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.

Advent Day 24,

In a few hours, I'll board a plane back to Dallas to spend the Christmas holiday with my parents. Tomorrow, I'll attend a church service somewhere. Mostly, I'll be with family.

I've been thinking about the Christmas Truce for the past several days. If you read about it in fiction, you'd think it was the most maudlin, farcical story ever made up - except that it's not fictional. It's truth. It happened.

In the trenches of Ypres, Belgium, mudlogged, flooded and cold were men that had come in July thinking, as it seems people always do, that they'd be home after a few weeks. But here it was Christmas Eve, and already the losses suffered by the British, French, Belgian and German arms reached numbers that seem impossible to conceive - above 200,000 men in the four-weeks of the first battle of Ypres. It must have seemed complete and utter madness.

But on Christmas eve in 1914, not at the bidding of officers, and not everywhere along the trenches, but in small pockets, the fog of madness lifted for the briefest moment, and the opposing armies began to sing carols in their trenches - answering each other. Some met in the middle of no-man's land, and exchanged such gifts as they had - food or tobacco. There is even an account of a spontaneous soccer game.

Then the moment passed, and the war continued.

Unbelievable.

I guess it gives me some hope that for those few hours the madness of violence and ill will ceased. Hope that there really are such things as redeemption, as peace, as reconcilliation, as an end to strife, and that they are not simply pretty fairy tales that we tell ourselves in order to go to sleep at night.

I saw a video the other day that had been posted on a facebook page for the church orchestra I was a member of in high-school. The video showed a kid who is a few years younger than me, in Army fatigues with a shaved head, wishing the church a Merry Christmas from Iraq. He was always a good singer, and in his mellow baritone, he sang "I'll be home for Christmas."

There's still a lot of soldiers out there on the front, in a wars that I remember hearing would only last a few weeks, but have taken up the better part of a decade. There will be soldiers on the plane I take home tonight.

War is a grave thing - always has been. I don't know much more to say about it then that.

I think perhaps the only thing to say is that once there was a Christmas truce.

And if it happened once, maybe it can happen again. I'll keep hoping for the day when we turn those swords into plowshares, and we wake into a sanity to last for the ages.

Advent Day 23,

The season flees quickly, nearly gone now, and then will come the long walk through Lent, and the great Easter Morning.

23 days of actively waiting in Advent. And I'm no better at it then I was at the start. I remain impatient for the waiting to be completed. For Jesus to arrive. For the dark night to give way to dawn.

Bread knows how to wait. It sits on the counter, and waits for the yeast to do its thing, for itself to become fully bread, and not just something that could turn into bread if let to wait. And no matter how I tap my finger, nor how often I resist the urge to poke it just to nudge it along a bit, the bread will take its own time.

I'm terrible at waiting - waiting for bread, for brownies to cool, for the morning to come, for it to be late enough in the morning to call my friend in California without waking him up. Waiting for the day of the trip to come, waiting for things to mend with a person I'm cross with, or who's cross with me.

Sometimes it seems that all my life is waiting - for an author to email me, for the page proofs to arrive from India, for the light to change, for the line to shorten, for the show to start, for intermission to end. Just waiting.

Waiting for the Lord to make Himself known, or the Holy Spirit be near me in prayer. For divine provision. For Jesus to calm the storm, multiply the bread, heal what's ill, bring peace for once, for all.

Everytime I have to wait for something, I feel like the Lord is bending near to me and saying, "Dear Child, you must learn to wait upon me, in that to trust me, you must learn to stop poking at the bread with your finger and have faith that the yeast will work. Dear One, Dear One, Let me teach you how to wait."

In this season of expectancy, Jesus is asking me to wait like bread. To rest, without kneading or pounding or shaping, and let the Holy Spirit change me from the inside out, and in that to become the lady He plans for me to be.

It would be so much easier if He would give me a list of jobs to do while the waiting was happening, if there were more I could do to get the dough to rise. But there's not. There's just sitting at rest, and letting the change happen through His work, in His time.

Advent, Day 21:

Tonight, my Aunt and I joined an old friend at her church's carol service.

We belted out the classics, we watched the kids perform the Christmas play. We sat holding our candles as the sanctuary darkened and the little flame made it's way around the church. And once all were lit, we struck up with Silent Night.

More years than not, I've sat in my childhood church in Texas and done that, and my Mom and I have always commented on how surprisingly light it gets when everyone's candle is lit. Which is of course, part of the point - to see that lots of little lights together can shine up a room.

This year I was struck by that again, but I was struck by something else as well - it was shockingly dark in the church. It was dark as pitch. The faces of my friend and Aunt became hidden in it, the shoulders of the folks in front of me disappeared. It was dark. It was impenatrable, and it was shocking in a cold, insidious, frightful, cloying sort of way.

The older children brought their candles to each row to began the lighting, and as they walked from the front, they too were surrounded in that darkness except for a flame that seemed impossibly small in front of them. While the flame burned brightly, energetically, merrily, while it lit their faces, softened and gentled their features, the dark still clung about their shoulders and back, and just in front of them outside the reach of their candle. I was glad when enough of the front rows were lit, so that their backs were warmed in the light.

I thought, "My God, will we really send the children out into the dark? My God, will we ourselves go out into the dark?"

Personally, the tragedies of this year in my own life have made me more keenly aware of sorrow in the lives of others. Not that I didn't know sorrows before, and not that I wasn't compassionate towards others before, but somehow this year has deepened that, has made me more compassionate, more likely to suck the air in over my teeth and say, "Dear Jesus," in a voice tremulous and low and then be silent.

Sadly, this year sorrow has not only left its mark on my life, but upon the lives of friends dear to me. Grandparents, and parents have died. Marriages have fallen apart. Parents have fallen gravely ill. Babies have not grown as they should. Lately it seems that most of the conversations I have come with some ill tidings.

We live in a perilous place. A downright dangerous, and dark place. A place where sometimes there is no reason, where truth can lay hidden, where bad guys prosper, where good guys get left behind.

I wrote that it's awfully tempting to think that we're not quite as bad a sinner as that person over there. I think by the same token it's true, or at least, has been for me in times past, that it's easy to think that our world isn't quite as fallen, or bad, or despoiled and dark as it actually is. To possess the knowledge that the world needed a savior in Christ, but to mostly go about thinking, "Oh it's not as bad as all that, really."

But it really can be shockingly, chillingly dark. Which can be seen in the depth of the sacrifice Christ made. If it weren't really as bad as all that, then maybe Jesus could have negotiated different terms, have paid a settlement, have served a sentence, but the magnitude of the darkness was so great that no partial payment would do, and so our Lord went to the cross, where His own life's spark was extinguished. His magnificent, beautiful heart that had kept Him going for 33 years stilled. His breath that spoke love to people, that calmed storms, that blessed water into wine for the joy of celebration, that multiplied simple food to feed all, that laughed with friends, that rebuked that which needing rebuking, and comforted that which needed comforting, His breath that breathed out laughter and tears, and breathed in all the beautiful world around him, was stilled. And His hands, hands that healed, hands that planed wood, hands that pulled in nets over the side of the boat, hands that greeted His mother, His hands became cold.

The world we inhabit was so dark, that Our Lord died in order to begin the end of the darkness.

Which is the second consideration of advent - we consider not only the Lord's first coming, but His second when He will make complete the redeemption that He started when He breathed His last, and carried on when He broke death's wicked bonds, and continues till now in the hearts of people and until He comes again to end the darkness forever.

There can be a tendency to not acknowledge the dark, or rather to diminish it. To throw platitudes at it - Well things are bound to start looking up, look on the brightside, count your blessings, be too blessed to be stressed, find a silver lining, something good will come, don't focus on the negative, find the positive, etc.

Here's a small part in my own heart - sometimes when people start talking about what's dark, and sorrowful, I shy away from them. I start looking for a cowbell to give them so that the clanging can tell me when they're coming. I think we all do that a little - that's why there's that joke, "I asked someone how they were? Then they told me, and I realized I didn't." Those clangers can be seen as wet blankets, sad sacks, Debbie Downers.

But acknowledging the frightful darkness need not diminish joy, need not diminish gratitude, need not diminish the brightness of Christ. Perhaps quite the opposite, in looking at the darkness in its fearful aspect, maybe the full glory of Christ's sacrifice, the brightness of His earthly and now resurrected life can be seen more brightly, more strongly.

It's fear that keeps us from saying the dark is really as terrible as it is, as though if we don't say how bad it actually is, we could diminish it's power, keep it somehow at bay.

Oh, but Friend, what is it that the Angels said from the darkened night sky: "BE NOT AFRAID."

What I know is that I've got no strength, nor power, nor ability to keep the darkness at bay, for myself, for those I care about, for the world around me. But though the darkness surround me, I have Christ, who is light.

For in David's royal city, was born unto all of us a Savior. One for whom a way was prepared through the wilderness. Christ the Lord, who is the light for all the world, a light that is not hidden. The one in whom there is no darkness. Jesus who is our champion and conquering hero against the darkness. And where light goes, darkness flees - perhaps not quickly, or easily, but flee it does.

