A Cult of Domesticity

The air was crisp and chilled on Christmas Eve as I ran down the highway. Several years passed since the last time my feet glided across this stretch of Iowa asphalt. Despite the fact that I'd only recently recovered from mono, I had to run outside on Christmas Eve. Particularly, I had to run on this mostly abandoned highway at sundown. I remembered what happened the last time, and I was curious if they were still waiting for me.

Three years ago, I ran down this same highway at twilight on a windy Christmas Eve. I passed a small gathering along the side of the road. As I approached, they all came to the fence and stared at me as I passed by. One by one, their heads turned as I passed within an arm's reach of their long faces and beady eyes. They looked so sad on Christmas. Yet they seemed to silently cheer me onward. It was as if my arrival had been foretold, and all gathered by the fence as I passed. Some of them gave snorts of approval. Others nodded their heads rapidly up and down as if bowing before my fast-moving presence. One even relived himself (What, were you expecting gold, frankincense, and myrrh?).

I ran past the solemn Christmas celebration and thought little of it. Only on my return trip did I feel uneasy and paranoid with the patient praise these fellows seemed to be giving me. The gathering was still motionless at the fence. Waiting. Looking down the highway at me once again. It was as if they knew I would return. I passed by, and once again every wood-like face turned in unison as I ran toward my grandparents' house. A few hundred yards later, I flipped a glance over my shoulder. They were still congregated at the fence watching me as I ran off into the sunset.

The last time I looked, they continued to watch as I slowly faded into the wanning Christmas Eve daylight.

Sure enough, the gathering was still waiting for me at the fence when I returned on Christmas Eve this year. I had been absent three years. Yet these simple creatures appeared to wait in the same position. They gathered at the fence and stared as I came down the highway. I wonder what they expected from me. A miracle? One who would save and deliver them from their bondage? The Meschiach?

Or maybe I read too much into the random acts of domesticated animals. Perhaps they were simply llamas. Yes, perhaps they were llamas with nothing better to do on Christmas Eve than wait by a fence for three years to see a skinny white boy break a 4:50 mile. A miracle? A messiah?

Foolish llamas!