Snow Embrace

The snow birds are back this morning--enjoying a frolic in that white stuff that magically appeared overnight. A trio of them perch in naked forsythia bush; feathery baubles fluffed out against the cold.

I sit with morning coffee and watch ornitho-antics. Gravity does not deter their play...they flit to and fro with sudden graceful movements as if dangled from invisible wire--an infant’s mobile orchestrated by invisible puppeteer.

I am that infant.

I watch, bedazzled as this scene plays out against winter-white.

I am thinking about seasons. This surprise-snow reminds me of my Father. How He likes to astonish, fill me with wonder. The seasons He orchestrates for me are not predictable. They do not come with a mark on the calendar. They are sprinkled down from heaven in the dark of night like this dusting before my eyes this morning.

The local weathermen changed the forecast three times yesterday. When we went to bed there was no sign of snow--just a whisper in the wind.

When I opened my eyes to morning light I heard the snow in the silence. The world unspeaking, muted by insulating mantle of purity.

It is the way of God--to silence the corrupt by the chaste.

And so, I am quieted.

There is no shame in this silence, only a gentle hand cupping my face. I am still as the coverlet falls over me. There is only relief. No striving, no pushing, no struggle against injustice.

Just blessed peace.

I’m resting today, Beloveds. Happy Saturday to you all.

Guardian

I sometimes see her--catch glimpses in the mirror as I am readying myself for the day. She is but a shadow, a flow of light moving on the periphery. She catches my eye and my breathing stills; heart skips a beat. But when I turn around to greet her, she is gone.

She leaves behind a filmy presence--assurance, comfort.

I know she is there. I feel her presence just as surely as her breath fanning on back of my neck.

Jeffrey feels her presence too. It fills him with dread.

“Mom, is the blanket lighter in that one spot? Do you see it?”

It’s time for the tucking in and we are snuggled together in the dark. I see the shadow he talks about…the light from the street outside shimmers in, illuminating tiny spot.

I hear the fear in his voice, know that when I leave he will pull the covers over his head and sleep this way…cocooned--mummified by fear.

“Do you know the angel of the Lord is here with you? The Bible says, ‘The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him’”.

I pull him close and breathe courage into his skin.

I am scared, he says. And I think it takes courage to say this too.

A long time ago, someone read to me Matthew 18:10.

“See that you do not look down on one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven.”

This scripture comforted me as a lonely child…spoke to me a belief in guardian angels. When I was older, I studied the book of Daniel. My belief was strengthened. For, the angel tells Daniel about Michael--the archangel who is the protector of Israel.

Could it be that each nation has an angel-protector? And, if so, is it possible that each person does too?

The Lord says He knows when a sparrow falls from the sky--that I am worth more than many sparrows. He tells me He knows the number of hairs on my head…that He collects my tears in a bottle.

I do not understand the ways of the Lord. I know that Jesus lives in me, I know He is always with me.  I do not think He needs help to do His work...but maybe He sends us comfort through these creatures.

I tell Jeffrey these things. I whisper the constant presence of Jesus over him in the dark with shadows dancing all around.

“He is always with you,” I say.

“But I don’t feel Him,” he responds, near tears.

You have to see with eyes of faith, I tell him. And I tell the story of Elisha, and the chariots of fire. How he and his servant were surrounded by an army from the King of Aram. Elisha told his servant, “Those who are with us are more than those who are with them.”

The servant was confused. So Elisha prayed for the Lord to open his eyes. When the servant’s eyes were opened, he saw the hills full of horses and chariots of fire.

I feel Jeffrey’s body as I tell this story. I remind him (for we’ve had this discussion before) that there are many things we do not see with our weak eyes. But when we look with eyes of faith, we are reminded of the great power of our God and how much He loves us.

My son is quiet as I finish my tale. He is drifting off to sleep in the arms of his mamma. But it is the Hand of God that will hold him tonight.

When I check on him later I see his face. It is not under the covers as it is on other nights before. His lashes rest on cheeks that I remember as round and full--baby cheeks. As I kneel at his bedside, a shaft of light flows like water across his face.

“Hello,” I whisper. “All angels of Jesus Christ are welcome here.”

Guard him well.