The darkness may be a little frightening, but I trust that Christ makes His light my own.

Saving grace again. Strength for today and bright hope for the day after. Joy through it all, deep, abiding, consuming ravishing Joy, for I have not been abandoned. No Christ, with His light, sought for my soul, and not just mine, but all men and women. That we might know Him, and the one who sent Him, and in them abide in light forever.

And all God's people feared not, and said Amen.

Advent, Day 19:

Several months ago, someone said to me, "It's not like you can hit the reset button."

Which is one of those platitudes that sounds somewhat profound, and inarguable, but once you scratch the surface shows up to be about as sensible as saying, "It's not like you can bottle the ocean," or "It's not like you can unring a bell."

All patently obvious statements. I'm curious as to when the concept of the reset button entered our collective consciousness - was it with the advent of video games or prior to that?

I had a Nintendo growing up, and was well familiar with the concept of the reset button - unhappy with how a game was going? No problem, hit the reset button, get a clean slate. It is so easy, so painless, nearly effortless, and mostly costs us nothing.

Which begs the question, why didn't the Lord just hit the proverbial reset button way back when Adam and Eve ate the fruit and fell from grace. Wouldn't that have been inifinitely easier, less painful than what we have all endured since then?

The situation I keep imagining if there were such a thing as a cosmic reset button is much like my childhood Nintendo experience - reach the same challenging point of the game, be defeated, cut your losses and reset, ad nauseum. I think that's what would have happened if God had done that in the Garden, Adam and Eve would have repeatedly encountered the same problem, and experienced the same result. And as anyone who's played a video game can tell you, not being able to get past a particular challenge is particularly frustrating.

If there were such a thing as a cosmic reset button that could be tapped as needed, then no unkind thing would be remembered, we should be at peace and no longer bear the burden of our human fraility, or of the mistakes we make, or the sins we sin. We would not be accountable for our actions. There would be no need for forgiveness or for grace as they would no longer be needed to pave the way forward among people's poor, broken hearts.

The Lord would be able to fellowship with us without gazing towards the cross. He should never need to bear the terrible sacrifice, Christ would not have to endure our mortal frame, or separation from the Father He adores. Jesus would never have to trod the path to dark Gethsemne if God in His omnipotence had chosen the course of the reset button.

Yet, this is not the path He chooses. To have a reset button presents a way without pain or loss to be sure, but a way that seems to have a shallowness that contains no room for the depth of God's love, or the miracle of His grace. A shallowness which does not ennoble or restore or heal the creation in a lasting way, but simply patches it up until it needs fixing again.

So God chose a way that contained great pain, but also great honor, freedom, light. A way that would not leave us stunted in our mistakes and never learning better how to love. A way of healing in us that which needed healing and wholeness. A way through which God could be reconciled to His creation, while not diminished in His holiness.

Mercy. Grace. Forgiveness. Passion. Redeemption. Love big enough to conquer all loss, all sin, all grievous hurt. That's the moving force behind Christ's incarnation.

It is humbling.

There is no reset button, but the Lord does give the ability and the tools to walk a path forward. Through Him, we too share in mercy, in grace, in forgiveness, in a love that believes the best and lifts up.

And overcoming that initial challenge is infinitely more satisfying then simply hitting that small reset button.

Still, how often do we keep trying to hit that button - sometimes we lose relationships because we lack the courage to see them through, we try to rebuild better, more perfect relationships with other people only to encounter the same challenges, the same failures. We keep thinking that we'll be able to do it all on our own, we love the myth of the self-made man, we love to imagine that the last lines of Gatsby are true, that someday we actually we will reach that green light, all by ourselves, cheerful achievers of our dreams. We so often build these clay idols for ourselves - the perfect relationship, the perfect job, etc., etc., etc. And in the end, as we tap our hammer to them once more the clay that they are made of crumbles, and we're left again with dust.

When I was a kid with my Nintendo, I could never beat the third level of the Mario game, but I knew that I could always ask my brother to do it for me. I can't imagine how many times he patiently sat cross legged beating that one level for me so that I could advance.

And that is a bit like Jesus, who conquers what we can't, who vanquishes that final enemy, satisfies the holiness of the Almighty, and places the conqueror's crown on are undeserving heads.

It's Jesus who admonishes us that if we remember that we have something unresolved with someone else, that we're to go and mend - not reset, but abide in the grace of God to find the path forward.

Jesus is the great reconciler. Praise be to Him.

Advent, Day 18:

Visiting the mall, or really, any store at Christmas is like an engraved invitation to visit your own personal heart of darkness.

Opportunities to be impatient, annoyed, self-important, self-absorbed, harried, hurried, irritated abound.

This is part of advent too, not only the eager expectation and reception of the Savior, but also the knowledge that we stand in deep, deep need of one.

There's a certain insidious whisper that would invite us to think that while we are, ourselves, sinners, there a many sinners much worse than us. But that lie can have a hard time holding up at a mall during the holidays.

When King David grievously had Uriah killed, it took a man of great courage to go and tell him the truth. Nathan spun a pretty story about a cherished lamb, murdered by someone powerful to the loss of someone poor. And when David demanded to know who would do such a thing, Nathan spoke the truth, "You are the man."

The Holy Spirit speaks those words to our hearts now. The words that say, "You are the person who would speak in spite, do in meanness, act in anger. You are the person who would lie, and manipulate to your own advantage. You are a fallen sinner."

I think part of advent for me is reflecting on my own brokeness, my own sin. It is sobering. It is heartbreaking.

It's also heartbreaking to be on the opposite end of someone else's broken and sinful behavior, to be the recipient of the harsh word, or action, to be duped by a lie or a manipulation of someone whom you trusted. To be harmed at the hand of another. To find, I suppose, that not only are you, yourself a sinner, but that you're in the poor company of other sinners just as likely to double-cross for their gain as help you. No honor among thieves and the like. All of us a bit like Tolkien's Gollum, muttering to our idols, which are often ourselves or others, and slowly being deformed and defiled by them.

It makes me want to hang my head. And gives me a little idea of what Adam and Eve felt when they hid from the Lord in the Garden. But then as now through Christ, the Lord, by His own hand, acted to make things right between Him and us.

I can't for the life of me remember the song it comes from, but the lyric says, "There's a cross to bridge the great divide..."

And for that cross, and for the manager that preceeded it, I remain eternally grateful.

Advent, Day 16:

I was in a Barnes and Noble tonight in Ladue, when the unmistakable sounds of beginning musicians fell upon my ear. A trumpet and a flute, warming up dutifully with a scale – one that shuffled up the steps on unsteady legs, each note planted in a watery sort of way, but with a dear earnestness.

When I heard those notes tonight, I ambled over to give audience to the musicians. I’d played those scenes too – the local bookstore, the jazz combo, the familiar faces of the band moms, and occasionally other audience members.

The performers tonight were from Redeemer Lutheran. There were singers, and instrumentalists. I listened from various sections of the bookstore as their performance continued. Those who weren’t playing were themselves wandering the store in Santa hats, drinking coffee-esque drinks, and looking every bit of adolescent awkwardness that middle-school students endure.

Mostly the songs were really unremarkable, no bursts of prodigy, no shows of musicality. Just steady plodding. When all of the sudden the familiar chords of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata burst out – and not an easy-learn arrangement either, the real deal. I got still, and thought, “Ah this is it – this is when the ordinary and unremarkable is shed for a moment of extraordinary, unexpected beauty. And it will show up snobs like me who weren’t expecting it. I’ll write about tonight – about this moment when people nearby stopped to listen to this unexpected sonata from a middle-schooler in Ugg boots and skinny jeans.”

About that time, though, the musician faltered, gamely tried to pick it back up, but her memory failed her. “Well I thought it was going to be great,” she said. The folks around her applauded nicely, and the performers went on rather less than tunefully.

Then above all the books came two quavery voices singing “O Holy Night.” It wasn’t anywhere near musically as good as the first couple of bars of the Beethoven, but it was good in the way that stew with drop dumplings is good, and when those words gets sung, it’s hard not to be still and hear truth.

It made me think of how unexpected Jesus, as He came, was. Not as a warrior with an army to conquer and rule, not even did He come to us first in strength or perfection. The Lord did not veil himself in flesh that had Samson’s strength, or David’s beauty. He came in the least strong, most vulnerable way He could, as a babe, new born, in need of food and shelter, of warmth and protection.

And if I recall my years of Bible classes, I think there were some who were seriously upset that the Messiah would come as anything but a conquering hero, particularly as suffering servant. Certainly there were some who were disappointed then, and some who are disappointed today when Christ turns out not to be exactly what they expected. On the other hand, there are those then, like Mary and Martha, and all the rest, even old Thomas, who embraced Christ when they understood him and when they didn’t, and the same is true today. Dear Lord, please count me in that number.

Sometimes the things we think are going to be great blow away like dust, and we’re left shaking our heads while we try and remember the song we hoped for. Sometimes the things we’d turn away from, like two wavery middle-school voices, or a mewling infant, or the hand that’s crippled by arthritis, sometimes those are the messengers of truth and beauty that the Lord sends to us.

