Noel. Aleppo.

About ten years ago, I wrote a tender Christmas carol called “To the Holy Family.” Each verse focused on a member of the small family from Nazareth whose story is told in the gospels of Matthew and Luke. What might it have been like for Mary and Joseph as they lived through what we call the story of the nativity? It’s tempting to sanitize the account, awash in glorious singing and twenty centuries of artistic interpretations. Surely, the beasts were friendly and the angels were encouraging to the new parents, right? “Fear not.”

And yet. If Mary had written her birth story, it might have included an exhausting trip to Bethlehem, a frantic search for a midwife, a crude substitute for a cradle, and a bevy of unwashed and less-than-welcome visitors – and nobody brought a box of Pampers. From the unexpected annunciation by Gabriel to the prophetic pronouncement of Simeon in the Temple (“and a sword shall pierce your very soul”), there was little of the normal in the narrative of the nativity.

A final component to the Christmas story gets less attention from the pulpit or the pen of the songwriter than the angelic announcement or the visit of the shepherds and magi. Recorded in the second chapter of Matthew’s gospel, these prescient words hint of what is to come: “After Jesus was born in Bethlehem . . .”

After the birth, the celebration – then what? For Mary and Joseph, there was to be no return to their home in Nazareth, at least for the immediate future. Instead, they became refugees, heeding the divine directive to escape into Egypt. The life of their baby was threatened by the “slaughter of the innocents,” which took place under the direction of King Herod. ‘Kill the babies,” Herod ordered. Here’s how I described Joseph’s challenge: “When Herod rages, run for His life, harbor your babe and trembling wife.”

This is the part of the Christmas story that has been ever-present to me in these waning days of December, 2016, and it has been echoed in the name of a Syrian city: Aleppo. Ten years ago, the population of Aleppo was more than two million, more than twice the size of Cleveland, Ohio. Today, its ancient structures are in ruins and its population is on the run. Aleppo has been described by a United Nations representative as “a meltdown of humanity.”

The tragedy of Aleppo is captured in an image from August of this year, the picture of Omran Daqneesh, a five-year-old child photographed in the back of an ambulance. If you’ve seen it, you remember. Last Sunday, as I sat in the opening worship time in church, I couldn’t escape the image of Omran, nor could I ignore what it must have been like for Mary and Joseph as they were forced to depend on the goodness of others as they made their refugee journey to Egypt.

And yet. “Noel, noel, born is the king of Israel.” The congregation joined the song leader in the familiar refrain of the sixteenth century carol, singing of stars, angels, shepherds and magi. As the music swelled around me, I clung to the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, drifting off to sleep in the comfort and safety of my arms. “Noel,” the music repeated. “Aleppo,” my heart cried.

Under deadline to submit these words to the newspaper, I wonder, “Where am I going with this?” I want to wrap up my words in a neat package, tie a pretty bow around them and push “send” to the newsroom. But not this week.

And yet. As unsettled as these December days have seemed, as persistent as the pain from Aleppo has been, I still believe that love can triumph over hate. I still believe joy can be found in the mist of sorrow. It is possible, as Pastor Nate Bebout reminds us, to find “celebration in the midst of the rubble,” no matter what our rubble looks like. And so I claim the words of Charles Wesley for myself and for my readers, a prayer and a promise for Christmas 2016: “Hark, the herald angels sing . . . peace on earth and mercy mild.”