The foyer in the Bethlehem Baptist Church opens up grandly to a large, auditorium-style sanctuary on the left and a wide hallway to the right. My heart pounding, like a kind of maternal witching wand, led me right. Kids in tow, we walk until our Minnesota caseworker meets us and motions towards an open door.

It is one thing to hold your son in your dreams–those that wash over you in sleep and in daylight moments of reverie–but it quite another to hold him in your arms, to touch each fold in his baby skin, to take in his scent. As I walk through the door, my fingers salivate. There, before me, is Phoebe, our Georgia caseworker, with my son.

Behold Quinn. Splendid in green velveteen and candy cane booties, too lovely for words.

Try as I might, I simply cannot remember the transfer from caretaker to mother-in-waiting. But Phoebe surely placed Quinn in my arms, for I have photos to prove this. Smitten is such a funny-sounding word, and yet beneath its consonants lie vowels of something much more profound. I am smitten. Utterly, totally, helplessly smitten with a baby who would change my world.

The room is large enough to hold church banquets. Today, however, tables are stacked and pushed against the walls, leaving yards of vacancy filled with a few plastic chairs which have been clustered in the middle of the room. As we sit, Phoebe gifts us with those first moments of wonder as we pass Quinn from mother to father, father to daughter to daughter to daughter. Obligingly, he looks deeply into each face and does not cry. The axis of our world tilts decisively towards this moment. We push our chairs closer together, we circle the wagons of our new family, and I pull a bottle from the diaper bag, shake it with a practiced hand, and begin to feed Quinn.

Then Phoebe begins to do her job, fleshing out the details of the final adoptive process. This is the homestretch, she says, and soon you will be on the road back to southern Iowa as a new family of six. After I receive word that the parental release forms have been received in Des Moines, that is. Just this last detail, she says and smiles reassuringly. I’ll call right now and verify this, and then you can take off. 

Moments after the second burp, Phoebe returns from the office where she had made the call to Des Moines. She smiles, but the corners of her mouth don’t turn up as they had before. All set? Paul asks. He is a man on a mission. Always. She hesitates–just for a moment–but she clearly hesitates. As I gaze into my sleeping son’s face, however, this hesitation doesn’t register with me, for I cannot imagine anywhere I would rather be than right here, right now.

Not yet, she says. There are blizzard-like conditions in Des Moines, and with Christmas only two days away, the FedEx drivers are struggling to keep up with their normal schedules and routes. I’m sure they will deliver the paperwork soon. You can just hang out here, and I’ll call again in 30 minutes, o.k.? 

And so we do. After hours pent up in the van, the girls run the expanse of the big room, racing from one end to the other. Our Minnesota caseworker does her best at small talk, and Paul walks the hallway to the foyer and back. I hold Quinn snuggly on my chest, his dark curls in the hollow of my shoulder, and his arms-once balled beneath his torso-relax now and dangle by his sides.

Thirty minutes go by, and then another thirty minutes. Now lunch time, both caseworkers excuse themselves and meet in the hall outside of earshot. They return with a plan: Because we do not really know when the paperwork will arrive in Des Moines, and the church is getting ready for a big funeral, we have arranged for us to stay at a parishioner’s house nearby. This couple has adopted children, too, and invited us to stay with them until we receive official word from Iowa. Will this be o.k. with you?

Paul looks at me, waiting for my response. I’m sorry, what did you say? As Phoebe repeats the “plan,” I can only nod and say, sure. And then I am stuffing an empty bottle into the diaper bag, pulling out a yellow snow suit, laying it out like an empty snow angel on the floor, and maneuvering my sleeping son into its fleece. Paul is stuffing the girls into their winter coats, zipping and hatting them as we walk down the hall. The caseworkers lead the way, ushering us around the funeral crowd that has convened in the foyer outside the sanctuary. In a profound juxtaposition that is impossible to deny, we leave with one new life as others mourn the loss of another. In the darkness of Bethlehem, love and life light the way forward.