So, even when it doesn’t make sense, we’ve always got the choice to say, “Praise God.” Praise God when we forget the song, and Praise God when the baby cries. Praise God when we get an unexpected moment at the hospital bedside, praise God when we stand at the grave. Praise when the sun rises over the harbor and we think we’ve got it made forever, and praise when the doctor tells us we’ll never walk again. Praise truly when all makes sense, and praise especially when the storm blots out all from our sight, but the dear friend Jesus who sits beside us in the boat, and takes our hand in His and says, “Peace be still. My peace I give you.”

Advent Return: Day something or other:

When I last left you, I hit "Publish post," coughed the little cough I had mentioned, and went to bed. I woke up to the illness that came from nowhere and knocked me on my backside. There were aches, there was congestion and stuffiness, there was upset tummy, there was fever and chills. So I armed myself with Tylenol Cold, and because medicine that can cause loopiness always does, I poured myself into bed, and slept inbetween watching TV on hulu.com and reading a page at a time of Julia and Julia. I couldn't begin to imagine what to write in way of an advent reflection, so I just pulled the covers over my head and slept it off.

Today, I returned to work, with a little cough in tow, and worked through the pile on my desk. Page corrections to be checked against proofs, author corrections to be transferred, packages to confirm receipt of.

This whole dark at 4 p.m. thing is really tough for me. My body really is wired to think, "it's dark, it must be time for bed," which is what I got ready for until I looked at my cell phone and saw it was 6:49. Needless to say, not bedtime.

The office is completely bedecked in cheer - there is a Christmas Tree in the lobby, garlands wrapped round the bannisters, there seems to be a small tree popping out from each cluster of cubicles. Scuttlebutt in neighboring cubicles revolved around "Was it fair or unfair that someone won twice in the prize drawings at the Company Christmas party last week?" Unanimous verdict: Unfair, the unlucky drawee should have declined the second prize and told them to draw someone else.

It's nearly impossible to avoid the trimmings, the trappings, the lights, and the oddly disembodied carols that come lilting through the speakers at the mall. There are the comments about running up the credit card so that everyone can be happy at Christmas, and not paying it down till Spring. There are the bake sales for local charity, and gifts for the poor, and everyone seems wound as tightly as a toy monkey.

So much of it, to my ears, carries the phrase, "This year, I'm going to make it right, this year, I'll be good to the people I should be good to, this year, I'll do all I can and make it this one day of wonder, I'll work a little harder, a little longer."

And trust me, I'm not harshing on being good to folks at the holidays, or giving to charity or anything like that, I'm just a little curious and puzzled as to why these 25 days seem to ratchet up our collective awareness that maybe we should give to others. There are after all, 340 other days that we could spread the collective holiday madness over, and mabye take a collective breath.

The answer I keep finding in my own heart is the deep compulsion we have to believe that if we work hard enough we can make it right, that it is within our power to save ourselves from the small things and the big things that hang us up. And this is ultimately completely antithetical to the incarnation of Christ, because it is His coming that says once, for all, "By grace are you saved," and that we rest in Him not by our work, but by His work on our behalf.

What a relief that the message of this time is not, "If you work a little harder, you can catch the golden ring as it spins madly by," but "Come to me, ye who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest."

For unto us a savior has been born. A savior who asks us not to work to make ourselves right, but to submit to Him and let Him heal us, and in healing us bring greater rightness than we could e'er imagine in our doing.

Advent 10:

I tell you what, somedays, I just have no idea what to write.

I'm knackered, and I have a little cough - just a little one.

It drizzled all day here, the water beaded on the office windows in tiny, relentless dashes. It was gray, and nearly dark at 3:50. I drove around after work, and poked about a few little shops on the Delmar Loop, tried on some slippers, looked at some jewelry, supported a local book store with a purchase of Julie and Julia.

So much for a profound advent reflection...

This season of waiting is sometimes one of silence.

Advent 9:

On an airplane this morning, flying west over what must have been Kentucky or Tennessee, I watched a series of hills pass underneath us. The eastern sides were lit with light, their earth made plain, the western sides were yet shielded by the rising sun, and their earth was dark, hidden and cold looking.

Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain shall be made low; the rough ground shall become low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places made a plain.

Being from Texas, I have an exact picture of what a plain looks like. In the flatness, the line of sight is unimpeded from horizon to horizon, the light shines on all beneath it and reveals what is there to be revealed. There are no things that are concealed in a level place, all that can be known is plainly there.

I'm not sure why that's important to the Lord, but it's a comfort to me.

Advent 8:

Oh friends, I’m feeling pretty knackered today, and my brain feels fuzzy around the edgy – too fuzzy to write a neatly thought out advent reflection today.

So I gratefully sing the love of Christ which calls me to rest,

“I heard the voice of Jesus say, come unto me and rest,
Lay down O weary one, your head upon my breast,
I came to Jesus as I was, so weary, weak and sad,
I found in Him my resting place and He has made me glad.”

He bids me the grace to cease my striving and simply be with Him, best loved, best cherished Friend, fully God and fully man.

Peace and rest to each of you all out there on road. Hope the lights are shining brightly for each of you.

Advent 7:

Just yesterday, friend Andrew, the lovely Ann and I were talking faith, and Andrew said,

“We’re spiritual beings having a physical experience not physical beings having a spiritual experience.”

He was making the point that a lot of times all the noise of the world around us can distract us from the spiritual matter at hand, which can be true.

But it sure got me thinking about this season when we reflect and celebrate the physical incarnation of the Divine in Jesus, the Christ.

There are fat, wet snowflakes falling outside this morning. While I was at the farmer’s market, they hit my hat and rolled down the back of my neck with icy winter cat licks. The air swirled about and tickled my ears, the cold made my fingers slow and tingly.

Then the pumpkin pancake batter had this wonderful squelchiness of a texture as it went into the skillet where the butter popped. The smell came up from the stove warm and ready as the pancakes became themselves.

So wherever one stands on the physical-spiritual spectrum, we do have these wonderful bodies, held up bones and muscles and ligaments that allow us to take in this amazingly physical world we inhabit. We can run over smooth prairies and let the tall grass tickle our bended knees, we can climb up rough rock walls, and our delicate fingers can find impossible places to hold on.

Sometimes, I feel like I forget just how physical life is, of how close to dust I really am, but what extraordinary dust it is.

Imagine a summer’s night, in the country, maybe by a lake – up to you, it’s you’re imagination, but don’t forget the cicadas. The air practically shimmers with life, the bugs are chirping, and somewhere an owl is whooing through dark. There is the plop of a frog launching itself from its haunches into the warm water and the ripples shake the lilies so that they look like an undulating green carpet. The lightning bugs are dancing like they just realized what a great party this world is, and somewhere there’s a warm cow lowing, and a horse knickering, and the earth smells warm in your nose, and you pick up some dust in your hand and it’s got some heft, it’s got grit that you roll between your fingers, and you take a deep breath from your gut, and let your lungs feel up with all those things, all those wonderful earthy physical things and you laugh with the sheer joy, the merriment of it all.

And Jesus left the glory of heaven to don our mortal veil, He inhabited a body just like ours – prone to hunger, to pain, to astounding joy, to tears wet down his face, to sweat warm on His back as He walked, to the crunch of a kernel of wheat between His teeth, the waters of the Jordan over His body as He went down in His cousin’s arms, and rose to find the dove of heaven on His shoulder. The smell of fish in his nose, and the feeling of broken bread under the blessing of His voice and the strength of His hands.

So way back in the Garden, when the Divine One spoke into being with sweetness this good world around us, by His action he spoke His love for all of creation – for the physical, and the spiritual and for whatever comes between – I guess for me, it’s all too wrapped together to think of two separate experiences – my physical or my spiritual, it’s one journey together, and the one informs the other.

There are moments when the physical is hard, when it’s messy, scary even, a birth in particular can be all those things, and yet, the King of Heaven entered this earth in the same messy, scary way that you and I did, and what a gift that is, for truly there is a Savior who has born in His body our experience.

What grace, what gift, how deep and wide the love with which the Holy One pursues us for His own.

Advent 6:
I was reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe today, and I came to the part where Mr. Beaver says of Edmund, “Treacherous.”

In my mind I could hear the voice of my fifth-grade teacher Mrs. Smith who read the book aloud to us in her class. She did different voices, and the beavers were a trembly, creaky voice, and subsequently that is how I hear them whenever I read the story now.

God bless Mrs. Smith. It happened later that her daughter and I became dear friends, but when I was in her class, I am ashamed to say that I was a rotten, smart-alecky, disrespectful git – and that’s putting it rather kindly.

It would serve my vanity to have all you readers go on thinking that I’m charming and kind and wonderful, and to never let on that I have shabby and mean things about me, but that, alas, would be untrue.

I can’t explain why I was terrible in her class, but I was. I am ashamed to say that I just decided I didn’t like her much, or her class and acted accordingly. However, Mrs. Smith was always patient. And because her daughter and I are fast friends, I found out that the Smiths prayed for me at their dinner table that year.

