The Day After Epiphany

On living in the aftermath, in grief and joy

The coffers are closed, the wise ones departed but their treasures remain: shining, shimmering, scents of divinity and death. The child still cries, cuddles, nurses, sleeps again. Her husband stirs beside her, troubled by dreams. But how to make sense of what she has seen? 

And behold, the star that they had seen at its rising preceded them, until it came and stopped over the place where the child was. They were overjoyed at seeing the star, and on entering the house they saw the child with Mary his mother. They prostrated themselves and did him homage. Then they opened their treasures and offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their country by another way.

When they had departed, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Rise, take the child and his mother, flee to Egypt, and stay there until I tell you. Herod is going to search for the child to destroy him.” Joseph rose and took the child and his mother by night and departed for Egypt. (Matthew 2:9-14)

If you read the Gospel literally, like a historical record or a travelogue, the Holy Family leaves right after the magi depart. The angel of the Lord appears to Joseph in a dream again, this time telling him to rise up and take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt, because murderous forces are seeking to destroy him. 

If you read the Gospel theologically, another version of the same truth emerges: Joseph and Mary and Jesus must leave behind what they know, letting go of their own vision and plans, dying to self again, rising up to a new life. Even if the family did not pack their bags in the dead of night to escape death itself, even if the story took place in a different way (or not at all, as scholars love to debate), they still had to live in the aftermath of epiphany.

The magi came, and then left. The angel came, and then left. The family came, and then left.

Right now I am going to do something I never do in this space, which is to stop and ask you to leave and read the story of my daughters’ deaths if you haven’t before. I rarely disrupt your reading, so I apologize for that, and even more rarely do I try to torpedo your morning, so I apologize if I do that, too. (I can promise that it is also the most incredible story I’ve ever been given to tell, and since I already made a spoiler alert unnecessary, you may as well go marvel at the other holy half.)

Because that day in the NICU was the closest I have ever edged to an epiphany. The rest of what I say here won’t make sense unless you have the story of The Joy in your head, too.

It is hard enough to grieve, trying to live in the land of the living after you have lost. But when you have also experienced the single greatest joy of your life on the very same day as death—I need you to know that it scrambles you from the inside out. 

I do not know how to live in a world post-epiphany. Maybe no one does, who has peeked behind the veil and gasped at any glimpse of what they have seen. Over the last seven years I have spent most of my days wandering in my head, trying to walk around and function like a normal person when what I really want to do is sit down and try to figure out what happened—on that day, to my life, any of it. But I have been on the move since that strange Leap Year Day, trying to outrun death or trying to claw my way back (or forward) to the pure joy of beyond. It does not make for easy living.

So I turn to Mary (or I try). I wonder what happened after the magi left. What she thought of what they said and did and left behind. How she felt in their presence—and their absence. What on earth she carried with her as they fled to Egypt: her child, their few bare essentials, a head spinning with questions.

You cannot be surrounded by mystery and return unchanged. The magi, too, went home by another way.

The single best thing that anyone can tell me about what we experienced in The Joy is that it was neither extraordinary nor unique. That what seems to me like the strangest, most marvelous reality I have ever known is far from it. That others know exactly what I mean, because they have been there, too. Over the years I have been the grateful recipient of gifts like these. Treasures that strangers left at my feet. I have not forgotten a single one, because the stories are lined with gold. Flashes of joy in cemeteries. Utter peace within hospital chaos. A calming assurance that God is.

You have known The Joy, too, some of you. (One day, I pray, all of you.)

An unexpected gift that these stories have also offered is solidarity in the struggle of aftermath. Because after an epiphany, you cannot be normal again. Living in The After is like stepping over the baseline in Field of Dreams, watching the rookie’s baseball uniform melt away into the doctor’s suit as he strides over to save the choking child. Everyone pats him on the back later, out of gratitude but also grief. He cannot go back.

Which brings me back to Mary. 

Powerful men prostrating themselves at the feet of her tiny son. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh carried into a carpenter’s house. Another dream, another angel, another shocking revelation.

If Luke had written the story, he might have made room for her contemplation, to keep all these things and treasure them in her heart (surely an epiphany practice if ever there were one). Instead Matthew whisks up Mary and her family and sets them on the move, no time to stop and think, the threat of death breathing down their necks.

The day after Epiphany began in the dark of night.

But an angel said Rise, and they rose. 

Once in a rare moon, for a split second I can remember my way back into The Joy, and I can barely breathe; I want to stay and never leave. But I will have to rise up a thousand times before I get the chance to soak it in again, and you will, too. 

So I am left with one last, lingering thought. What if the star stayed? Scripture only tells us that the strange new light led the magi to the place where the child was and then stopped. We are left to wonder what happened next. Did it disappear the day after? Did it shine over Bethlehem forever? Did it stay with Jesus and follow them to Egypt? Matthew tells no more.

But I picture Mary catching sight of the light as they flee, proof of God still with them, refugees on the run to protect their son. Perhaps this is all we can ask of an epiphany: for one small spark to stay with us as the world changes, even a flickering twinkle in the vast darkness. Enough to know that what happened was real—and what comes next must be even more.