Advent Stories

The day didn’t go as I had hoped.

The first Sunday of Advent was swallowed up in busy-ness and here we are--at the end of it already. As I hastily try to put together our Advent readings, something else comes up. I sit on the stairs while the boys brush their teeth, the sound of electric toothbrushes not loud enough to drown out those old voices.

You can’t do anything right. What kind of mother are you?

Tears start to leak and I cover my eyes. I know it’s more than this day. Just too many days of trying to be too many things to too many people.

My Little Man comes up behind and wraps his arms around me.

“You’re the best mommy in the world,” says he, unbidden.

I hug him back, through watery smile.

I turn expanders, clip toenails, and settle boys in. It’s their reading time, but I won’t be joining them this night. I tuck Teddy in with this book, hug Jeffrey into this story. Then I go downstairs to tend the other matter.

Just a bit late, I return for lights out.

There he sits, on a sea of white blanket, with This Book spread out before him. We always read it together…but here he is, hands caressing Living Words alone.

“It’s the first Sunday of Advent,” says he. “And I wanted to read about Jesus. I read Matthew one through seven.”

I turn out the lights and snuggle in beside him. We talk about the words he read in the dark.

And I see.

Sometimes I need to get out of the way so the Holy Spirit has room. I can make all the plans in the world…but His are better.

A joyous Advent Season to you, my friends. May the Spirit move within.

He Came Like the Winter Snow

We always wait. But today marks the day we begin waiting out loud.

He came like winter snow...

Grateful

Mother always said that every day should be a day of Thanksgiving. This the reason she gave for our lack of participation in the feast that all our neighbors and friends celebrated.

Can’t be like the world. Can’t join in the world’s festivities.

And I knew she was right--just as she was right when she said that we should honor our mothers and fathers every day of the year, and we should be joyful that we were given the gift of life every day we live on earth.

But did we?

Do we?

These feasts--these holidays--are my bookmarkers through this story of life. Sometimes I need a tangible reminder of just where I am in this telling. I keep my gratitude journal, I participate in the gratitude community…but sometimes…sometimes I still lose track.

I can’t afford to. Neither can you.

Read about some of the benefits of living a grateful life here, and in the meantime, develop your own daily bookmarks. Start a journal, have regular a dinner time gratitude practice, or just help others in need (nothing strikes gratitude in my heart more than this).

My sweet friend Ann has an amazing community that will help hold us accountable. Visit her for amazing inspiration and great ideas to start seeing with new eyes.

Invest in this, friends. You will not be sorry.

Surprised by Joy

The rolling hills
of Kentucky
wear crowns of
naked trees
empty branches like
bristly hair static
reach to the sky
and I
peer through them
see what is beyond.

She sits
at table
stares out window
chin in hand
dirty dishes
stacked by the sink
and thinks
about the day
the pie
is gone.

Hay bales rest
on flattened sides
and the sun
illuminates the white
bark of a wall
of sycamores
I am blinded
by beauty.

It was her hands
reached in
that dead carcass
and pulled out
guts and organs
trimmed fat
rubbed and seasoned
kneaded and rolled
her lips tasted
her arms…
held.

Christmas songs
on the stereo
as we pass
miles
and miles
of stark hillside
bleak, naked
landscape.

The children are
all gone
the house
empty
no more
laughter
just this
wiping and
cleaning
of leftover feast.

Wild turkeys roost
on low-branched
trees
and the sky
grows
increasingly cloudy
the empty trees
speak quiet
to my heart
and then…
color--
bright circles of
joy
surprise
amidst the gangly
stillness,
a bundle of balloons
tangled in tree top.

Do not
tell her
thank you,
this woman
who gives
this is how she says
I love you
as she dips
hands in soapy water
she smiles
and hums a little.

This family
that I married--
surprises me with joy.






Would you like to share a Thanksgiving reflection or tradition? Head over to High Calling Blogs and grab our special button, then drop a line in the comment box so we can all share. Blessed to share in your traditions, friends!

Book Therapy

When I was a young girl and life overwhelmed I just buried my nose in a book.

Happy endings always seemed to make life more bearable. You know--the ones where the knight slays the dragon, the princess is rescued, and they all live happily ever after.

Trouble was, see, the sorrows of life continued to roil along beside as I immersed myself in story. I was able to suspend them for a time as I was carried away into a fictional land, but eventually the book ended and I had to come up for air.

While this coping mechanism left much to be desired, it did instill in me a healthy dose of optimism. Every good psychologist knows that a variable-ratio partial reinforcement schedule produces the most lasting behaviors.

I conditioned myself to expect beauty following times of despair.

I’m a grown up now (so they tell me), and I still find this book therapy a handy strategy.

What can I say? I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately.

A big cyber-hug and thank you to my sweet friends who have gently checked in on me. Your loving encouragement means more than I can say. Bless you.

We have been busy.

This pre-holiday season carries enough stress of its own, but our family has had some recent changes that are stretching our faith. Fortunately, the book I’m sticking my nose in these days offers more than a temporary escape. I’m putting my hope on The Promise that never disappoints.