Mrs. Smith is the praying-est woman I know, and that’s really saying something. Her go-to action in any situation is, “prayer.” She also can quote scripture at length, not in an irksome way, but in the same way that someone might say, “Would you like a cup of tea?” One time, Mrs. Smith, her daughter, my Mom and I and other assorted friends were at book club, and Mrs. Smith related the theme of a short story to scripture and her daughter said, in a very teenage tone, “Mom, do you have to bring everything back to God.” That is Mrs. Smith to a tee.

There are some folks who would never let you forget a shabby thing you’ve done – I’m sure you’ve met some, and I’m sure there are times when we’ve all been that person. And because they won’t ever let you forget that thing, no matter how far you’ve grown past it, it becomes a loathsome, inescapable millstone.

That is the opposite of grace and of forgiveness. The scriptures are so full of folks who aren’t on the whole bad, but they do something small and untoward, and consistently God welcomes them back, He restores. I can’t think of one time that Jesus made anyone feel small or burden them with an action they were ashamed of – the way He so gently restores Peter after Peter’s frightful betrayal – what love, what grace, what hope for the rest of us poor fools.

Bless her heart, Mrs. Smith has never made me bear my sorry-fifth-grade self around my neck. When I see her she welcomes me as though I’d been an absolute doll in her class, she is kind and gracious and somehow I just know that she doesn’t remember how terrible I was when she looks at me. She acts like she was confident all along that I’d turn out fine. And that is how Mrs. Smith shows Jesus to me.

Jesus extends grace to us, grace that keeps our past wrongs from being millstones, grace that gives a way back to relationship and reconciliation, a way to become the people that God means for us to be.

Advent Day 5:

When I worked at the non-profit, I had the real privilege of leading the staff in worship every other Monday.

My guitar skills are minimal, I can play chords in some semblance of song. My singing voice is fair, but not great - no one is ever going to call me Maria Callas. But the folks who asked me over looked that, and let me know that what I had to offer was fine.

And so advent came upon us, and when my Monday came, I brought out the guitar and the words to O Holy Night and passed them out to the staff.

They all started to laugh, and I said, "I know, I know, but the words are great, and they are worshipful, and if we all go together, we'll get through the song - even the high part, because we're just going to belt it out."

O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining
It is the night of the dear savior's birth
Long lay the world, in sin and error pining
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices
for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn...

We kept going, and got louder, and smiled and kept singing. The whole staff just belting out the song from their guts.

Fall on your knees, o hear the angel voices
Oh night, divine, Oh night, when Christ was born.

We made it up over the top of the musical phrase, and back down again to sing the remaining versus.

It wasn't the prettiest, or most polished version of that song I've ever heard. And there's certainly a time and a place for the polish. But we brought what we had to offer, and the Lord blessed our worship, and met us there, and that was a precious thing to share with those folks who I worked next to everyday.

It's so tempting to always try to bring the polish, or to think, "I'll just try a bit longer to get myself together before I go to God." But what grace, what mercy, the Lord doesn't ask for the polish or the perfection, He doesn't ask us to strive for worthiness, He bids us come with what we have, and let Him make us whole.

The grace of that makes me weep - just to simply bring what we have, and let the Lord restore, and transform, to change and make new. What rest and peace.

Truly He taught us to love one another
His law is love and His gospel is peace
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother
And in His Name, all oppression shall cease
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we
With all our hearts we praise His Holy Name.
Christ is the Lord, O praise His name forever.

Advent Day 4 - And the glory of the Lord:

And the Glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and the flesh shall see it together for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.

A couple of years ago, I got to take a trip out to Utah with a group of friends. I got the chance to go canyoneering because I had happened to fall in with a group of people who had a lot of know-how and gear. Two of them led outdoor adventures for the day job, so it really was good company.

We trekked into the country around Moab, Utah. We repelled into a sheltered place that instantly made me think of a cathedral. Then we repelled by a natural bridge, and climbed back out of the canyon.

While we were resting, I sat down next to a good friend who had rustled a little hunk of earth for himself in the cleft of a rock. I don't know if Southern Utah bears any resemblence to the Holy Land apart from the Biblical name of Moab, but the view of rock towers and spires, of space vast filled our eyes as we sat together in the cleft of the rock. We didn't say anything to each other, just took in the space. It felt a lot like sitting in church, just being quiet and letting the spirit wash over you.

At any rate, the view of that desert, and the privileged view I had of it from the rough hewn rocks of a canyon wall have stayed with me, and they make me think of Moses. Of how the Lord, because He was pleased with Moses, put him in the cleft of the rock and covered him with the Lord's own hand so that Moses would be safe.

I think that when the Lord put His hand over the cleft of the rock that there was such warmth and sweetness that came from it, that Moses tried to breath it all in at once. I can picture so clearly the Lord's hand lifting, and Moses peering from the shelter at the back of the Lord's glory.

I picture something that must have seemed to Moses like a robe, a swirling richness of bright colors, of rich textures worthy of the Holy One. I think Moses' jaw must have dropped in awe and wonder, his hands on the rock walls on either side of him to steady himself. He watched until all those colors, and all that richness filled the entire plain before him before passing over the horizon, and then Moses took a breath.

And Moses whispered in his heart, "My God, I will follow your glory anywhere, just to glimpse you once more."

Maybe the Magi who followed the star in the East felt the same way, that for just the merest glimpse of the Glory, any journey would be worth the difficulty. Maybe that's how Peter felt after the transfiguration, or Paul after His conversion.

I know it is how I feel sometimes. I remember the times when I have most clearly seen the Lord in my life, the times when He has pulled back the curtain a bit and let me see more clearly, and I remember that my heart has been stilled in wonder, and that I have know that just for another glimpse of Him, I would go anywhere.

Advent Day 3 - Extraordinary kindness:

As I was sitting with my Mother the other evening, a memory crossed my mind.

"Do you remember when the chimney sweep came to our house in Houston to clean the chimney, and he gave me a piece of red felt that he said had been caught in the chimney, and that it must have been from Santa Claus?"

"Yes," she said. "That was kind wasn't it? You were so excited to show Daddy and Jimmy."

Now that really was something. He didn't get paid extra for that, he just knew it was an easy way to brighten a child's day, and it really did. And there was intentionality in it, I mean, I presume he took the time to cut a piece of red felt, and carry it with him. Unless he really did find it in the chimney...

I can hear you lovable cynics out there already: Well, of course if you're nice to a customer's kids, they're more likely to call you again. It's good for business.

Nonetheless, good for business or not, I think it was, at its heart, simply kind.

I notice in myself and in others, that we all are quick to suspect people of having some type of angle or alterior motive. They want publicity, they want additional business, they want something from us. I think that's part of our modern world - somehow we start to think of actions as what they gain for us, rather than what they might accomplish for others.

Maybe I'm way off base in that assessment, but I don't neccesarily think so - I've talked with a lot of high-school and college students who engage in particular volunteer work because it looks good on applications and resumes. And I've talked with many college seniors who apply to programs like Teach for America solely because it looks good on their resume.

That there is an expectation of that alterior motive is a sad thing, a cynical thing, it makes all of us smaller people.

But I still believe in pure, unadulterated acts of kindness. I think the Chimney Sweep engaged in one. It took him little time or energy, and probably gained him no profit, but I've remembered it all my life.

Whenever I think of kindness, I always think of a man named Charlie who was a greeter at my childhood church for years and years. I didn't know him outside of church, but I remember that every Sunday, he took time to say good morning to my family, and to me. He always asked about School or Sunday School, complimented my dress (these were the old days, there was a dress and tights with shiny patent dress shoes every week), and he always had a peppermint or a butterscotch candy in his pocket for me - always. That was kindness.

It is so true that everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle, and it is so true that small kindnesses can make a world of difference to a person's day.

That's part of what this Christmas season is about, I think. Kindness in the midst of deep trouble and despair. That in the midst of the world of trouble and woe, the Dear Christ enters in, to redeem, to make new, to heal, to bring kindness to those who need it, to bring hope to those who feel forgotten.

Day 2 of Advent - The Holy Family:

Are we all cozy now? Tucked well in for the night, windows shut against the cold, bellies warmed with some sturdy winter fare. Perhaps a pint of ale, or draught of wine nearby. Perhaps some handwork in your lap, or a puzzle before, and best of all to pass a winter eve - a story, a familiar one, one that we know by heart.

Bring a torch, Jeannette Isabella
Bring a torch, and quickly run
Christ is born, good folks of the village.
Christ is born, and Mary's calling,
"Ah, ah, beautiful is the mother,"
"Ah, ah, beautiful is her son."

I love that carol, it's lilting melody, the echo of the last two lines. The celebration of beauty, the hastening of hearts to Jesus. Somehow I hear the vunerability of Mary and Joseph, of their journey, and of the birth in the old song. It's there so clearly for me.

That vulnerability has been on my mind lately. All life seems so tender that it seems remarkable to me that we survive. So I imagine with compassion what it might have been like for Mary, little more than a girl, most likely younger than me seeing her life so clearly before her. And then the Angel appears:

"Greetings you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you."

And Luke mercifully records, "Mary was greatly troubled by his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be."

