Advent 2018: A Refiner's Fire

Since having a baby, I find myself measuring time in new ways: in length of naps, time spent nursing, or bouncing or rocking. I wonder when I'm rocking my boy how many miles we've logged in the rocking chair. I think I'll always be able to hear Tom sing-song saying, "Movement, you like movement" as he made yet another lap of the apartment with the boy in his carrier on Tom's chest.

We mark time in coffee spoons, tea bags, bottles of beer, the ice as it melts in an old fashioned, in the waxing and waning moon, the constellations course across the sky, the monarch butterflies' arrival and departure.

Tomorrow Tom and I mark 2 years of marriage.

We went out to celebrate our anniversary yesterday and were pretty giddy and happy to be out, together, having fun. It was the first date we've been on in at least 7 months. On the way home from church today Tom talked about how he appreciated the "real" quality of our relationship, it's authenticity - not always easy, but good and growing. I said it made me think of a gem stone that's unrefined - it may not be as shiny, but it still has great value.

One thing we've learned to say to each other in sleep deprivation, and diaper explosions, and barfing dogs, in unexpected apartment fumigations and backed up toilets is "Thank you for doing hard things with me."

I've been listening to "The Cherry Tree Carol" this week and thinking about Mary and Joseph. I like the song because Mary and Joseph are so recognizably human in - Mary hungry, and Joseph peeved about his position as the father/not father of the baby. Long story short: Mary asks Joesph to reach a cherry for her, Joseph peevishly replies with an "answer most unkind" let the father of the baby fetch it, and then God causes the tree to bend down so Mary can get a fruit. Joseph realizes he has been unkind, bids Mary cheer up, and they walk on home.

How familiar, how often I find my own self harried, subsequently unkind, and brought up short in the light of God's grace. I apologize, I ask forgiveness, and go forward. I think Tom would say the same. We come back to the same truth we spoke before we got married - "We're two sinful/imperfect/human people who love each other very much." There are shortcomings, but there is grace, failures of patience, but forgiveness. Our rough parts sanding away against each other getting smoothed out as we tumble through this ocean.

I wish we knew more about Mary and Joseph, but perhaps we can infer a warmth, a love, a security that let Jesus grow in wisdom and stature, that led him to grow to be a man who made sure his mother would be looked after when he was gone. Jesus loved well and fiercely, he did good to others, he helped those in need - and some of that had to be out of the nurture of his parent's marriage, right? So often I think of Jesus as kind of in a vacuum - he gets born, he goes to the temple, and then he enters ministry - but think of all the sawdust, all the meals, all the shoes and skinned knees, think of the baby Jesus teething - think of all the small loving actions his parents did for him, and the way they showed him how to love by their actions toward each other.

Think of Joseph and Mary, sleep deprived with a newborn, singing whatever the first century equivalent of "Skin-a-marink-a-dinky-doo" was while they changed his diaper.

2 years of marriage tomorrow and we are so grateful for all of it. And I am humbled by what our love has born, and looking forward to what is to come.

Advent 1 2018

9 years ago I came to an end of sorts on this blog after a series of Advent reflections. Between now and then a few moves, a dog, a husband, a son gained; a father lost; a few churches joined and left; a marathon run. Anyway, feels right to make another try at writing here at advent - to start it up and see if the engine still turns over.

My life moment by moment feels largely composed of the questions: When will my son need to eat? When will he sleep and for how long? And how much of all the other tasks that aren't baby related can I fit into that time - not the least of which is my own eating and sleeping, and a bonus when I can hang out with my husband (OMG, we actually have a date scheduled next week!!!!).

So I felt like a reindeer in the headlights (sleighlights?) this morning when someone in Quaker meeting mentioned it was the first day of Advent.

Anticipation.
Expectation.
Longing and wondering.

And especially what does this mean to me now, in this season? And how do I share that with my son? How do I live into the expectation and hope of Christ's arrival?

We read a "My first Nativity" board book to the baby - acting out the suggestions of looking for the star in the sky, and looking for the new born king, then we sang Hark the Herald. While my husband and I read and acted and sang our son sat on his Dad's lap and played with a measuring cup, vocalized along, exercised some serious gymnastics and contortions, sucked his thumb and seemed excited about his forthcoming oatmeal followed by his traditional breastmilk nightcap.

And the thing that I've really been thinking about in this run up to Advent and now today is sweet Mary and breastfeeding. I'd never thought about before, but baby Jesus had to eat. So when I stumble to the rocking chair and grab up my boy in the middle of the night, I've thought quietly of the Mother of God - bleary eyed, tired and tender, nursing and comforting a little baby boy.