In the meantime, here are some practical things I have done to help me through this blue time. Maybe you have some ideas of your own. Please share, I would love to hear. But these are my mood-boosters.

1. Get. Out. Side. This is my number one way of shaking the blues. Take a walk. Look deep into the creek bed. Study a leaf. The world is a fascinating place.
2. Exercise. I know you are sick of hearing it, but it really works.
3. Get some new music. Listen to it. And sing. No one can be sad when they are singing.
4. Hold a baby. ‘Nuff said.
5. Change around your bedroom. Or living room. Or both.
6. Call that one friend that always makes you laugh…you know the one.
7. Write a story with a child. Make it silly. Make it impossible. Give it a happy ending.
8. Experience beauty. Go to a museum exhibit. Go to the theater. Go to a concert. You will feel in ways you may have forgotten.
9. Catch up on your journaling. Write a poem.
10. Help someone else. Give out of your gifts. Be it time, food, words, music, love…make someone smile today.
11. Remember how wide and long and high and deep is His love for you. Nothing can separate you from It. Use a concordance and find scriptures that speak to your specific concerns. Write them in your journal, putting your name in where appropriate. Keep them on cards in your purse or stashed around the house; wherever they will be readily accessible in times of need.

Above all, seek Him first, Beloveds. Busy-ness is one of Satan’s greatest weapons. Carve out time for the Lord and guard it jealously.

May your week be blessed.

I'm over here today...

Come join in the discussion!

Dark Night

One of my favorite things about this season is the transparency of the landscape. There is nothing more beautiful to me than a naked tree. When I look upon the starkness of their branches I often feel that the gangly limbs tell my story. I see myself in the bare, outstretched arms-- reaching up, up…seeking.

This austerity is all the more beautiful against the palette of a clear blue sky. Every detail exposed, shamelessly put on display. I can see straight through into her heart. A tree in this state of undress can hide nothing. No secrets can be buried in her bosom. She is diaphanous and unassuming, waiting for her season of finery to arrive. Yet, in the absence of her trinkets and baubles, she reveals little of who she is, donning the disguise of anonymity. She is wrapped in a cloak of mystery.

But perhaps she is most beautiful to me when silhouetted against the approaching night…colors melting into one giant shadow of branching arms, beckoning me, calling me into the dusky colors of the sunset. She makes my heart ache with the way she stands so sure and proud.

I often feel naked and vulnerable as this unadorned masterpiece. I long to stretch my arms up and root myself to the earth, drinking in my nourishment from tiny tentacles; nursing dormant splendor, tending it until the time arrives for it to burst forth in glory.

But unlike the tree, my seasons are not so predictable. And I must be content to wait. For I know that when the tree appears to lie dormant, beneath the surface the roots are far from quiescent. This is the time of strengthening, the time of preparation. This is the silent labor.

St. John of the Cross calls this the dark night of the soul.

This seeming depression is an empty time. I search frantically for some feeling, some sense of connection with my God; but I seek in vain, for such has abandoned me in this season. But nature tells me I must not despair; I must not give up hope. To remain true to the tree…I must wait.

Richard J. Foster, in his book Celebration of Discipline, says this about this root strengthening season:

The dark night is one of the ways God brings us into a hush, a stillness so that he may work an inner transformation upon the soul...When God lovingly draws us into a dark night of the soul, there is often a temptation to seek release from it and to blame everyone and everything for our inner dullness. The preacher is such a bore. The hymn singing is too weak. The worship service is so dull. We may begin to look around for another church or a new experience to give us ‘spiritual goose bumps.’ This is a serious mistake. Recognize the dark night for what it is. Be grateful that God is lovingly drawing you away from every distraction so that you can see him clearly. Rather than chafing and fighting, become still and wait.

When I feel my spiritual growth is stunted; when my heart won’t be stirred by the Words I hold so dear…I smile. For I know God is doing a work inside of me. A work so deep that I cannot see its labor.

We must let our roots be nourished. We wait for the season of glory to burst forth. It may not be the time, but it will come. The blooms will burst forth in feathery grandeur. The dark shadow of night will be overtaken by the fruits of this labor of love. And oh, how beautiful the transformation!

Remedy

The days grow shorter.

Earth quietly follows her scheduled course, slowly revolving around sun--mindless to my morning shuffling, this blind groping in the dark.

Dark as it is, the sun comes quickly. She blinds me as she races by, eager to return to horizon-bed…taking warm glow, leaving only memory of light.

And I am left wondering where the day has gone.

The trees have almost shed their last, the cold is seeping in. This morning, I saw the snow birds back at the feeder. Timorous flashes of gray and white gave my heart a leap. Already? I wondered.

In the meadow, squirrels gather, rabbits retreat, and all of nature yawns …preparing for long winter sleep.

My body also longs to respond to this tilting away from the sun.

I am slowing too.

Morning begs me to sit in the bay a while--watch as dawn drops her heavy cloak. The stars blink out one by one, as that hurried sun peeks up out of reds and blues and oranges. It feeds me and makes me hunger both.

Early evening, too, calls me into stillness.