What a relief that she was troubled - I think any of us would be, then, "Do not be afraid..."

We get the annunciation, the greeting of Elizabeth and Mary's song, and it's so easy to think that that's all there was, but there was nine months of carrying a child for her, there was morning sickness and aches, there was the shame that must have been cast upon her from those who questioned her honor, there was surely a delicate relationship to work out with Joseph, even amidst and through the joy of being highly favored by the Lord.

And that final difficult journey - what did Mary and Joseph talk about? Did they talk at all? Were they grumpy and afraid? Were they tender and patient? Were they all those things?

And the birth, I think for Mary, and probably for Joseph too, must have felt like the final crucible of that whole experience from Angel to manager. Did Joseph feel ashamed that he could do no better for his betrothed and baby than a stable? Was he afraid for Mary? Was there anyone to help them through the birth?

I think that in that final great test, Mary's beauty must have become transcendent, as does the look of those who come through trials for the better and whole, and I think Joseph must have seemed his strongest and best, as do those who keep the faith through difficulty, and the babe in their arms, Ah, beautiful is the Son.

Who knows of Mary and Joseph stopped and looked at each other in all the noise and action, and said, "My God, has it come to pass?" Or if they were able in their weariness to grasp what the Shepherds understood - that in the bosom of the beautiful boy beat the heart of a Savior, beat, indeed the heart of God veiled in flesh. To think about it for a moment is like looking into the bright light - one can do it for a moment, but one has to look away, it's too much to take in at once.

That remarkable beauty, the admirable strength, the wonder of the child - I think that's what the Shepherds saw for a brief moment, and what Mary and Joseph felt for a brief moment. It was bright, and too big to take in all at once.

So Mary stored those things up in her heart, and thought over them. And the Shepherds who had hastened to the manager, sang their praise to the Almighty who gave the good gift, and the hope for all men and women, for all time.

The first Sunday of Advent:

There is a line in Bob Dylan’s “Song to Woody,” that always reminds me vividly of advent - that captures so poignantly the longing and the waiting that we enter into this season:

…I wrote you a song
‘Bout a funny ol’ world that’s a-comin’ along.
Seems sick an’ it’s hungry, it’s tired an’ it’s torn,
It looks like it’s dying an’ it’s hardly been born.

Somehow, I can imagine Simeon and Anna in the temple, waiting for the Messiah and praying the Hebrew equivalent of those lyrics. There are certainly psalms that come close to them.

While Simeon and Anna waited for the consolation, the nation of Israel endured the Roman conquest and occupation. There was poverty, corruption, illness, meanness, and all manner of other ills.

But there in the temple waited Simeon and Anna, waiting for the “consolation of Israel, for the Lord’s Christ.” Did they raise their voices with the Psalmists and say, “How long, O Lord, must we endure?”

When we find them in the gospel of Luke, we get four verbs in description. About Simeon we read that he was “waiting,” and in regards to Anna we find that she “worshipped” by “fasting and praying.”

These are fine verbs for advent, the season when we remember the coming of Christ to this world, and when we prepare our hearts in expectancy for the time when He will come again.

Wait. Worship. Fast. Pray.

These are uncomfortable verbs for me – I prefer things that have much more action or at least, busyness. Can you imagine the sisters Mary and Martha confronted with these verbs. Mary would say, “No problem, I’m on it.” Martha would probably roll her eyes at Mary, and say, “You gotta be kidding me – there’s cooking or tidying, or something I could be doing.”

Wait. Worship. Fast. Pray.

This funny world is still turning, and though Christ has begun His redeeming work, there is still so much suffering and pain all around us. Certainly there are any number of good works to be done in His name.

Still, it would be wrong to forget the lessons of Simeon and Anna, those first waiters whose story is left to us. It’s so easy to think that the work of God is dependent on our own strength, or cleverness, or wisdom, or whatever point at which our vanity deceives us into trusting in ourselves rather than God.

I look around this world and say, “Surely something more can be done,” but in saying that, I so often forget to wait, to worship, to fast, to pray. To remember that even though I can’t see it, the Almighty is yet at work redeeming and reconciling His creation to Himself.

New York Tavern, and Lady Gaga

My least favorite story as a kid, though I recall reading it often, and always with the same sense of disappointment, was “The Emperor’s New Clothes.”

There were no talking animals. Not even elves. Just people, wicked, mean, and stupid people – how could the emperor and all his court be so taken in by those original dirty rotten scoundrels. Reading it was like watching someone’s most embarrassing moment unfold, and equally as painful. Which of course is the point – the child is the only one in the kingdom who remains pure enough of heart to tell the truth, the poor child, with neither power nor name, with nothing to lose or gain who points out what is obvious while those who should have been wiser promote the harmful lie. Ahh, a morality tale.

One of my favorite students was a little boy whose name meant King, but who was largely ill-cared for. My co-worker, who was his homeroom teacher, kept a drawer of clean uniform clothes for him; I kept school supplies. After trying unsuccessfully to reach his mother for months with no success, we both sat through a social services meeting and listened to her lie about King having clean clothes and school supplies at home. We’d seen him and his siblings everyday, the truth had spoken steadily to us.

He had a lot to grieve for, but he was resilient and the most truthful child I taught – I never saw him lie, even to save himself or his friends. He was as honest as Gatsby’s Nick.

King worked hard to be good in my classroom, and I promised him that if he stayed on Green all day, I would call his parents to say how well he’d done. He did, and I did. There was no answer at his Mom’s and no answering machine. So we called his Dad, King and his friend were standing right by my desk. We had turned on the speakerphone. The rings gave way to a message – an entire hip-hop song that presumably his father identified with. As the song played, King shook his head, his buddy shook his head in solidarity and unobtrusively patted King’s back.

King gave him a look that said, “Can you believe that mess?” and his buddy sighed and nodded his head in a way that said, “I know, man, I know.”

“Man, that’s just stupid,” King said to me. “He should grow up.”

The emperor, said the child King, has no clothes.

I was shocked by both boys’ ability to see it through the excess to the truth, and it gave me a tiny flicker of hope.

This morning I heard two seemingly unrelated news briefs.

From NPR about a New York Tavern:

The owner of O'Casey's Tavern in Midtown Manhattan will unveil on Thanksgiving what he says is the nation's first 100-proof turkey. The bird will be infused with fruit-flavored and 100-proof vodka for three days before roasting. The meat will have hints of peach, raspberry, cherry and apple. The gravy also will be laced with liquor.

And this one from CNN’s coverage of the American Music Awards:

The most unusual performance may have been by Lady Gaga, who used a microphone stand to break into a large glass box to get to a piano that started burning as she played

If I hadn’t heard these two pieces from those two sources, I would have thought they were from The Onion.

Now let’s remember to be kinder than necessary, cause everyone’s fighting a battle. It’s been a tough year for businesses everywhere, the owner of O’Caseys is pulling a Barnumesque stunt to bring in business. No worse, and certainly no better, than any other thousand and one circus acts that have gone before and will come after.

Still, what if the excess is indicative of something else, some rot in our culture that would take a perfectly tasty-on-its-own bird, treat it to a frighteningly Las Vegas style booze binge, take what will already be its liquor soaked broth and lace it with yet more liquor. It rather debases the poor turkey.

And Lady Gaga, well I know that her music is embraced and adulated by many, but if you have to violently smash a box to play a burning piano (with terrible posture I might add – no piano teacher would stand for crossed legs at the bench), well what’s really the point – the music, or the excess?

Musicians are not universally well known for their charming behavior, but while Mozart may have been a womanizing, ill-behaved nincompoop, I don’t recall hearing about that time he played the Royal Court of Vienna, and before tickling the keys cast his candelabra into the instrument – it would have distracted from the music.

But the turkey, and the music isn’t really the point in these instances, it’s the excess that’s meant to grab, inflame, entice or revolt.

Frankly the video of Lady Gaga’s performance is a little frightening, masked dancers in flesh toned costumes manage to look like bird-like dinosaurs – and not nice herbivores either. This creepy effect is exacerbated by the lyrics which kick off with what elementary school teachers would call nonsense syllables (Oooh, roma, gaga) and lead up to I want your ugly, I want your disease, I want your everything as long as it’s free… and continues to I want your psycho…Baby your sick.

Winning, no? Pardon me if I don’t swoon. It gives me an icky feeling in my stomach – this isn’t worthy of commendation, it’s low, it’s base and crude, it demeans, it does not add dignity to anything or anyone – The Emperor has no clothes!

So what is it that makes so many of us, myself included, parties to the ruses, the illusions of the Emperor, of the Wizard (who is that finally unmasks the ruler of Oz as a little man behind the curtain – why a clear eyed child), of the Circus Ringmaster.

I don’t know, but I find it troubling. Excess in food used to be confined to thinks like the Terducken – a chicken, stuffed inside a duck, stuffed inside a turkey – silly and excessive, certainly, a little like your odd great-uncle who’s a little too familiar with the bourbon, but destructive or harmful? Not particularly.

Excess in music, well let’s not forget that it was as recently as 1964 that The Beatles performed on the Ed Sullivan show with their long hair! and their shocking lyrics: Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, tomorrow I’ll miss you; Remember I’ll always be true. And then while I’m away, I’ll write home everyday, and I’ll send all my loving to you.