The Sanctuary of Bethlehem often depends upon the hospitality of strangers. Innkeepers, families from other states who, too, have adopted children, and all those who witness the miracle of love incarnate and divine. It is this dependency that imbalances and humbles us in strange new ways. Grace floods the landscapes of our lives. We are but sparrows that sit on strangers’ hands, eating the seeds of their generosity and the fruits of their labor. Even if we persevered, even if we tried very hard, we cannot do for ourselves what others can do for us. And so, we accept their gifts.

After 15 minutes in the van, we arrive at a white two-story home in a well-kept neighborhood. The door has a gold knocker and an evergreen wreath with a large red bow. It flings open, and a mother greets us warmly, takes the girls’ coats and hats, and motions to the living room where beautifully wrapped presents spill out from beneath an 8 foot Christmas tree. This is the place of grace where we will wait for word that we can take our son home.

On the eve of Veteran’s Day, I sat beside my husband in our local movie theater, the movie having just ended and the transition from movie world to real world imminent. In those remaining moments before the lights came on, I heard the beginning of applause from the rows behind me. A few hands clapping and then many. Instinctively, I clapped and kept on clapping–vigorously, loudly as if the final curtain of La Boheme had just fallen and this was my first opera–until my husband grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet to exit the theater.

We had just seen Mel Gibson’s latest film, Hacksaw Ridge, a profile of Private Desmond Doss’s heroic work in saving roughly 75 wounded soldiers during the allied invasion of Okinawa. Drafted into the army in April 1942, Doss, a ship joiner in the shipyard in Newport News, Virginia, refused the option of a deferment. Like many other young men at this time, he wanted to serve his country. Unlike most, however, Doss chose not to bear arms during his service. A Seventh Day Adventist, he held strong religious and personal convictions about using weapons and taking lives, even in battle. He explained:

My dad bought this Ten Commandments and Lord’s Prayer illustrated on a nice frame, and I had looked at that picture of the Sixth Commandment, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ There’s a picture that had Cain and he killed his brother Abel, and I wonder how in the world could a brother do such a thing? I’ve pictured Christ for savin’ life, I wanna be like Christ go savin’ life instead of takin’ life and that’s the reason I take up medicine.

Because of his convictions, he chose to enter the army medical corps. In this way, he could serve and save, rather than take lives. The army tried to send Doss to a conscientious objectors’ camp, but he protested, stating that he believed the war was just but that killing was wrong. He identified himself as a “conscientious cooperator”–not “objector”–and explained that he genuinely wanted to cooperate with the army in his service as a medic. In the end, the army did classify him as a “conscientious objector,” a label that Doss felt did not fairly represent him.

His fellow soldiers misunderstood him, calling him names like “Holy Joe” and “Holy Jesus.” They mocked his prayers and his compulsion to carry a Bible in his pocket. In the Conscientious Objector Documentary, Doss recalls what one soldier threatened: “I swear to God Doss, you go into combat, I gonna shoot you.”

And yet, not only did none of Doss’s fellow soldiers shoot him in combat, they came to regard his convictions and his other-worldly courage as a type of sincere and unusual heroism. The battle at the Maeda Escarpment, or Hacksaw Ridge,  in April 1945 was a battle for such a hero. “Ridge” sounds like such an innocuous word. In reality, the “ridge” was a 400 cliff at the top of which were Japanese machine gun nests and deadly booby traps. Hacksaw Ridge was the key to taking Okinawa and, by anyone’s assessment, an impossible mission. Doss’s battalion was charged with this mission.

Being a medic put a target on Doss’s back, for medics were particularly targeted by the Japanese soldiers. This, coupled with the fact that he did not carry a weapon, made Doss a literal sitting duck. Still, he refused to leave  injured and dying soldiers behind, and each time he saved a life, he prayed aloud, “Lord, please help me get one more.” Time after time, life after life, Doss worked miracles as he maneuvered through Japanese booby traps, incoming gun and artillery fire, charging enemy soldiers who emerged from a network of tunnels and from behind piles of dead bodies. The medic without a gun did not take a single life and, after hours of applying tourniquets,  administering morphine, holding bloodied hands and praying for desperate souls, he ultimately saved an estimated 75 lives.