As a man and a minister Christ says "This is my body given for you..." Was he thinking about the babies he'd seen breastfeeding? About how a mother feeds her love out of her own flesh - how her milk is safety, nourishment, comfort, sustenance?

I've never felt so visceral a connection to the words Jesus speaks at the communion table before - they've always seemed so metaphorical, vaguely poetic. But here I sit knowing that in a few hours I'll nurse an infant - that my body took in extra water and calories today to meet not just my own physical needs, but his. My sleep will be interrupted, my body freely given, and my boy will fall back asleep with his needs met again.

Communion: a gift one to another, a meeting of needs, a quenching, a rest.

I'll say a prayer of thanks for my husband, for my boy, for my body that provides, I'll think of sweet Mary with a new respect and knowledge, and I'll pray to have the same trust in Christ that my baby has in me - that when I come in need, I will be filled up and sleep in peace again.

Back Again?

Dear Mama and Daddy,

For the second time in my life, in this bedroom at y(our) house, I’m sitting up in bed, lights on, buzzed from reading Stephen King’s The Shining. And tonight, I’m sitting sated and licking my lips over how great that story was, and suddenly I’m remembering the pure visceral pleasure that I got from books as a kid. Not the satisfaction of reading that comes later – when you appreciate the way a sentence was crafted, the development of plot and character, the learning of new information… You know what it is – it’s the symphony before you can hear all the instruments, before you know to listen for them. It’s the first time you took me to the symphony in Houston and my little 4 year old butt wasn’t quite heavy enough to keep the chair folded down, and the orchestra warmed up and tuned and it was so rich and warm, otherworldly and unexplainable that I cried and tried not to show my tears. I didn’t know what it was, but I wanted more of it. I was hooked then. And that’s the same way I felt when I learned to read. Go Dog Go was just learning to tune, and I remember that it felt good to read it (Red dog on a blue tree!), and then that hungry devouring of that first Boxcar Children book (run Henry, win the race!). I was hooked then and forever.

            The first time I read The Shining, I was in eighth grade. It was late spring I think – after my birthday, maybe Dad was home from Zambia, true or not that’s where my memory places it. And it was the only only book that I didn’t tell you I was reading. I kept it secret, and that was part of its grip too. I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d make me stop – I don’t know why, you’d always let me read anything I wanted, saying that you figured I’d stop or lose interest if it wasn’t right for me. But it was the first book that scared the absolute bejeezus out of me, and looking back, eighth-grade me thought that if a book could scare me enough that I thought you wouldn’t let me read it, then maybe I shouldn’t read it at all. So I read it in three nights – the only book I ever read under the covers, and then I had trouble going to sleep, and finally exhausted I copped to having read it, having been totally freaked, and Mom, I think the first thing you said was “Redrum.” You twisted sister – you knew it was a great book. You didn’t heat up milk and pat my tummy and tell me monsters weren’t real. “Redrum,” you said, and then you probably said that King can really tell a good story because that’s what you always say.

            A good story – not a morality tale, not one with a moral, or lesson – but a living thing that grabs you by the color and roars an amazing sound over you, licks you over and won’t let you go till it’s done, one that livens, one that quickens. That’s why I read it in three nights – I couldn’t put the damn thing down, even as it was scaring me, I had to keep the pages turning. The story chased me all the way through that book, and I missed things, I see that now, because I was moving so fast.

            It took me longer this time – about a week. I had to work, run, answer my phone, pack – be a “grown up”. But still I stayed up wake, and when I waked in the middle of the night, I picked it up. That’s the reason I’m the only one up in the house now – I woke up, and knew I could finish it, and though I know I’m going to miss this sleep later today, I can’t say it wasn’t worth it. Because when I finished it my brain was buzzing with WOW, and READING IS GREAT!!!!!!!! And I wanted to run downstairs as I used to, and wake you up and tell you about this GREAT BOOK.

            But I don’t now.

I’m older now, less impulsive. I give into the great urge to write as the next best thing to waking you up. Maybe when I am older yet and you sleep more deeply, I will be able to tell myself to go back to sleep, it’s only a story, but not tonight – I can’t do it yet.

            I think it was sometime early in my reading career that I must have expressed the idea of how sad it was to be done with a story, because then it was over. And I remember you told me that I could read it again – it wouldn’t be the same, but it would good, different, I could still enjoy the story because good stories stay good. And you said sometimes I’d like it again, or not, or like it differently, and suddenly I got all my favorite stories again. Funny how kids need to be given permission sometimes – I didn’t know if you could read a book again or not, if you just had to move forward and remember.

