New life and new hope amid holiday tragedy
High school seems a long way off now, perhaps because it is. I left in 1977, which makes me very ancient indeed. I still see my oldest friend from those days, but otherwise have lost contact with most of my contemporaries, and some of them I can hardly remember. One couple has always stood out for me, however, as they did for most people back then. I say “couple,” because Jonathan and Angela always seemed to have been partners, even when we were 16.
I remember them because they were remarkable. Angela was beautiful, clever and a gifted athlete. Jonathan was annoyingly handsome, also clever and a superb rugby player. In other words, they had everything. And to make matters worse, they were also very nice. It should go without saying that if people have so many qualities they should be arrogant and unpleasant so that others can feel justified in resenting them. But they weren’t.
We all parted ways and went off to work or university, and I didn’t think about these two until 20 years later, when a mutual friend told me about a reunion party at their apartment. Apparently, they’d been living abroad and had recently returned. I received the invitation and attached to it was a note, explaining some things.
They’d lived in central Africa, where Angela had been a teacher. One day the tiny school caught fire, and Jonathan rushed in to save a little boy who was trapped. The boy, Joshua, was fine, but Jonathan had received some burns. They wanted people to know so that we weren’t shocked.
It is 7 p.m. on a midsummer evening in west London. I press the buzzer. Angela, as beautiful as ever, opens the door, says I’m the first to arrive, and brings me in to meet Jonathan. There he sits, and he is beyond recognition. There is so much scar tissue on his face that I can’t make out his features. I try not to react but obviously I do. Then the words come, and the voice hasn’t changed one bit. “All right Coren, I know I look a bloody mess, but at least one of us has kept his hair.”
I try to laugh, but instead choke up. Angela rushes to me, hugs me, says it’s OK, they’ve both cried a lot, it’s OK. Then a small African boy who has been shyly hiding in the kitchen suddenly jumps on Jonathan’s lap and tickles him. “This,” Angela says, “is our new adopted son. His name is Joshua.”
I then learn the whole story. These gorgeous, brilliant, good people are devout Christians — I didn’t know it back then because I simply didn’t listen or care. They went to Africa not to convert anybody, but for Jonathan to work as an engineer in the village and Angela to teach.
“You know” Angela says, “women used to walk past us and turn their heads to look at my husband. He was so goodlooking. People still turn their heads to look now, but for a different reason. For me though, he’s more lovable and perfect than ever.”
The reason that school in Africa was so full the day of the fire was because it was Christmas Eve, when the community came together to praise Jesus Christ and worship God. Each Christmas Eve now, Jonathan, Angela and Joshua remember not just the birth of their saviour but the event that caused such pain but also, in their words, gave them new life and new hope.
I became a Christian long after Jonathan and Angela. I found what I regard as a more genuine faith a mere six years ago, and earlier this year was ordained in the Anglican Church. My seminary studies obliged me to dig deeply into original languages and ancient history, and believe me I know all of the arguments against Christianity and the likely reality of where and when the Christmas story happened.
The point and purpose, though, is that we remember God becoming vulnerable and human, and growing up to insist that love, hope, and justice triumph over hatred, despair, and cruelty. Jonathan and Angela know it, and so do I. Whatever your beliefs, have a blessed and joyous Christmas.
Each Christmas Eve now, Jonathan, Angela and Joshua remember not just the birth of their saviour, but the event that caused such pain and gave them new life and new hope