Shine On

“You are one of the shiny-faced people.”

We had been sharing the day together, along with 35 or so other folks, attending a seminar on Bible interpretation. She beamed at me as our mutual friend introduced us.

“When my kids were small, they had a name for certain people at church. They called them the shiny-faced people. You are one of them.”

I smiled my appreciation then watched as this elderly lady made her way across the room, pausing to chat with others as she went. If I was shiny-faced, then she was glow-in-the-dark. This lady was larger than life. And now we are friends. All because I smiled at her.

I think about this dear woman as I watch my son squirm. He grins and ducks his head, casts me a secret glance. I give the signal and, on cue, I see his eyes slowly move…up…up…until they find those of his conversant. Only briefly do they land, quickly dart away and stare off above the person’s shoulder. Then, in a moment of sheer genius, he glances her way again and…the corners of his mouth lift.

Victory!

We practice smiling.

Some people just naturally know how to relax in a crowd. Not so this boy of mine. Ask him a question and he’ll look away, ignore, try to escape.

He doesn’t understand that this is rude. He only knows he wants to run away--avoid eyes that see him, ears that hear him. It doesn’t feel…safe.

I watched him once, when he was in second or third grade. In the front of the sanctuary with the other children, singing. In the middle of a song, he stops. Looks around. And crumbles. He finds my mother eyes and his are pleading. I gesture for him to come and he does. Falls into my arms and never goes back up there again.

I know panic when I see it.

That was the first realization. Okay. This isn’t going to be easy for him.

Don’t I remember that feeling? Tangible embarrassment, red face, paralyzed thoughts, ache inside…I remember how it feels to be shy.

It hurts. These hands want to fix. And I try. As if clothes or hair or things can give confidence.

I know better. I know where confidence comes from--and you can’t buy it.

So I trust. And I love.

And I help him practice smiling.

It’s a good place to start. I smile a lot myself.

To some people this constitutes a shiny face. Others just find it annoying.

I remember a friend asking long ago, “Why are you always smiling?”

It wasn’t a compliment.

How to tell her because? Because I remember those who smiled at me? Because, for a girl who was always invisible those smiles meant I was seen? How do I explain the way those smiles bolstered me, embraced me, opened my eyes to beauty?

I tell Teddy that a smile is the gift that we can always, always give.

So we practice.

Shine on, friends. Smile at someone today.

Dude! It's the BibleDude!

Outside of work, I am very active in my church where I’ve led young adults ministry for several years, but recently shifted my focus over to working with our ‘bible college’ where I teach classes on basic Bible Interpretation, Evangelism, Homiletics, and other Bible and Ministry related courses.
So if it is not obvious, I am a teacher at heart. 

Meet Dan King, AKA: the BibleDude.

Dan is a corporate training manager for one of the nation’s largest telecommunications companies. He’s also our Social Media Editor at High Calling Blogs. That means he’s on top of all things Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, etc…and he keeps us up on it too. He is linked in, hooked up, tagged, and status updated.

But you heard it from the man’s mouth. He’s a Bible teacher at heart.

That’s my kind of friend.

Dan is completely sold out to Jesus. If you visit his blog, BibleDude.net, you’ll find an amazing collection of articles, interviews, book reviews, and other faith related materials. Dan’s insatiable hunger for God is evidenced in the variety and scope of topics he features.

One cannot leave Dan’s site without feeling his excitement for the Lord. His passion for sharing his faith shows in some of the ways he spends his time (numerous ministries, writing about faith, helping to lead Vacation Bible School for over 400 kids!!).

But what makes me happiest, says Dan, is studying the Bible. I am currently working on completing my degree in Church Ministries (and then eventually Religious Education) through Global University. I have found that the more that I learn about my God, the more that I fall in love with Him!

Head on over and visit the BibleDude. Enter at your own risk. Your inner dude will be ignited.

Real Church

After they have lost a limb or the use of part of their body, I tell my patients, “You must grieve for a season.”

But I always follow up this statement with another. “Life cannot flourish in the season of grief; we cannot stay there forever.”

Some seasons are dark and quiet. Meant for healing…for tending the inner places. In the winter, trees do not stop growing. Rather, roots continue reaching, seeking--strengthening and nourishing hidden places. This season is necessary to nurture sleeping beauty, prepare for the unfolding of glory.