            So I read The Shining again – something I hadn’t done since that first time. Honestly, that first time the story was its own scared straight program – scary enough to make me swear to stay on the straight and narrow forward. I didn’t even used to like walking by it on the shelf in its silver cover. Was it fun? Absolutely. Did I want to ride again? Nope, felt lucky to get through the first time. But I’m 30 now, and I know think there are no monsters in the closet, that the shadow on the wall is just a tree. And King is one of my favorite writers. And he’s just come out with another story about Danny – grown up Danny. This wish we readers have, that we could have a little bit more story please, we got. He delivered. And good or not, I knew I would read it, and scary or not, I wanted to meet those characters again, so I downloaded the book, and started it again. I couldn’t put it down; I can’t pick up the new one yet – I got to let the pleasure of this one sit, and mellow.

            Between then and now: The Scarlet Letter, Moby Dick, True Grit, Woolf, and Eliot, and so much Faulkner. National Book Award winners, and Man Booker prize winners. Fluff and thunder. Meat and potatoes and cotton candy. I came back to the book different, that’s always so isn’t it.

            You’ll be up soon, I’ll go down and tell you all about it. We’ll drink coffee. Momma in her gown, and Daddy with his cup. (Her brown eyes will snap knowingly – a good story, and he – pretending he is not listening, will shake his head a little at his daughter, but the corners of his lips will turn up, then he will say, “See, Daddy was right, you should have written index cards,” – all the books I read, he told me this in second grade, write them down on a card – title, author, date, sentence summary, then when I was his age, think of all the books I’d have read, and I could go back and remember. And he will be right, as he usually is, and I will know only too late that this is so.)

            There were things I missed the first time. I missed the moments of grace that Flannery O’Connor wrote for, I recognized the grotesques in King’s words, appreciated what grace his characters reached – that moment of truth when they see themselves. I saw the broader themes, the motifs, the soundness of the story – skills I developed under Mrs. Merryman’s tutelage.

            It wasn’t perfect – no creation ever is – except maybe that very first one, but that’s another story, yes, but damn if it doesn’t come close. Was the end perhaps too pat and saccharine?  Maybe, but damn if I didn’t love it.

            You know why I loved it? Because it’s my favorite story, part of it at least, not one story, but THE STORY. The big one, the one with capital letters, the one we all tell each other. The one that all the great stories tell, the one that you have always told me:

            The world’s a hard place… It don’t care. It don’t hate you and me, but it don’t love us either. Terrible things happen in the world, and they’re things no one can explain…The world don’t love you, but your momma does, and so do I…That’s your job in this hard world, to keep your love alive and see that you get on, no matter what. Pull your act together and just go on.

            I got it, Momma and Daddy. I see you’ve done it. You’re doing it. Your love’s bright and alive, and I see how you go one. I get it now. The great stories are the ones you live. I’m coming right behind you.

Shine on,

Elizabeth

Is there a prayer for a runner?

There are many, but today only one.

Peace to those who ran, who run. Peace to those who cheered, who cheer. Peace to those who guard and make courses safe. Peace to those who are in the medical aid tents. Peace to those who offer shelter. Peace to the doctors who treat, and mend, and save. Peace to the sorrowing city. Peace to us who mourn with them.

Don't get too Excited...this is just a congrats, not a return...
Well, hey there internets...

I'd just like to send a shout out to my dear friend Ann (her blog's over there in the sidebar.)

This morning she put the final punctuation mark on 5 years of teaching in the Baltimore City Public School System. She's switched schools, she's switched grades - almost every year (this means that she's had to learn a whole new curriculum many time's over).

She's put in 5 years serving kids in one of the nation's toughest school systems. She's taught sick and well, she's served with a great deal of love and patience. She's an outstanding lady, and I'm awfully proud of her.

So congratulations, Ann, and thank you for all you gave. I am confident that it will help make things better out there in Baltimore.

May the next chapter bring much more joy, and many fewer tears than BCPSS.

Auld Lang Syne

The end of a year. The end of a decade. Every media outlet, personal blog, facebook status update seems intent on trying to sum it all up.

I think it's part of the urge we have to make sense of things, to categorize and tie up in neat bows the various parts of our lives.

Wrapping up the year in reflection has occured on this blog at the close of 2003, in 2004, 2005, and 2007/2008 .