Let’s not forget that this tour was precipitated by their chart-topping single, I want to hold your hand that included the lyrics, Oh please, say to me, you’ll let me be your man, oh please say to me, you’ll let me hold your hand.

It’s a bit sweeter than “I want your disease.” It’s positively quaint. Still, it only took 45 years to get from promises of being true to Lady Gaga. I think we might need a lot of clear-eyed children for the next 45 years who will be able to call the kingdom to its senses with unabashed truth in the face of unmitigated, even dangerous display.

Keeping the Feast

I’m thinking about what it means to keep the feast.

It’s a funny little line in the liturgy.

Let us proclaim the mystery of faith:

Christ has died.
Christ is risen.
Christ will come again.

Therefore, let us keep the feast.

Let’s just chase a small rabbit for one moment: 23 words that contain an entire world history – faith, unseen and hoped for, thus a mystery, the known elements of that faith and hope, and our response to it. How many volumes have been written? And yet there it is in 23 words. Beyond that, the beautiful poetry of verb tenses – surely this must have appealed to those church fathers steeped in Latin, it takes me back to the drilling of conjugation, amo, amas, amamus. Has, is, will – past, present, future. Keep – now, in response.

I’ve been going to a church here in St. Louis, I don’t know why typing that sentence feels oddly confessional. Maybe it’s because the church has several campuses, and TV monitors (!) that put the songs up interspersed with Bible verses, maybe it’s the well edited mini-doc they show once a week telling the story of how someone was in crisis, found Jesus, and now they’re plugged in, maybe it’s the electric guitar and the drums and the pounding bass. Maybe because it’s a non-denominational, non-liturgical congregation – so to sum up, everything I’ve complained about in the modern church for years.

In fact, I almost left today, in the middle of one of the songs that sounded a little to reminiscent of a power-ballad worthy of senior prom, and after five people didn’t return a good morning as I stepped aside to let them into the row.

I grabbed a cup of coffee – definite perk to this church, and sat down in the very back row. I mean, it was church, and I like the way the pastor preaches – well, at least the three sermons I’ve heard.

This is largely because the pastor reminds me of my high-school Bible Teacher, also the football and wrestling coach, willing to, in his diction: “bring the smackdown on the field, the mat or the classroom.”

And the grape juice they serve at communion. It’s been 7 years since I went to a church that didn’t serve wine for communion.

So the combo of a reminiscent Coach A., and Welch’s standing in for the cup of salvation, it’s like ex-Southern-Baptist soul comfort food.

I told my Mom that I was perfectly fine with poached eggs for Thanksgiving dinner, that it was really all the same to me.

Truly it probably will be. Food does anything except thrill me now and for the past four months. It feels funny in my mouth, it doesn’t appeal to my taste, it seems awfully pushy. I haven’t cooked in about four months, except for cheddar cheese risotto once. I’ve been eating lots of fruits and veggies, in fact almost entirely vegetarian, which is uncharacteristic. I mean, I enjoy(ed) food, enjoy(ed) cooking, thoroughly enjoy(ed) meat, but my general feeling towards it currently is meh.

So the idea of an 8 pound bird, with accoutrements out the wazzu, well if anything, it kind of gives me a feeling of dread; it’s intimidating.

Food’s all wrapped up in love for me, cooking grounds me in a way, it connects me to my mother and grandmothers, it gives me a place to stand still in the middle of a this crazy-tilt-a-whirl world. Cooking for people is sacred, and also one of the ways I give love to the people I care for, and apparently has been so for a long time.

John Doe (yes, that really is his nickname), my radical-feminist-agitating friend, called just the other day, out of the blue to say, “Do you remember that one time you made your grandma’s spaghetti – I still dream about it.” Mind you that was at least 5 years ago.

But four months ago my small world went one whirl too many, and I’m still catching my breath. Cooking’s still all wrapped up with love for me, and well…I’m not going to talk about that here.

So the calendar pages are falling away every passing day, and here it is November, the festival of the Turkey, the gratitude and the kick-off of egg-nog season; I’ve never looked forward to a Thanksgiving less.

Still I’m betting it’s going to be better than the year my Dad almost died after a disastrous surgery. We ate Thanksgiving at the dining room table while Dad was plugged into the home-medical equipment – he was feeling poorly, but he was game. I’m sure he even carved the turkey.

After I remembered that Thanksgiving, I emailed my mom again – I told her we’d do it this year, the roast-beast, the relish, the potatoes, the pies. If Dad could do Thanksgiving while plugged into a wall, then I can probably do thanksgiving even as I still sorrow.

I am keeping the feast, at least a really tiny portion of it, and a half of a turkey sandwich.

The other day, I read: “Be kinder than necessary, everyone is fighting a battle.” I recognize sorrow more easily now in others, because I too experience(d) its depths. It has made me more compassionate, and kinder. It’s all so fragile what we have here, there’s too little time to stomp about with 10-league boots on.

Everyone’s fighting something – grief, or stress, or worry, mistakes, regrets – there’s such a list of human woe.

I didn’t leave church today, and I heard a message about heresy. I abstained from the Lord’s Supper, but I sat quietly and peacefully, just at rest.

During the sermon, I felt really noticeably hungry, or rather, I noticed that I desired food specifically a Chipotle burrito. This once familiar feeling of wanting food was especially surprising and unexpected, and so after church, I went in peace to the restaurant.

They didn’t open till 11; I had 10 minutes to kill. I spoke with an older couple who needed directions; I looked in shop-windows.

When I walked into the restaurant, the staff was still sitting around a table eating and jawing. I smiled and said “Good Morning.” A gentleman got up to take my order. We made pleasant conversation.

I got to the register to check out and the lady said, “It’s free.”

I smiled and said, “Thank you.”

I don’t really know if the Lord is involved in details as small as me feeling hungry for a burrito and then getting a free one, but I had just left His house. I do have faith and hope, that the dear Christ does enter into this messy-tilt-a-whirl-world to bear upon Himself that which we cannot. And I think He very kindly gave me lunch in a way too obvious for me to miss.

The gift of that burrito made me smile and laugh. I grinned all the way back to my car, three young men on their way to a coffee shop even commented on how happy I looked, “she’s all smiles,” they said. I told them to have a great day.

So I went home. I bowed my head; said thank you. Kept the feast.

So I proclaim the mystery I can’t understand, but in which I hope:

That Christ has come.

Christ is risen, and is near.

Christ will come again.

Therefore, though I yet sorrow, though I do not understand, though I have questions that at the moment have no answers, still will I in His grace and borrowed strength, keep the feast He sets before me.

The District of Columbia is, like any city, a living-breathing organism. A great deal more than intersecting streets, public transportation and interesting bits of history. It is a city driven by largely by image, prestige, intellect and ambition.

It's fit, young, has few smokers, is well educated. It's chockablock full of type-A folks who are out to change the world and who think they have a shot.

And some of the them work on Capitol Hill in the halls of legislative power. Other's work in the hallowed rooms of the White House. Still others in the oddly-reminiscent-of-Oz building that houses the Justice Department, or in the cloistered rooms of the Supreme Court.

Then there are the thinkers in the tanks - working for a legal group that specializes in a particular branch of constitutional law, working at the program that brings international students here to show them the good Ol' US of A, folks who are working on the environment, education, elevating morality, elevating liberty and, of course, elevating themselves.

There are the young graduate students studying medicine, or public policy or law. There are those just back from the Peace Corps, and those blackberry punching interns that work for the two-blackberry handling Chancellor of Schools.

There are the young ladies who light up the shops of Georgetown, and the cadre of young, beautiful and carefree who linger in the streets of Adam's Morgan and raise their glasses to the glorious cause and to themselves. Those who spend weekends toting their Ethos water bottles, kayaking on the Potomac, taking Sunday brunch and slugging back the mimosas and Bloody Marys.

And it is easy to linger in the perception that the young, the beautiful, the driven are what composes D.C. Full of people who look just like me, just the same, and they're always in front of that gleaming Capitol Dome, aren't they? And the sunlight glints off their sunglasses, and off the dome and it's pretty; it's the American dream.

But that's not the whole of D.C., not the whole story, and storytellers have got to tell it all, right?
So it is that in the gleaming city on the hill, where rest the pretty hopes and dreams of so many, where resides so much intellect, so much altruism, so much of the zeitgeist, reside also the invisible citizens of D.C.

Those born and raised and living there in the shadow of the dome. They are on K St NE where 6 were felled by gunfire, and on I St SE where two or three were roughed up and mugged, in Columbia Heights were names get crossed off a graffitied list of names on a brick wall. They are the residents of Trinidad, the neighborhood, not the country, who lived within police roadblocks that restricted all access to their community.

They are the residents of Anacostia, across the river, where the young, the beautiful, the idealistic do not go. Where there are no glittering shops, where there are no bars playing the understatedly-cool-hipster-anthem of the moment.

They are the children who attend a school where lights and windows are broken, where the heat doesn't work and the kids have to wear their coats during class, where there is violence and the threat of violence, and hunger and insecurity.