Sometimes we experience something akin to grief in our spiritual lives, friends. Loss of hope, loss of trust--not in God, never in God; but in man, in people we trust to lead us closer to him--these things can launch us into grief--paralyze our growth. After all, it was man's lack of trust that broke our relationship with God.

When man disappoints, treat yourself tenderly for a season. Hold yourself gently. Draw in branches, prune back old bloom. Tend to those deep places that need nourishment.

But do not stay there.

Send your roots deeper; let tendrils reach with fanning fingers…

You might be surprised what the spring brings.

I’ve been reading a book entitled Real Church: Does it Exist? Can I Find It? by Larry Crabb. (Thank you, Tina). In these pages, Dr. Crabb relates his growing dissatisfaction with church, while, at the same time his hunger for God grows.

I remember sitting in a church service a few years ago that felt especially annoying, troubling, disconnecting me from my hunger to know God, to hear His laughter, to imitate His Son, to dance with the Spirit. I wrote a sentence to myself in the space reserved in the bulletin for sermon notes. I recall my exact words: “I think I might have to give up Christianity in order to follow Christ.” I should have written “churchianity,” the version of Christianity I was hearing described in the sermon. I’ve never wanted to give up the real thing; I just wanted to find it.

I just want to find it.

Have you ever felt that way? Like church is interfering with your relationship with God? Sometimes it seems like the devil’s strongest foothold is through the doors of our churches.

I haven’t finished the book yet, so I can’t tell you what Dr. Crabb’s solution to the problem is. I can say that it seems to have to do with creating an authentic spiritual community. What that might look like, I’m not sure--but I’m turning pages eagerly. Perhaps it means we need to re-think some of our traditional views of church. Perhaps it means we need to seek other areas of fulfillment in our lives. I do not know.

I do know this. My God is bigger than the walls of my church. My life with Him does not stop at that threshold. When I allow Him to be present with me in everything, my disappointment in man is healed.

After a season, that is. Because we are human. We must grieve.

I’m going to keep reading Real Church for now. But my true foundation is in my relationship with Him. He is drawing me close, strengthening the deep places.

But branches are budding out again, roots continue to spread wider. Spring will soon be here. And it’s going to be a beauty.

Psalm 20; My Prayer for You Today

May the Lord answer you when you are in distress;

may the name of the God of Jacob protect you.

May he send you help from the sanctuary

and grant you support from Zion.

May he remember all your sacrifices

and accept your burnt offerings.

May he give you the desire of your heart

and make all your plans succeed.

We will shout for joy when you are victorious

and will lift up our banners in the name of our God.

May the Lord grant all your requests.

Night Sky

The night

sky

when it rains

is endless

numbers of

lights

gathered together

and

knitted into

one.

Heart's Desire

Today is Teddy's birthday. Thirteen years ago at this time I was waiting. 

I wait still.

This child of mine has always been a challenge. He just sees the world a little differently than most kids his age. Last night, I snuggled in beside him (13!) for the tucking in. I was painfully aware of how little bedspace was left with both of us under his covers. No longer am I able to wrap him in my arms and whisper mother-dreams over him.

His feet are bigger than mine.

So, I lay beside him and contemplated how to grow with him; how to stay this close forever.

I remembered these words I penned a couple of years ago. They comforted me. I hope they bring some measure of joy to you as well.


September, 2008 

He wakes up, before sun’s light and in darkness heeds body’s call. Light spills into the hallway, underneath the crack in my door and, like a siren call, my eyes open.

I listen to padding feet, bustle of body, until the soft squeaks of the mattress signal he has returned to the land of dreams.

But I cannot, and so I rise.

I am thinking about how I learned to hear his movements in silence. How every stirring of his body incites readiness in mine.

Was it the infant cries that trained my sleeping brain to heed the soft noise of rustling blankets?

Or the many nights of childhood illness that kept me in wakeful slumber by his side?

Perhaps it was written on my heart from the beginning of time—this mother love.

I sleepwalk to our meeting place and ponder these things with The One I Love The Most.

Before I ask the question, I know the answer.