Doss’s only son, Desmond Jr. told People Magazine that countless Hollywood agents and screen writers visited their home, soliciting permission to use his father’s story in feature films. Although Desmond Sr. was again willing to cooperate, his son said that “The reason he declined is that none of them adhered to his one requirement: that it be accurate.” And so he held to his convictions until Mel Gibson agreed to “his one requirement.” Although his father did not live to see Hacksaw Ridge, his son revealed that it was “remarkable, the level of accuracy in adhering to the principal of the story in this movie.”

And so I sat in the darkened theater clapping for Desmond Doss, for all that he was and all that he did. Every muscle in my body ached for release, for I had been curled and pressed into my theater seat, one compact ball of tension. A few times, my arms burst from the ball to cover my face, but for a good portion of the movie,  I hugged my knees to my chest. I made myself as small as I could and barely breathed.

It has been weeks now since I viewed this movie, but I cannot stop thinking about Desmond Doss, the “conscientious cooperator.” On my grown-up Christmas list, I’m making a big plea for more conscientious cooperators. Truthfully, our world could use them. Imagine a world peopled with individuals who, like Doss, hold fast to their convictions but also commit themselves and their lives to working within the system, conscientiously cooperating rather than objecting. Imagine these people from all walks of life, all political, social, and religious persuasions, all ages and races who submit to the prevailing legal, social, political, educational, and governmental systems even when they sincerely find these systems broken or simply wrong. Imagine them cooperating within these systems to the extent that they can (without abandoning their principles) to elicit real change. And finally, imagine these folks, unarmed, their backs and hearts bent to this task, pledging daily, “Lord, please help me get one more.”

In a world in which too many are armed with wicked words and ways, we can all benefit from a hefty dose of conscientious cooperation. Cliched as it sounds, it does start with me. Before I  look around for evidence of more Desmond Dosses to grace our world, I need to look to my own heart and head. Honestly, too often I find myself wallowing in murky pools of self-pity and futility. I am one ordinary midwestern woman, now retired. What can I really do? In the whole scheme of things, my presence and efforts seem puny, at best, and utterly futile, at worst. And then the voice of Desmond Doss chastens me: “Lord, help me get one more.” One became two, two became three, and then there were 75 living, breathing men who owed their lives to their medic.

Even a retired grandmother in rural Iowa can conscientiously cooperate within the systems around me to pull a Desmond Doss. I can reach one, help one, perhaps even save one. Most certainly if I can, anyone can. As we lament the current state our of country, our communities, and perhaps our lives, we can throw down whatever arms we have been using (or perhaps, dreaming of using) and, armed with conviction and cooperation, we can get to work. I’m pretty confident that Desmond Doss would expect no less.

This is the time of year when children whose parents have purchased an Elf on the Shelf (or several) anxiously await their arrival. And for veteran parents with returning Elves on the Shelves? This is the time of year when they privately cringe at the prospect of hiding their elves in ever more creative places and poses. For every parent who posts clever pix of their elves perched on toilet seats, pencils with fishing line attached to their hands as makeshift poles, and Goldfish crackers floating in the toilet bowl, there are–undoubtedly–thousands more who secretly mock the Pinterest posts and youtube videos made by over-zealous Elf Masters. For these parents, Elves on the Shelves are but one more duty in their pre-Christmas list of things-to-do.

As one who had a revolving bevy of interesting (o.k., weird) dolls in her classroom for years, I admit that I really like my grandchildren’s elves, Elfie and Spencer. Of course, I am the retired grandmother and not the working mother who must ensure that Elfie and Spencer do NOT, under any circumstances, remain in the same spot and position for two consecutive days. Because inquiring minds want to know why Elfie and Spencer did not move. Are they sick? Did they lose their magic? Are they–gasp–no longer living??? Inquiring minds want to know, and placating these inquiring minds generally takes more time and energy than just hiding the elves in the first place.