They are the children who wrote to President-Elect Obama and suggested that after he finished the war in Iraq, maybe he could help clean up Potomac Gardens, where they live.

Here in the shadow of the gleaming dome, the embodiment of the liberty we hold so dear, here are the parents who are trying to finish their GEDs, who are trying to find a tutor for their son who is about to enter the maw of secondary-education in the inner city. Here is the Aunt or the Grandma who is taking in the children because their mother has died. Here is the little boy in fourth grade who cannot recognize or write his name.

And you've probably guessed that the invisible part of D.C. doesn't look just the same as the golden, beautiful dreamers who think their golden, beautiful thoughts about changing the world, or winning the election, or getting the principal into the newscycle and perpetuating themselves just a bit longer.

It's easy for the two worlds never to cross. Two cities. One face that we show the world, and the other invisible, ignored, forgotten and discarded, way across the river, where the idealistic, the young, the beautiful, the glittering do not go. Talk about your lands of Oz.

But there a lot of non-profits that work precisely in that invisible city. They don't get reported on in the national media, and a lot of times the local media misses them too. They don't have operating budgets that reach into the stratosphere; they have donated space, and older computers, and toilets that they fix themselves. They are helping with the GEDs and the kids in Trinidad. They are working in Columbia Heights to end the violence. They are advocating in the school systems for their kids.

One in particular, a small one with a great deal of heart is providing a safe space in Potomac Gardens for the kids. This non-profit is making sure that the fourth grader is learning, and that the disparity in the school conditions is known, and above all this non-profit is loving those children every single day with a love that is so kind, and so big, and so unfailing that the kids just light up in it. In that love, for the smallest of moments, the kids shed their cares like their winter coats, and forget about the men who are dealing the drugs in the stairwells, and the sewers that are backing up into the apartments and the way they felt so hungry over the weekend.

It was a great victory last year, when that little-engine-that-could-of-a-non-profit landed two apartment units in the Gardens. Two units where the kids would have space - space for studying and cooking, for making music, and for playing. For wonderful, care-free, old-fashioned, American playing.

And to that end were donated tvs and game systems. I saw a picture of it in use just last week, four kids who from their imagination into reality shaped their bean-bag chairs into little racecars, and were sitting in the cockpits of their chargers, racing each other, competing in a version of Mariokart. And before someone starts asking why they're not using that time to study, let me just ask how much time you spend on Facebook playing "Farmville," and decompressing, and once you've answered that, go ahead and begrudge a ten-year old their 20 minutes of "chill time."

Earlier this weekend, while sunlight glinted of the pretty dome, while the young and the beautiful took their dogs to the park, or gamboled through the Eastern Market, while heels of dress shoes clicked down marble hallways, someone broke into those units at the Gardens, where the kids come everyday after school to do their homework, eat dinner, engage in choir, or cooking club, or hear a visitor talk about the career. That someone stole the three TVs, and four game systems that those kids played with, and looked forward to playing with and enjoyed.

Just another invisible crime that happened in an invisible city.

And the real kicker for me is that the closing accounts of the bar tab at that hipster-chic locale, the bill for that influential lunch, all those bloody-marys and all those mimosas over which so much reminiscing about the good-old days was done could easily cover the cost of replacing what was lost.

Some folks talk about a "real" America, in a tone of voice that reminds of me of a history teacher I had who said that the conquest of the New World could be boiled down to "God, gold and glory."

We're all in the shadow of the gleaming dome though, and the real America can be found in the chasm that separates the circles of power from the circles of the infernal poverty of the inner city, or rather in what it takes to cross it. Only in bridging that chasm first with attention, acknowledgement, and then compassion, and action will the true American dream - the one that Thomas Jefferson dreamed, the one that Lincoln and Truman and Dr. King dreamed, the one that Marian Anderson sang of, the one that the veterans yielded up their lives for - the dream of life and liberty for all men equal be realized.

Dear brothers, who will lead the charge across the gap?

Remembrance Day

I was waiting to catch a flight out of St. Louis last Friday evening.

There were a handful of servicemen and women - all Army, destined for Fort Sam Houston, waiting for the same flight. I noticed an older lady with frosted hair and lovely jewelry talking to them, engaging them, asking about themselves. I knew she must have been from Texas when I heard her say, "Well, bless your heart."

I thought about buying them a round of beers, and then I looked at them, and realized that most of them were not old enough to drink. This was confirmed when I heard one of them tell their age to the nice woman with frosted hair.

They were wearing camoulflage, heavy boots, and heavy bags. They looked impossibly young, but assured at the same time. When they rose to board the plane, the folks waiting at the gate applauded.

Several Novembers ago, I took part in Remembrance Day in London. Where for the weeks leading up to 11 November, old soldiers stand in the tube stations and sell paper poppies, and everyone buys one, and wears it everyday. There was no coat lapel that did not bear the red paper construction that reminded of those poppies yet rustling in the wind upon Flanders Field, and of the quiet crosses, and of the stilled lives that lie beneath.

And there was solidarity, all of us wearing our poppies, remembering who has gone before and protected what's dear to all of us.

So I think of my own Grandfathers, and my Dad who served. I think of the lady I worked with in London who was a child during the bombing of London. Whose family refused to leave the city. I remember her talking about what it was like to be at play and hear a bomb descending upon a city street. I think of the soldiers and pilots who defended London while she was just a girl.

I think of all the kids I grew up with who went on to serve in all the branches. Who have served and serve in the war in Iraq and in Afghanistan.

And tomorrow I hope you'll join me in raising a glass and prayer for all of them.

In defense of Virtue

There was a heartbreaking story in the Wall Street Journal today, about a trend of the spouses of Alzheimer sufferers who begin to date even as their spouse sinks deeper into the depths of mental oblivion.

The reporter says that, “Caregivers often face a stark choice: Either start an extramarital relationship and risk estrangement from friends and family – not to mention their own guilt – or live without a real companion for many years. The trend is prompting religious leaders, counselors and others to rethink how they define adultery.”

There was a seemingly unrelated story about the fact that Harvard has produced 10 Medal of Honor recipients – more than any other university outside of the service academies. The key sentence in that story was when the author said that “few of our leading newspapers…ever deem these medals worthy of front page attention.”

Now Alzheimers and Medal of Honors don’t have a lot in common, but the issues at the heart of both sentences are two sides of the same coin: the disturbing trend of our culture to minimize the lack of, or the presence of virtue.

Virtue, as Webster’s defines it, is a conformity to a standard of right; a particular moral excellence.

This is part of the criterion for Medal of Honor recipients, that they should have distinguished themselves with “gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his [or her] life above and beyond the call of duty.”

A particular moral excellence indeed may be found in that. The fact that we still award this medal, means that somewhere deep in our cores we are able to recognize that self -sacrifice for others is an action worthy of honor.

We are reluctant to recognize the virtuous among us, because it might imply that virtue is something for which to strive and gain, and something that many of us may lack.

Which brings us back to that prickly sentence from the Alzheimer’s article about the choice that the spouses face: “Either start an extramarital relationship and risk estrangement from friends and family – not to mention their own guilt – or live without a real companion for many years.”

In sickness and in health till death does part is what the traditional vow says. Not “until a horrifying illness makes it too emotionally difficult for me to remain your steadfast and loyal partner.”

To make the vow is to acknowledge and accept the risk that one may sacrifice self, and self’s desires in its fulfillment. The very language of the vow acknowledges that there is a darkness that might impel one to consider leaving in the face of illness. However, the language of the marriage vow binds and compels one to listen to better angels, rather than to society which says, “you deserve to be happy, you deserve a companion, and if your’s proves defective than get another – even while the husband or wife of your youth still breathes.”

What insidious evil that is. We are missing the concept of what is wrong in this era of moral relativism. This time that celebrates the journey of individual freedom and discovery at the cost of honor, character and relationships; this time that elevates self-preservation above sacrifice.

The fact that clergy are rethinking what adultery is illuminates this relativism. We place our self-fulfillment and happiness at the pinnacle of what it means to live a good life, and religious leaders, counselors and life coaches who go along for this ride rather than call the proverbial spade a spade enable this, and affirm this self worship that tears the fabric of the marriage vow, that devalues virtue and celebrates moral ambiguity.

Yet there’s a kernel of hope, a small one, but still there. That family and friends would estrange the adulterous spouse, that the cheating spouse his-or-herself would feel guilty, shows that deep in our human cores we retain the voice that says, “It should not be.” In some deep hidden recess placed in us at the beginning we retain the ability to recognize virtue’s absence.

And while we retain that, there may still be hope for loyalty, for honor, for courage in the face of trials, and it is that small flame of hope that we must fan if we wish for virtue to remain a recognizable value in our culture.

Perhaps then the story will be, “Spouse sacrifices own happiness to care for ill beloved.”

St. Louis Adventure 1:

Well, when you move to a new place, you have to start somewhere in getting to know it. So today, I treated myself to a trip to the Bellefontaine Cemetery - final home of many of St. Louis' most prominent citizens:

Lindell

Barnes

Anheuser

Busch

David R. Francis - former governor.