Is it this way for You? I muse.

And I know it is.

He is in a constant state of readiness for His children.

Watching as they sleep.

Hearing the padding footsteps as they choose the path they will walk.

Waiting for the voice to call in the night.

He is always ready.

I bend my head low and touch the floor with my forehead, overcome.

I reach out my hand to touch Him.

I know He is here.

Thank you, I whisper. Thank you.

I lift my head and see this crescent moon, a mere sliver of itself. It is lying on its back, smiling at me.

I smile back.

He knows how to stir my heart secrets. He waits with bated breath to do just that. He anticipates my face, waits to see me smile…longs for a deep-throated belly laugh.

This knowledge fills me up inside.

The knowledge of HIS mother-love. And in Him, we will always be bound.

Alone in the dark this morning, I found my heart’s desire.

Community Treasures

I had the best conversation Monday morning. One of my favorite bloggy friends gave me a call, and though we’ve never officially met (I stood close to her once when we were both waiting for appointments with editors/agents at a conference a couple of years ago--though I recognized her from her blog I was too shy to introduce myself. Still kicking myself.) there wasn’t a pause in the conversation once. In fact, I think we could have talked for another hour. I felt just as refreshed as if we’d sat down at the kitchen table together and chatted over coffee.

This sweet visit got me to thinking about community, and how online communities have evolved. And that got me to thinking about my online community and the host of amazing folks I have met there.

Take Gordon Atkinson, for example. Gordon is one of our Founding Editors over at High Calling Blogs. I’ve always enjoyed reading Gordon’s articles on faith--he has a matter-of-fact way of writing about vulnerability that exposes the humanity in us all. He’s an excellent writer on all things God (and I’m guessing a stellar pastor--but you’ll have to ask the folks at Covenant Baptist Church in San Antonio about that) but it wasn’t his faith writings that captured my attentions recently.


Not too long ago, Gordon dropped a line in one of our ongoing online group conversations that made me realize the stuff he is made of.

I fell into depression in 2004 and 2005.


We’re trying to get to each other better in this community, and by way of introduction, he offered those words in between a couple of lines about writing. It seemed a casual mention, almost in passing.

But they screamed to me.

In that simple statement I felt the devastation this silent epidemic can cause. As a mental health professional I understand just a little bit of the need to increase awareness about this illness.

My curiosity led me over to Gordon’s blog, where I discovered a whole series of writings on living through depression. He calls it “The Depression Stuff” and you can find right here. If you or someone you love has ever struggled with this illness, you’ll applaud Gordon’s frankness in sharing his experience.

While you’re over there, you might check into his books and other topics too.

I’ll be introducing you to some other members of our community in the next couple of weeks. You know how it is…When you find something good, the first thing you want to do is share it, right? Well, I’m looking forward to sharing some interesting folks with you.

Until then, many blessings!

For Jeffrey's Eleventh Birthday

Sleep…

on this eve

of the day

of your beginning;

sweep butterfly

lashes

over cheeks

and gather

stardust.

fall

into the

night

so this

trail of

kisses--

lingering

lullaby--

cradles you

into memory

my body

holding yours.

let dreams

lift--

carry

into

the first day

of another

year.

Giving, Still

The boys and I spent our afternoon off at the park today.

With temperatures nearing 60F, the call to come out and play was too insistent to ignore.

We walked Lucy Mae along trails under blue skies and shed worn trees and talked about what it must have meant to have one’s Civil Rights violated. As the sun fell on our shoulders we imagined what it would feel like to only be able to drink from certain fountains…eat at certain restaurants…look at certain people…

They wanted to know about sit-ins, bus boycotts, segregated schools, and what it means to protest nonviolently. We talked about the hope that one man gave to a people. We talked about how he sacrificed his life for a dream.

And I watched realization and incomprehensibility wash over them. I watched compassion grow--awareness awaken.

After dinner we gathered around the screen and watched Martin Luther King, Jr.’s I Have a Dream speech on You-tube. They were glued. As was I.

It was captivating.

It’s been a rough week for two white boys from the suburbs. Tough on this mama too. Understanding our place in this world can bring a heavy burden.