My granddaughter, Gracyn, is smitten with elves. All kinds, big and small, official Elves on the Shelves and unofficial others. She loves elves and the idea of elves. And I love that she does. Every Christmas season, she covets the special times when she is allowed to touch and play with her elves. To gain this privilege–because if you touch them, they lose their magic–she writes heartfelt notes requesting that, for one day, she might be allowed to touch Elfie and Spencer without harming their magic. Yesterday was just such a day, and her excitement was palpable as we drove home from her late afternoon dance class. When she got home–she explained during the drive–she could actually touch and hold her elves until it was bedtime. When she got home, her day would get much, much better.

At age 7, Gracyn believes in Santa, in the magic of her elves, and in the general magic of the Christmas season. She oohed and aahed as we passed a farm house with a modest display of holiday lights. If they gave holiday light awards for country houses, she said, this house would be a winner for sure. As I thought back to the magnificent, over-the-top light displays of seasons past, I could only smile and say a winner for sure.

Gracyn loves to make and to wrap presents, relishing each piece of tape she puts on each gift (and if one piece of tape is good, two, three, or maybe four pieces of tape are even better). And if we run out of gifts to wrap? Not to worry. Gracyn will find random toys or items to wrap. Wouldn’t it be funny if we wrapped up some cat food for Papa? she offers with glee. Or let’s wrap this Playdoh for my dad. He would never expect this! Talking and wrapping, her eyes bright with anticipation, she is more lovely than I can say. Oh, that these times would never end and that her eyes would ever shine with the promise and joy of the season.

Last night, when her brother in his three-year-old zeal and naivety removed Spencer’s hat (which was glued to his head), she burst into tears that only come from genuine heartbreak. Griffin, you tore Spencer’s hat right off his head! He’s ruined! Grandpa quickly retrieved Spencer and went to work on re-hatting the poor elf. Her mom promised to glue his hat back on and that he would be just like new, just like his old self. Between sobs, she could only nod as tears continued to drip from her chin.

Because I am a grandmother and an active elf fan myself, I bought Elfie a new Christmas dress. Delighted, Gracyn wrapped it a plain piece of computer paper on which she wrote: Here is a new dress for you. Hope you are wearing it tomorrow! The next morning, Elfie hung from the top branches of the Christmas tree sporting her brand new Christmas attire. She looked marvelous, we all agreed. Hanging from another branch, Spencer was dressed to impress in a leather bomber jacket and aviator goggles. And standing at the base of the tree was Gracyn, her head tilted back, her eyes fixed on the elf pair, and a smile that grandly announced: Christmas really is the most wonderful time of the year. 

In the Sanctuary of Elves, anything is possible, and everything is probable: the magic of snow flurries, the magic of the first seasonal mug of hot chocolate with as many marshmallows as you want, the magic of singing Christmas carols in the car with your mom, the magic of turning the lights off and letting the glow of your Christmas tree flood the room, the magic of setting up your family’s nativity scene, in carefully tucking the baby Jesus into his manger, and the magic of special visitors–elves, reindeer, Santa, friends and family.

I admit that when I was working, I desperately needed daily doses of magic during the Christmas season. As I listened to colleagues boast of having finished their shopping and wrapping before Thanksgiving, I feigned appreciation. Often I broke out into a cold sweat when someone exclaimed only ___ days until Christmas! And when friends and colleagues showed up with plates of exquisitely frosted and decorated homemade sugar cookies, I wanted to admit holiday defeat (after I’d eaten a dozen for supper, that is). On these days, I needed to look through my children’s and now grandchildren’s eyes at the world around me. In short, I needed magic.

Tomorrow night, Gracyn will come over to help us decorate our tree. We will have hot chocolate and play Christmas music. I will let her choose the ornaments and place them wherever she wishes (many apologies to my own children who never let me forget that I often redecorated the tree after they had gone to bed!) Magic will abound in our ordinary home with our ordinary tree and our menagerie of ornaments, old and older.

If I had to describe loveliness, I would say that it is the flush in Gracyn’s cheeks and her sweet hands as she cradles her elves for those few precious moments when she’s been granted this gift. And if Spencer and Elfie are the bearers of such magic and loveliness, I say bring on the elves!