A Snowy Night in the Alps

Jesus Christ visited us. Really! I even have the photo to prove it!  

It was January of 1996. My whole family–my parents, my sister, her husband and two boys from Sydney, Australia, Steve and I and our two children, were gathered in France for a family reunion. It was not something that happened often, as the three households live on different continents.  

But here we were. And as was our custom, we spent a few nights in a little village in the Alps, my father’s ancestral village. My uncle and aunt had recently bought and were operating a gite (jeet)–a kind of hostel for hikers and skiers near a major mountain pass. 

The setting was beautiful, a stone inn with a large terrace, tucked in the valley by a stream. It sat at the foot of some high peaks. In summer the meadows would be filled with colorful blooms and the glaciers would gleam against a bright blue sky. But this was January; everything was cold and snow covered.    

January was low season at my aunt and uncle’s gite and they were glad to welcome us. We enjoyed ourselves, staying warm by the fireplace, playing games, feasting on tartiflette, (a French dish of potatoes, bacon and cheese) and drinking wine in the evening. The children played with the dog and stomped around in the snow. I even ventured out for my first snowshoeing adventure around a little lake near the property. The cold air was sharp in my lungs, but the crunch of the snow and the white sky encouraged me to keep going.

On the second afternoon, a winter storm came in. Within hours, there was an accumulation of a foot, with no end in sight. We heard on the radio that the roads were becoming difficult to travel and that traffic was stopping because the pass ahead was closed.   

It was then that he walked up to the front door of the gite. With his boots and backpack, looking a bit unwashed and unkempt, a quiet man who said he was traveling through, hitchhiking. In France, we call such people routards–literally “those who live on the road.” He needed a place for the night until the pass would open again. 

Fortunately, there was room. He left his belongings by one of the beds and came to the fireplace to warm up. He ate dinner with us. He didn’t talk much, but from what we gathered, he was unemployed and wandering  like this, looking for seasonal work.  

Honestly, I don’t remember much about him. He was not that remarkable. He only talked when talked to. He was small, unassuming. He wore thick glasses behind which his eyes were crossed. His speech was simple. You might  almost think that he was a bit slow. But he has remained in my memory, mostly because of what happened the next morning.  

We woke up to clear skies. The snowfall looked beautiful. In the distance, we heard traffic. Good news! The pass was probably open again. It was time for us to head home. We decided to take an impromptu family photo in front of the gite before we all hopped in our cars.  

It was then that he just stood up and placed himself right in the midst of us. Everyone is in the photo. My aunt and uncle. My parents. My sister and her family. Steve and me and our children. And the traveler!  Looking up and a little sideways, with his beard and thick glasses.  

Some might say that he spoiled our family picture. After all, we didn’t get to take them very often. And here was a stranger, right in the middle of our family. We didn’t know who he was or where he came from. We don’t even remember his name! Ever since then, in our family lore, we simply refer to him as Jesus Christ.

Every time I look at that photo, there he is–Jesus Christ himself! Among us. Quietly ensconcing himself in our family photo, reminding me that our calling as Christians is to feed the hungry, visit the sick and those in prison, and welcome the stranger.