"For the Son of Man has come to seek and to save that which was lost." --Luke 19:10
Moonlight ricocheted across the valley. Every sound echoed through the canyons of white. Frigid air crusted the top layer of snow, making each new step crackle and pop as the white fluff gave way to human feet.
It was late December in Vermont, and I was trudging up a hill from the road, headed to a construction site deep in the rural countryside for a late-night safety inspection. Our workers were pushing to get this project done before Christmas. I knew this crew well; good workers and good people, but most of them not inclined to faith. One had never read the Bible, in part because he couldn't read. Another complained frequently about the hypocrisy of Christians. Still others exhibited little interest for or against God. The bitter cold air and the late night made their working conditions more difficult. They wouldn't be welcoming my inspection, always unpopular for a team trying to slam the door on a tightly-scheduled job.
Among the crew was one worker who years before, in a drug-induced state, had committed a violent crime. While in prison, he heard about and surrendered his life to Christ. The witness of the Savior's mercy and the gentleness of grace were never more evident than in this transformed life.
Long before I topped the hill, light from the construction site broke the darkness, spraying the night air with streams of beams. I stopped to admire the contrast, drinking in the beauty of Vermont in deep winter. Quietly at first, I heard the strains of a song coming from the building:
"Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright."
I peered down on the site, gazing in surprise as worker after worker followed the lead of one voice singing tribute to a Baby born long ago. Some of the workers would pause to belt a line; others kept their work up, singing the parts they knew, humming when they didn't.
It wasn't opera, but it struck me as some of the sweetest sounds I've ever heard. And from at least one life in that workplace, the strains of a soul wrenched from Hell and embraced by the Savior surely made God very happy.
Quickly deciding it wasn't a night for safety inspections, I turned around and walked back to my car, adding my voice quietly to theirs as I walked away:
"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed."
As we celebrate the Incarnation, be encouraged by the power of the first Christmas to ring out in the darkest places, changing even the gruffest cultures into reflections of His glory. May the joy of the His birth ring in our hearts and echo through the canyons of our souls this Christmas season. And may we never forget we serve a King who loves every worker. Every worker. As should we.
"Joy to the world, the Lord has come."
Moonlight ricocheted across the valley. Every sound echoed through the canyons of white. Frigid air crusted the top layer of snow, making each new step crackle and pop as the white fluff gave way to human feet.
It was late December in Vermont, and I was trudging up a hill from the road, headed to a construction site deep in the rural countryside for a late-night safety inspection. Our workers were pushing to get this project done before Christmas. I knew this crew well; good workers and good people, but most of them not inclined to faith. One had never read the Bible, in part because he couldn't read. Another complained frequently about the hypocrisy of Christians. Still others exhibited little interest for or against God. The bitter cold air and the late night made their working conditions more difficult. They wouldn't be welcoming my inspection, always unpopular for a team trying to slam the door on a tightly-scheduled job.
Among the crew was one worker who years before, in a drug-induced state, had committed a violent crime. While in prison, he heard about and surrendered his life to Christ. The witness of the Savior's mercy and the gentleness of grace were never more evident than in this transformed life.
Long before I topped the hill, light from the construction site broke the darkness, spraying the night air with streams of beams. I stopped to admire the contrast, drinking in the beauty of Vermont in deep winter. Quietly at first, I heard the strains of a song coming from the building:
"Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright."
I peered down on the site, gazing in surprise as worker after worker followed the lead of one voice singing tribute to a Baby born long ago. Some of the workers would pause to belt a line; others kept their work up, singing the parts they knew, humming when they didn't.
It wasn't opera, but it struck me as some of the sweetest sounds I've ever heard. And from at least one life in that workplace, the strains of a soul wrenched from Hell and embraced by the Savior surely made God very happy.
Quickly deciding it wasn't a night for safety inspections, I turned around and walked back to my car, adding my voice quietly to theirs as I walked away:
"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed."
As we celebrate the Incarnation, be encouraged by the power of the first Christmas to ring out in the darkest places, changing even the gruffest cultures into reflections of His glory. May the joy of the His birth ring in our hearts and echo through the canyons of our souls this Christmas season. And may we never forget we serve a King who loves every worker. Every worker. As should we.
"Joy to the world, the Lord has come."
--Randy Kilgore
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