It's somewhat reassuring to me that not even Texas Monthly knew how to sum up 2009 in its last issue. Because it was a year of great loss for many, many, many people.

Economically
Personally
Professionally

I don't know anyone who was left unscathed by 2009.

As far as blogging, this year was my second most prolific year with 52 posts. And most of them dealt with faith. It was, I think, the most I have ever written about my faith on this blog. I guess when it all hit the fan, what was left was Jesus and so I wrote about that. It surprised me that there was that much to write, but I'm sure there were a couple of people who it didn't surprise at all.

The thing about 2009 for me is that I don't think it can be summed up, or put into an understandable package, and I won't get a bigger hammer and pound it into a box.

I'm undecided about whether I'm going to bang pie pans tonight. My flight gets into Dallas late. I think I may just have a mug of eggnog, and go to bed. Wake up, and have a cup of coffee with 2010 tomorrow morning.

2010.

I don't think it's entirely possible to get off the internet, and there are too many people I would lose touch with if I did. But I am going to try and step off it for a time.

I'll be writing letters, and making phonecalls. Not checking Facebook, nor updating it. Only checking my email a couple of times a week. For all it's rapidity and convenience, I don't think the internet deepens our communications...so I'm trying to return some intentionality to mine.

I don't expect the rest of the world to step off with me, so keep sending emails if you like.

Which brings us to the blog. I don't know what this new relationship to the internet is going to mean for Bears and Penguins. It's a plucky little blog, and I'm fond of it. So I guess I'll play that one by ear.

For old time's sake then, know that I'll raise a glass to all of you tonight. Toast to your health, your prosperity. Pray for your joy, your understanding, your search for Truth, and your protection in 2010.

Go live well.
Go live deeply.
Be where your feet are and fear not.

And for old time's sake, I hope you'll forget me not, and raise your glass the same.

So long for awhile. Check your tires, and turn up your coat collars against the rain. But when the sun comes out, old friend, shed your coat and soak it up.

Salud.

Advent 25

Between prodigious napping and cookbook perusing, I've watched it snow outside. Outside my parent's house. My parent's house in Dallas, Texas. Where earlier in the week it was 70 degrees.

It started out as tiny, miniscule flakes. So tiny that it was hard to tell if it was rain or snow, and it started off too warm to stick. The day's gotten a bit colder, the snow flakes more confident, and now they are unabashed. They are snowy, flaky, and sticking to bushes, yards, and lawn furniture.

Throughout the day, I've also watched my fellow Texans update their facebooks with unrestrained joy.

"White Christmas"

"Snow!"

"Prettiest Christmas Eve ever"

And it reminded me of just the simple joy of this advent season. Just simple, head out for a romp in the snow joy.

The coming of Christ is an experience of joy, of great song. Of romping, bounding, unadulterated joy. Of raised glasses, blazing fires, barking dogs, and angel choirs. Of fireworks, and tamales, of bread broken, wine poured. Of guffawing laughter, strong embraces.

So I think back to the humble stable, and of that birth. Once Mary and Joseph got through the more frightening bits, they looked down and saw a yowling baby boy, pink, and new. The animals sensing something different afoot, recalling somewhere deep in memory a first day in a long ago garden, when the cacophony of sounds filled the air in songs of the Creator's praise, began to low a bit more cheerfully then usual. I think about the shepherds showing up, perhaps a bit sheepishly not knowing entirely what to expect even though the angel had told them. Maybe when they got there, sensing an occasion for celebration, they shared such bread as they had. Coarse, spread with oil, maybe with dried meat, or nuts, and a bit of fruit. They were humbled and in awe, and thrilled all at once. Maybe Joseph and the shepherds got to laughing a bit, and Mary told them to hush, didn't they see that baby was sleeping. But she didn't really mean it, she was just radiant, if tired, and maybe the baby stirred, but remained at rest in the warmth of the impromptu welcome wagon.

A baby born out of a miraculous conception. Fully God. Fully Man. A child given unto us, upon whom would rest the names, "Wonderful. Counselor. The Mighty God. The Prince of Peace."

To bring everlasting peace, to raise the sons of earth.

Incredible, isn't it? Truly unbelievable, impossible sounding.

But then again, so is snow in Texas.

Will wonders ever cease? I sure hope not.

The most Merry Christmas to all of you out there. Raise your glass, laugh a roaring laugh, laugh until you cry. Hug up your parents and your children, your brothers, your sisters. Your dearly loved friends. We've got much gratitude to mark with joy this season. Peace to all this Holy Night.