Last night, as the boys took in their music lessons, Lucy Mae and I walked around the twinkling streets of South Charleston. We peeked in the window of the antique shop, enjoyed the aroma of Thai cuisine, nodded to the fine ladies at the tea house, and scaled the Indian burial mound. I marveled as, the higher we drew, the more my feet disappeared beneath. The dark spread out like a blanket, enveloped us as we climbed. I could smell the faint breath of wood smoke and the coming winter in the air up there. I leaned over the edge at the top and wondered at the vertigo.

We tilt and spin through time and space and still we stand steady--oblivious to the pull of the moon and tug of gravity beneath us.

But I am spinning at the wonder in it all--the perfect tilt of axis…the perfect place in space. The predictable pattern earth follows around the sun yields these magnificent changes in the air around me and I cannot…

I cannot find beauty in my predictable today.

And I know it is only those fraternal twins, centrifugal and centripetal force, that keep me in place as I go round and round.

The inertia caused by these forces pressing against each other is pressing down on me, making it difficult to breath. This circular motion I am moving in feels like a chain weighing me down and I. Cannot. Move. I cannot break free. I need an outside force to break this cycle.

Sir Isaac Newton…help, please?

As we descend I can feel the atmosphere thicken again--I fall down to earth. It is still autumn down here. My boys await their carriage. As they run to me, heart rises to throat. One has guitar clumsily banging legs…the other clutches drumsticks tightly. Faces glow, and I know the lessons were good. I smile, hug slim shoulders, kiss tops of heads (well, the side of Teddy’s--he’s so tall now!).

Lucy Mae sniffs around a bush. We pile in minivan and head home, the light of love shining through the darkness of this season.

Nothing has changed.

Except my mind. Except my heart.

Outside Force reaches in, colors my heart beautiful.

He is The Force. He is The Cure for inertia.

Only He can change a heart.

No other remedy will do.

Oh, won’t you give Him the praise? Won’t you give Him the glory?

Random Acts of Poetry

Fruit

Nine-
hundred-thirty
years
since

the breath
of life
breathed
into you…

Almost as many
in this cursed land.
Through thorns
and thistles
we have walked
together;

do you
remember
the cool of the garden?
For I
cannot forget.

You—
who gave
the beasts of the field
their names…

You—
who first called the birds
of the the air…

You waited for me.

bone of your bone,
flesh of your flesh--

When you lay beside me
do you still
burn for me
as I burn for you?
My desire is for you
only.

When you touch me
does your heart
beat red
for me still?

I—
Mother of all the living--
have watched
all turn to death
by your side.

Nine-
hundred-thirty
years
is too long
to be...

unforgiven.



L.L. says...Would you like to try writing a love poem, in character? Post your offering by 6:00 pm, Thursday November 5, for links and possible feature at HighCallingBlogs.com. Drop your post link here in the comment box so I don't miss it. Don't be shy! :)

photo Red apple

by applesbabe4ever

Word Storm

I come upon him, and he doesn’t stir.

It’s five minutes to bedtime…five minutes to the tucking in.

His bare shoulder shines in lamplight; his small body an island in the middle of the bed.

I hover.

He still doesn’t look up.

This child--

the one who used to interrupt nightly readings for impromptu puppet shows; the one who rolls maniacally on the floor while brother and I snuggle close under covers during nightly Bible readings--

This child is lost in a book.

I kneel beside him and rub his back…let fingertips gently tickle flesh. I watch as the story glides across his face... word storm.

“Are you ready to pray?”

I ask most reluctantly…loathe to interrupt this magic.

“Just one second,” He flips the page. “I just. Want. To finish. This chapter.”

I sit silently beside. Wait.

When finally he closes the book he must tell me about what he has read. This small voice rises and falls, caught up in the retelling.

This is a good story.

I sigh my happiness as out goes the lamp. Lay this body down, wiggle into him. He presses self up against me, takes his hand and places it on my cheek. He did not wash his hair tonight and it smells like skin…warm and alive.

The sacred words are shared, and he asks the inevitable.

“Will you stay with me a little while?”

I cannot move from this place of life’s sweetness, so I do...stay. Even after his breathing turns slow and even, I stay.

Awake in the dark, moonlight falling through window, holding this child in my arms…I am stilled. Gratitude overwhelms and I wonder yet another time at the bottomless well of God’s generosity.

I take one last sniff of him before I get up, check on brother in the next room, and head downstairs.

I am thinking about the story we are writing.

Each day a page, each season a chapter.

I’m just trying to reach the end of this one.

I remember my son’s face as eyes devoured words.

When last did I relish this story in that way? I realized this morning that my dawn prayer was laced with dread--Oh, Lord, help me get through…

No eager turning of pages, no animated retelling of these days.

And why? Why, when there is beauty everywhere?

Because I look, but I don’t see. Each passing minute is merely a bridge to the next one.

On the way down the stairs my prayer changes. On the way down the stairs, I step into this story. On the way down the stairs I join with my life.

To look and really see. To be here in this moment. To relish each page before it is turned.

This is my prayer for the story of life.

This is a good story. Maybe even warrants retelling.

But we won’t worry about that for now. We’re too into the words on this page.

One page at a time.

For more on joining, read our latest book club post over here.