or the Mayor would hear about it.
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