We haven’t forgotten Haiti, Beloveds. We haven’t forgotten the poor and broken. And we haven't forgotten the tragedies of the past. Lord, help us to help. Teach us how. It overwhelms. Overwhelm us with love. Overwhelm us with you.

From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked. (Luke 12:48b)

On Being Quiet

I like to fill my bird feeders at first light on Saturdays. After morning readings, I sit at the kitchen table with my coffee and watch winged poetry through the bay. I am always rewarded with the vibrant reds of the cardinals, the spritely black caps of chickadees, and serenading sparrow song. Sometimes the shy flicker stops by, clinging to the feeder with grasping toes, red mustache jauntily twitching under curved bill.

I never tire of their antics and often grieve to leave my window--reluctant to begin the noise of the day. Their light-filled movements are music to me; in the watching my mind finds rest.

Matthew Kelty, in his book Flute Solo: Reflections of a Trappist Hermit, says that quiet moments such as these are the substance of an intimate relationship with God.

We all need contact with our hearts. Without that contact we are isolated from truth, divorced from reality. Quiet is certainly one of the ways to that contact. And peace. I suspect seriously that the single most effective weapon of Satan in our times is noise. I cannot think of a better way to alienation and loss of religion. Fill a man day and night with noise, even beautiful noise. Allow him no time to think, to muse, to ponder, to wonder. Fill his air with sound, his ears with din. His heart will die soon enough. Now you have broken him. He can no longer love.

I know not one who has not felt that brokenness.

Busy-ness is an idol in our culture. This is the way of multi-tasking, batch projects--of stretching our umbrella, extending our reach.

Not a bad way in and of itself. In fact, it can be quite a good way.

But I must not lose the quiet moment in each task; I must not miss the heart connection.

And that is the tricky part, no? To hear His voice above the din…to see beauty in the ordinary.

There is something to the Muslim practice of salat--the obligatory rite of their religion that requires prayer five times a day, at specified times. In this way, the mind is trained to quiet--to focus on God.

As a Christian I wonder at such measures. I know that Christ’s death on the cross eliminated the need for ritual and ceremony when I approach God. The veil was torn. Yet, my human condition makes me susceptible to caressing this skin…forgetting the divine and leaning on flesh.

And so I make my own reminders.

A stone in my pocket. A jewel around my neck. A scripture scribbled on a sticky note.

Not incredibly inventive. Certainly not iconic. But each, when touched by a finger or held in the palm, ushers me into His presence.

And I am reminded that my flesh has been cleansed. The string that ties my heart to Him becomes tangible.  I am strengthened.

The quiet is restored. I hear his voice above the din.

And the day becomes holy.

How To Make A Bed

I made my bed this morning.

Cleaned the kitchen. Did some laundry.

And all the while, I am thinking of this.

A mother digs for her child. A man trapped under tons of concrete. Dead bodies lined along the streets.

Outside my window, the snowbirds forage under the feeder. Snow is melting.

I am thirsty. I take a drink. I think about that Barefoot Contessa recipe I want to make. The ingredients I need. Will the salmon be good today?

And the ghosts of Haiti call to me across the ocean.

The truth is…tragedy comes every second. Mass devastation opens our eyes, but help is needed every day.

We give our first fruits when we commit to make a regular contribution.

Will you consider making a difference for a child? A people? A nation?

Please give.

WorldVision
Compassion
Presbyterian Disaster Assistance
Salvation Army


Quick gifts can be offered through the Red Cross:
text "HAITI" to "90999" and a donation of $10 will be given automatically to the Red Cross (billed to your cell phone account)

Rebirth

This
is the hope
that is twice
dead;
laughter
from
barren womb.
this--
dead branch
in
my heart
sprouts anew,
manna for
shriveled soul.
resurrection comes
in
form of
words
and I
am shed of
this onus
though
it leaves a
deep lapidary
well, sharp
on edges begging
fingers to find
it’s empty
shell
and rub.
I am
carved
out;
empty.
Hazo asks,
what is left,
then, but
to live
with wounds?
yes, I say,
what?
yet,
over and over
this belly
fire returns.
hope peals--
shatters heaviness
breaks through the
oppressive air
hope.
I hope
still.

