There is silence. The sublime light of the star of Bethlehem embraces you, touches your face, illuminates every dark corner, and then clings to the angel hair flowing down the branches of the Christmas trees. Here your heart is warmed, anger and sadness melt away, the intimate, fragile caress of love pervades your soul.
The years of old childhood left behind, the memory of old, fearfully guarded, fragile decorations, the pure, sincere desire of waiting for a gift sit quietly beside you, hope moves into you silently. Your mother and father, who moved to the stars a long time ago, sit down next to you, the wrinkled, smoothing hands of the grandparents, their smile rests on your face. We sit together there, under the tree, timeless. The soul, love, and watchful embrace of all his ancestors for thousands of years. And we are waiting. The miracle that is born again and again to give hope to humanity that has lost its faith.
It is born, in blood, in frost, in the frozen water of melted snow, in filth, under the ruins and in the shivering, freezing cold of the trenches, in the sound of gunshots, in the last look of the dying, as they sit down next to God, thinking of home.
There is still hope. There is still hope? And baby Jesus is born.
Even in the sizzling straw of the manger. Even in the roaring noise of the world. Even in the tears of sorrow and pain. Even in the cold depths of the graves. Angels bring the news, and the song goes from soul to soul. It's Christmas Eve.
We sit in silence, the smell of pine fills the room, and we wait for the miracle. To come down between us, to touch, just for a moment, to embrace. All people desire this. For the good, the beautiful, the true. The angel speaks softly from heaven. And he lands among us. When the angels come, when the angels come, when the angels come, I'm home! Lands in front of your door, snow-silence on white wings, sits down and rests, the savior Christmas!
Blessed Hungarian Christmas!
When the angels come!
Featured Image: Pixabay
