Entrance Ramps, Cemeteries, and Other Christmas Thoughts

Or, "Notes I Jotted Down While Driving on the PA Turnpike"

Love Your Home, Even the Entrance Ramps

Each year, my Christmas travels take me from Virginia to Michigan, about an eight hour drive. Over the years, this drive has often been the cause of frustration, exhaustion, and during violent blizzards, a fear for my life. However, this year’s drive ended up being a pleasant surprise. Instead of permitting the long miles, flashy billboards, and ugly rest stops to disrupt my Christmas joy, this time I was overwhelmed by a sense of thoughtful positivity.

It all began as I first merged into the turn lane to get on the entrance ramp to the main highway near my home in Virginia. As my vehicle creeped up the tightly wound ramp, a sense of affection washed over me and I bid my town farewell with kindness, even as I was met by the expanse of aggressive concrete and the growling rush of passing motorists.

Once more I was amused at the irony of the joy I felt when confronted by “the machine.” The affection we feel towards the places we live mirrors the affection we feel towards each other. Like the vices and failings of our loved ones, the ugly aspects of our towns, be they dilapidated buildings or bleak entrance ramps, are still bound up in what it means to have a sense of place. We don’t love the sins, but we love the sinner. I don’t love the highway entrance ramp, but I love the town that contains this entrance ramp. Though it is a “spot” on the beautiful landscape, as I slowly crawled up the ramp, my thoughts were elevated and my heart was warmed. My travels would take me up this ramp and away from my town, but the fondness I felt brought a smile to my face and reassured me of the goodness of the little place I’ve chosen to live.

The joyous Christmas carols playing as I accelerated and began my journey seemed to transform even the mundane and dystopian concrete and to imbue it with the warmth of the road to Bethlehem long ago.

Christmas Rejoicing and Cemeteries

Juxtapositions continued as I drove along, now singing Gaudete with gusto. I have a practice of praying for the faithful departed as I pass cemeteries, and I will pause my music mid-song to pray if necessary. So in the midst of joyously singing the refrain, I paused Gaudete and turned my thoughts to death.

Memento Mori. Even and especially in the midst of Christmas rejoicing. Sometimes I just love the “gothic edginess” of the faith so much. Consumeristic holiday celebrations have nothing on blaring Gaudete while passing a cemetery on a winding country road in Virginia.

Gaudete, gaudete Christos est natus
Ex Maria virginae, gaudete.

Knowing When To Pause for Others to Shine

In a world where everyone aspires to be #1 and wants their voice to be heard loudest of all, I was struck by the beautiful lesson to be learned from Carol of the Bells. Knowing the entire song, I tried to sing along to each line, but mid-way through the song I noticed that the beauty was not in many voices shouting at once, but in each voice pausing and letting others have a moment to shine.

The beauty of the whole was only achieved by each voice knowing their part. We each have a part to play in the grand song of God’s Creation. But that does not mean that we each must sing constantly, at the same key or volume. Some sing louder, some softer. Some deeper, some higher. Some carry the beat, others join at just the right moment, but provide punctuating perfection. We are not equally called to sing in the same voice at once. But the Lord does call each of us to join in the song of praise, even as just a tiny chiming bell. Some may reverberate across the land, but others ring as a still small voice.

Why Do Christmas Greetings on Digital Signs Feel Cold and Distant?

The final note I jotted upon the latest mechanic invoice I pulled from my glove box was inspired by a Church displaying a digital Christmas greeting in West Virginia. I do not recall what the message itself said, but I was struck by the contrast of an attempt at evangelization and the cold blue lights of the digital messaging board. The message was laudable, but the medium somehow blocked my heart. Though I was open to being charmed by the concrete entrance ramp, in this instance, technology got in the way of warming my heart.

This reaction gave me pause. What was it about the digital message that felt distant and removed from reality? I could only rationalize that because the message was generated inside, at a computer, the human element was multiple steps removed from the roadside sign beckoning me to remember Jesus at Christmastime.

Later as I passed a different, manually written sign with similar messaging, I saw the difference with greater clarity. Whereas in the first sign, the human was removed, and the intention was indirect, the second sign seemed intentional and hit the mark of my heart more directly. Here a hand had arranged these words on this sign for me to see. Instead of in a building, at a computer, in this instance a person had come outside and compiled this message upon the sign itself.

In all of our efforts, but especially when sharing the Christmas message of hope, we must fight to preserve the human element. It is not with cold and distant technology that hardened hearts are softened, but with warm words from human hands the spark of hope may burn once more.