There is a special silence that comes on Christmas Eve. Not an empty silence, nor a frightening silence. It is not the silence of loss or of departure, but rather of expectation. The silence of this night might truly be called a pregnant pause, a moment of holding one's breath in anticipation of something wondrous about to happen. In this night, all is calm, all is bright. The Psalmist said, "Be still, and know that I am God." We wait, in hushed silence, knowing that something beautiful lies just ahead.

It is so good to gather together in the silence and darkness of this night. We're so rarely in church this late, and everything is so beautiful. Both the darkness and the light of this night are radiant. Whoever we are this night, as we gather, whatever has brought us here, however our hearts are yearning to find love and hope and a little peace, we are met in the silence of this night by the Promise of Ages, and we will not leave disappointed.

Christmas Eve is, in the best sense of the word, a magical time. It is called, for good reason, "the Night of Miracles." Unexpected things happen. From cultures all around the world come stories of miracles occurring in this night. Perhaps you've heard some. Stories of healing and remembered love. Stories of fulfillment and transformation. Stories of families reuniting. Stories of Scrooges of all kinds turning into kind old men. Stories of roses blooming in the midst of winter's cold. Stories of food and shelter shared. Stories of strangers meeting and becoming friends. Stories of animals talking-oxen, cows, horses, pigs, dogs and cats-talking this night. The first to do so, we say, were in that stable in Bethlehem.

Real miracles happen in this Night of Miracles, too. And on this Christmas Eve 2001, when we are in a time of war and many serving in our nation's armed forces are far from home, as we remember them in our prayers, I want to tell you a true story of something that actually happened on Christmas Eve fifty-one years ago. It was 1950 and our nation was at war in Korea. Then, as now, service men and women were stationed halfway around the world on this most precious night. And on that night, as so many times before and since, God found a way yet again for the Prince of Peace to be born. When there was no room in the inn, the night was cold and shepherds of all kinds had not yet learned how to let go of their fear.

On that night in 1950, Captain Leonard LaRue was at the helm of his 455-foot freighter, the Meredith Victory, in the Sea of Japan. Designed to carry only its 47 crewmen and no more than 12 passengers, the ship had sailed out of Norfolk, Virginia, assigned to carry ammunition, tanks and trucks from Japan to supply American troops in North Korea. The freighter Meredith Victory had been ordered to the port of Hungnam to aid civilian refugees.

They sailed in to Hungnam on December 22nd and were overwhelmed by what they saw. Captain LaRue later described the scene that greeted his crew: "I trained my binoculars on the shore and saw a pitiable scene. Korean refugees thronged the docks. With them was everything they could wheel, carry or drag. Beside them, like frightened chicks, were their children." The Captain of the freighter, designed to carry less than 60 people, responded. All afternoon, through to the next morning, the Captain and his crew loaded women, babies and old men into the ship's five cargo holds, and packed people on deck standing shoulder to shoulder. All their belongings were left behind, to allow more people to board. In total, 14,000 refugees were brought aboard the Meredith Victory.

On December 23rd, the little ship sailed south, through enemy waters, with no mine detection equipment, no doctor, no interpreter, no lighting in the cargo holds, no heat, no sanitation facilities. The only gun on board was the one pistol in the Captain's pocket.

The ship arrived safely at Pusan in South Korea on December 24th, only to be turned away by a city already overwhelmed by refugees. Captain LaRue later said, "I was reminded of the first Christmas Eve when there was no room."

And so they sailed on, exhausted and perilously overloaded, fifty miles farther south, to the island of Koje Do. After one last frigid night aboard, the refugees were taken ashore by two U.S. Navy ships normally used to land tanks during beach combat. 14,000 lives were saved by the heroic and compassionate action of the Captain and his crew. No one died aboard that ship that Christmas and five new babies were born during the voyage.

Captain LaRue said the miracle of that Christmas Eve night changed his life. He later became a Benedictine monk and lived at their monastery, St. Paul's Abbey, in New Jersey, until his death last October at age 87. He had written, "I think of how such a small vessel was able to hold so many persons and surmount endless perils without harm to a soul. The clear, unmistakable message comes to me that on that Christmastide, in the bleak and bitter waters off the shores of Korea, God's own hand was at the helm of my ship."

In pondering those words, we know that Captain LaRue meant that God's hand was guiding his freighter and its precious cargo to safety that night. But knowing what we know of Leonard LaRue, we might also think that he could have meant that God's hand was guiding the ship of his life, as well, guiding the choices he made and the risks he was willing to take. Clearly, it was God's own hand that opened the Captain's heart to the plight of the refugees and stirred him to take action. It was surely God's own hand that caused Captain LaRue to transform that cargo vessel into a haven of safety and hope, to courageously transform what might have been a disaster into a triumph of life.

There are so many miracles that can happen in the silence and darkness of this night, if we but believe them to be possible. The miracle of Leonard LaRue and the Meredith Victory was a big one-14,000 +5! Our miracles might be quite small in comparison-a reunion, a reconciliation, a kind word, hospitality shared, hope rekindled. What counts, and what makes all the difference in the world, is an expectant heart. An openness to perceive God at work in the world and in our lives, an eagerness to discern God's own hand guiding our lives and our choices and our dreams.

This is the real miracle of Christmas Eve. It is the miracle that made it possible for the shepherds to hear the voice of the angels. It is the miracle that drew them to the stable and gave them eyes to see that the babe in the manger would be Emmanuel, God-with-us. It is the miracle that removes our every blindness and enables us to look upon the face of another person and see the divinity within.

For on Christmas Eve, our hope and expectation come from knowing that the dawn is close at hand, knowing that the night will soon become day, the sun will rise, the light will shine. There is an old legend that tells of a rabbi who asked his students to define the moment we call "dawn," when morning prayers are to be recited. One said, "It's dawn when you can tell an olive tree from a fig tree." Another said, "It's dawn when you can tell a horse from a donkey." And the rest offered their best guesses. At last the Rabbi said, "It is dawn when you can look a stranger in the face and see your sister or your brother."

In the darkness and silence of this night, Christ is born to make our darkness bright. This has, indeed, been a very dark year for our nation and our world. Our nerves are still rattled. Underneath our festivities lies a shadow of sadness and grief. This year more than ever we all need the miracles and the promise of this night. We need to believe again in something deeper than what the eye can see or the ear can hear. We need to hear just for a moment the healing, liberating promise of the angels: "Fear not. Fear not. Peace on earth. Good will to all!"

How shall we leave this time of worship? How shall we move through the darkness and silence of this night? Some will be pondering what all this might mean, as did Mary, so long ago. Some will see evidence of God's hand at work in the world, as did Captain LaRue. Some will be praising and glorifying God, as did the shepherds. Some will be singing, with the angel choirs. And some will be straining to see the light, the light that shines in the darkness, the light the darkness can never overcome.

Within each and every one of us, may hope be born anew. May the hand of God guide the ship of your life into the light of the bright morning star, Jesus Christ.

And may peace be with you, dear sisters and brothers. The peace that passes all understanding. The peace that finds us in the darkness and silence of this holy night of miracles and leads us home.

Let us be in silent prayer together as we anticipate the coming of the Light.

© Patricia E. Farris, 2001. Permission is given for brief quotation with attribution. All other rights reserved.