Driving by the Church

Last Sunday, the class shared memories of special Christmases. Most of them centered around Christmas spent in a foreign country far from home. They told of how God ministered to them through unexpected visitors. Those stories brought to mind the person I saw driving by the church one Christmas night.
It was a cold night in Boise. Around Christmas time a cold night wasn't much of a surprise. The snow had been beautiful earlier that morning. Now it was piled in watery gray clumps against the curbs. The lights sparkled off the frozen lawns and it was quiet. Quiet in a way you rarely see in Texas. The snow and cold cloaked everything like a blanket pulled over your head. It was cold. It was night. It was lonely.
The church windows glowed a warm yellow.  Little bits of snow reflected on the stained glass.  On the outside you could see the shadows of the people inside. Like the pictures on Christmas cards, it looked like the kind of place you could call home.
I wanted to go inside. My baby was a little more than a year old and had never been in a church. She didn't know that inside that building there was a comfort that couldn't be found anywhere else. The light streaming from the windows beckoned me to come in and the pride and fear of my life held me back.  I drove by, saddened by passing up the warmth and comfort offered there. 
The happy ending of this story didn't come for another nine months.
In Sunday school, they talked about how a stranger in a strange country reminded them of our Emmanuel.  There was no stranger in that country to offer me comfort.  How many more of me are there wandering tonight? Which car is holding the mother, tired and refusing sleep? Which shopping cart loaded with presents is being pushed by a person whose joy has long since departed?
Lord, let me remember the person who drove by the church that Christmas night long ago. Let me look for her in the face of strangers and friends.