And the Prufrock family plot. The Prufrock's owned a furniture store in St. Louis, and the name lodged itself into the brain of a yount T.S. Eliot who in turn used in the title of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

The reason I know and love that poem is because of my High School English teacher. Then when I lived in London, a roommate and I decided to memorize it, I didn't succeed, but I got a lot of it stuck in my head.

"Let us go then, you and I."

So today, I tucked my High School English text book under my arm, and when I reached Prufrock, I read the whole thing aloud. Probably the first time I'd actually read it in a couple years.

Eliot writes that "there will be time...for a thousand decisions and revisions that a minute will revise." I don't imagine he was in a graveyard when he wrote it. But it seems brazenly optimistic to utter those words in a graveyard - surrounded by testaments that time runs out for all of us, at some point, whether we've disturbed the universe, gone bald, eaten a peach or heard the mermaids singing.

Of course, you could argue that the belief that there will be time is Prufrock's whole problem, his indecision paralyzes him, still he has the prescience to see that he's no star, merely the prince's fool, and yet there is pain even in that prescience for the character - for he's not left in blissful ignorance - no, he hears the mermaids, he simply knows they are not singing for him.

Here's what I think though: whether you decide to wear your trousers rolled or not, do it strongly. We've all got decisions, don't let them pin you wriggling to the wall. And tell the people that you care for that you care for them, because despite what Prufrock says, there really isn't ever all the time you'd want. So start right now, pick up that phone, call someone and tell them that you love them.

***

And on an different note, the inscription above the Busch crypt says, "Veni, Vidi, Vici" - And in St. Louis, that's a pretty fair statement for them. I doubt they'll change it just because the Belgians have moved in.

My other favorite tomb was a crypt decked out with Egyptian motifs.

The leaves are hanging prettily on the trees, they'll be gone soon, and the squirrels will start to look a little thin. The winter's coming on, but for now, I'm standing under the Autumn gold. A gold that looks like it's been pressed and refined through circumstances to something burnished, gleaming and beautiful. A gold, that looks a bit like me.




So that's the news from Lake Wellenough, turn up your collars against the rain, check your tires, and don't forget to Hope always - it's just over that way

I've been thinking about the gospel lately...

I've been thinking about the subject of a sermon I heard around Easter, as I recall - the basic theme being that the "resurrection" changes everything.

In my brain lately, I've been thinking about how the gospel of Christ changes everything - how it must change all of one's life or change nothing at all. Done halfway, and the changes seem only as good intentions.

The gospel must change all one's life.

In for a penny, in for a pound, or something like.

I'm still thinking about it...but I'm deeply grateful for the gospel, and for the newness that Christ brings to our hearts.

Feathers and Fluff

I used to be a devoted fan of Monty Python as were most of my friends, we memorized sketches and recited them constantly...

Which is to say that the sophmoric sketch about the Spanish Inquisition has been stuck in my head for a while.

In the sketches there is a banal set up, a mild chat, a courtroom, whereupon three blokes dressed in red costumes burst in to shout, "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition."

This is a lot like what my life feels like - the daily life and breath, the work and the rest, the slow work of existing in a surprising, and unexpected reality - and suddenly three odd blokes crash through the door and shout, "No one expects the unexpected and the ridiculous."

There is an absurdity in life that is hard to be reckoned with sometimes. No one expects tragedy, or sorrow, and yet it will burst through the door on all of us at some point or another.

But the deep wonder of the day

Like Thoreau, I'm a marrow-live-r - I want each moment to it's fullest. To live deeply takes practice, and stillness, and a deep sense of wonder for each and every day that dawns over one's head.

Even in sorrow, there's still wonder in the days, even though sometimes it's a pilgrimage to find it.

On Sunday, I spent a crisp-apple afternoon at the zoo. I looked at the funny bears, so clown-like and affable looking, the stately penguins who seem so proud and unaware of their humor. I watched a gorilla pick his nose, and then I heard over the wind the unmistakeable chords of "Blue Eyes Crying on the Rain."

I came upon a four-piece German band, a accordion-man, and a dark haired woman crooning, "In de tvilight time, I zee, blu eyes crying in de rain."

So I got a beer and brat, and sat down in the warm sun and listened to polka and yodeling, and om-pah-pah and so on.

I drank in the sun, which seems to be following the geese south, and breathed in the peppery fall air that tickles the nose.

I watched a variety of people walking by the band become struck by the the desire to literally kick up their heels and swirl, and step to the music.

I laughed and I said, "thank you."

Beyond that

New place, new job that's totally different from teaching.

The most striking difference (aside from the obvious lack of children) is that there are supplies in the office, like pens! and paper! and I never have anxiety any more about how much of my paycheck will have to go towards supplementing my supplies!

It may seem strange to get excited about hanging folders, paper clips, and pens, but just try teaching in the inner-city, where no one is above pinching paper from their co-worker, and then tell me that working in a well stocked office isn't thrilling.

So that's the news from Lake Wellenough. Or part of it anyway.

Love to all of y'all out there on your own road - check your tires, and turn up your collar against the rain.

The Lord be with you,

And also with you.

Lift up your hearts.

We lift them in pieces to the Lord, trusting that He will restore wholeness to them.

It is meet, right and our bounden duty to lift our hearts at all times and in all places to the God who is near to us. Who desires not just to help us, but to heal us. Not merely to comfort us, but to transform us into the image of His perfect son, our Lord, Jesus Christ. For we know that if we be united with Christ in His suffering, then we shall also be united with Him in His triumph and victory.

And what sorrow do we know that Christ has not known also?

In the Holy Scriptures we read that Jesus knew in His flesh the pangs of hunger, the ache of wearyness, the deep compassion towards the hungry and sick. In His life we see that Christ experienced the grief of loss that brings weeping, knew the betrayal of dear friends as they fell asleep in His hour of pain and then denied that they knew Him. And He in His kindness and love forgave them, and restored them to His favor.

We read with trembling, that Christ prayed that the cup would be taken from Him, but then submitted Himself to the will of the Father. Jesus walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Death into the dawn of His glorious resurrection and victory. He exchanged the scornful crown of thorns, for a conqueror's crown and He holds securely all the Father has given Him.

What peace does He speak to us, dear ones?

We know that He will not crush a bruised reed nor a broken heart.

We know that He will not snuff out our smoldering wick.

Praise to you, Lord Christ.

Christ, our good shepherd, will carry us wooly and weary little lambs in the shelter of His arms, strong arms that bore the weight of the world. We are not too heavy in our sorrow for Him to bear, for He is our strong deliverer.

Praise to you, Lord Christ.

Peace, peace to you, dear ones, loved by the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Peace at all times, in the fearful dark night, and in the brightness of day. Peace of Christ to the wounds of your heart and soul. Peace of Christ to your weary spirit. Take heart, be you yet of courage though you tremble, for Christ walks beside you, now and evermore.

I had an 8 am class that day - piano lab in Tate Hall.

It would be easy to write that when I got back to the dorm that day, the world had changed - and it had, but I didn't know it when I got back at 9 a.m.

In fact, no one did.

The classes had not been cancelled yet. I went to Music Theory in the Fine Arts Building, and still we did not know, we went on studying chords, and listening to their different variations, we considered the relative minor.

We left class to find a silent campus tuned in to CNN. There were no more classes that day.

I cannot remember the name of the girl in my dorm who told me about it. I can't remember who I ate lunch with, or what I did that afternoon.

At 4:30, a kid named Justin picked me up to go to Marching Mizzou. Dr. Shallert had not cancelled our two hour practice.

We were 280 youth strong. We were pissed off that our director had called us together - it seemed heartless to practice, marching band was totally unimportant. There was none of the levity that usually accompanied us - no piling on top of a band member in a rugby heap of a tradition called stacking. No barking of upperclassmen at younger ones. Just our feet marking time, the click of our instruments, the fury of the notes we directed at our director in the viewing stand. And when we paused, sometimes we grumbled nasty words at him, but mostly we were silent.

I remember that it was warm that day, that the sun was bright, and reflected off the pavement of our practice field. We must have practiced the pre-game show, and that means we must have played the national anthem. But I do not remember.

What I remember most that day, though, was what Dr. Shallert said at the end of our practice.

He said that he knew it seemed absurd to come out to field that day. That it seemed cruel, and mean. He did not try to help us understand what had happened, he offered no trite cliche.

He said that it was better to come out for 2 hours, to play the memorized songs, to focus on the steps we knew, to be together with one another than for all of us to sit glued to the TV as we had all day. He said it was important that we had been together, to create something in the midst of that terrible day.

And he was right. He was wise, and he led us well that day.

As I recall, the football game was cancelled that weekend. But I do remember that we as band approached the practicing of the National Anthem with a renewed vigor.

And when we played it the first time on Faurot Field in front of the crowd after that terrible day, the notes shimmered in the air. We had never stood so stiffly at attention, we were determined to play the song as it had never been so well played. It seemed the only thing to do.

When the song was done, I know the whistle blew, and we fell into the next formation. We kept moving, but we had played our parts well.

As did the rest of the country in that terrible time.