Advent 2018: A Refiner's Fire

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

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

Tomorrow Tom and I mark 2 years of marriage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Advent 1 2018

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

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

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

Anticipation.
Expectation.
Longing and wondering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back Again?

Dear Mama and Daddy,

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

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

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

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

            But I don’t now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shine on,

Elizabeth

Is there a prayer for a runner?

There are many, but today only one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Auld Lang Syne

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

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

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

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

Economically
Personally
Professionally

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

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

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

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

2010.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Salud.

Advent 25

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

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

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

"White Christmas"

"Snow!"

"Prettiest Christmas Eve ever"

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then again, so is snow in Texas.

Will wonders ever cease? I sure hope not.

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

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.