In the Bing Crosby soundtrack of my childhood, “The Littlest Angel” was a Christmas favorite. It tells of a 4-year-old angel who spends his days in heaven playing with treasures brought from earth:
“Just a butterfly with golden wings,
a little piece of a hollow log,
two shiny stones from a riverbank,
and the worn-out strap of his faithful dog.”
As an animal-loving child, no doubt I adored the song because it mentioned a dog. But now I can’t listen to it without crying. What happened to the dog? Why was its collar in the boy’s box? At that tender age, was the child mourning the death of a beloved pet? Even if that’s not what happened, the little angel was sitting in heaven missing his dog and the dog was probably missing him and where are my tissues?
The song continues. When news of the impending birth of Jesus arrives in the “great celestial hall,” the angel bravely presents his box of treasures, then sits alone and cries over the meagerness of his offering. But the Savior surprises him by choosing that small gift — blessed with great love — to become the glowing star over Bethlehem.
Gets me every time.
For many people, the weeks leading up to Christmas are filled with reminders of loss. Inevitably, the death of loved ones leaves empty seats at the holiday table. Cherished traditions that lasted for decades become unsustainable. Diminishment happens. Our sad little box of treasures grows heavier by the year.
The littlest angel’s Advent invitation is to decide what to do with that box. Will we sit alone, gazing upon our losses? Or can we find a way to bring our sorrows to the manger?
What would it look like to welcome the Savior with the gift of our heartbroken selves — all that we held dear and hold no more? Can we go to church even knowing we’ll sob through it or comfort another grieving soul from a place of fresh understanding? Amid so much seasonal pressure to be joyful, can we say, with Ignatius, “Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, my entire will?” It’s a worthy prayer for the dark morning hours of Advent.
If the worn-out strap of a faithful dog can become the star over Bethlehem, imagine how much light and warmth God can create from the wholehearted surrender of even our sorrows.
Click here to listen to the song. | Click here to find our Advent playlist. | Click here to find more Advent reflections.