A Goodbye

I woke up early this morning and had a little cry. It took me by surprise, though I should have been better prepared.

Argus left us today. This afternoon we took him to meet his new family and left him in their capable hands.

It’s funny how God’s creatures move into our hearts so completely. We will miss Argus.

The evening has not been without tears. But we know how blessed we are to have had this sweet doggie in our lives for this short time…we are honored to have helped in saving his life and nursing him back to health.

He’s not the same dog that we took into our home at Thanksgiving. And I’m so glad. He has a new life now.

Jeffrey made this list of Argus facts to help his new family get him settled in a little easier. Here is our Argus Advice:

• Argus not only requires human touch--he demands it. If you ignore him, he will nudge you with his paw until you pet him. 
• Argus is a paper eater. Guard all paper products, especially used napkins.   
  
• If you stare at Argus (within sight of his one good eye) and slowly walk away, maintaining eye contact…Argus takes this as an invitation to chase.   
• He likes to play tug-a-war.
  
• He often runs over people and jumps on top of other animals unknowingly due to his limited eyesight.
• Argus has bad gas. 
• Argus has a sensitive tummy and seems to react--um--loosely when given the cheap dog food that we give our beloved Lucy Mae. Only the best for Argus. 
• He loves to be scratched on his rump.   
• Argus is the only Boston Terrier we’ve ever known who loves the snow.
• Argus must be taken out first thing in the morning. Otherwise, he’ll get excited when he sees you and give you an--erm--dribbly greeting.
• Argus will sleep happily in the crate, but lately has discovered the joy of the big bed. He loves comfy comforters.
• Argus favors his back left leg and sometimes has a little trouble jumping up onto high places.
• Don’t forget to take a sample to the vets in two weeks to make sure his worms are completely gone.
• Argus likes to sleep on his back.
• Argus is a bed hog.
• Argus’s other eye was damaged too (you will see a tiny dot in the middle of it) but it has healed nicely and is now scar tissue. He seems to see fine out of this eye.
• Argus is named after a creature from Greek mythology that had one hundred eyes.
• When Argus looks at you with his one good eye, your heart will melt and you will fall in love! He is a very very special dog.

last morning snuggle with Argus

I got my snuggle in too!

hugs

On the way to meet the new family.

Waiting...

Argus meets Chris

Argus liked Chris' beard

Live well, sweet boy. Live well.

Meditation with Movement

I thought my feet were planted flat on the ground.

But when I check--roll around on the balls; spread toes to earth--I see I’ve been leaning too far to one side.

And so I reach, with the center of me; open my heart and rock back and forth until I find solid ground.

I am a tree planted by streams of Living Water. Roots hold firm, silently extending down--drinking up depths and nourishment, anchoring me here…with Him.

I stretch branches up and rough bark becomes supple, velvet with moss…I invite Him in and feel Him pass through leaves; rustle places long asleep--making music where there is none; creating beauty out of light.

In this quiet I hear His voice. What others intend to empty, He fills.

I am yours.

Soft, like breeze caress the words move over me.

El Roi…You see me. You know my heart.

Eyes close but His never do.

El Shaddai…All sufficient One. You fill. 

He washes me--laps up against my soiled heart and carries away the dirt.

Jehovah Rapha...Healer. You tend to deeply wounded places.

I am whole.

It continues on, as I move limbs--bend and sway to His music. Leaves lift, wave in joyous surrender as we dance.

I am more than bark and leaves…heart beats loud within this forest. His Spirit lives in me.

Sap oozes and the sweetness of His love drips from my pores.

He is here beside me; I see Him better with my heart--eyes closed to world, hands held loosely open.

He gives.

And gives.

I do not clutch these things tightly…but wrap my life around Him. Vines entwine, whisper into crevices, knotty limbs embrace…

This is the way I grow.

To Epiphany and Beyond...

I took down the mistletoe today.

No more lurking in dark corners preying upon prepubescent boys to steal kisses. (I’m talking about my sons…Whom have YOU been kissing? Okay, so it was really more like a hug-tackle. Hey, they aren’t that big on snuggling anymore, who can blame a mom?)

Sigh.

We are there.

We have arrived at the stable. This Epiphany settles over me. God incarnate nestled in manger. He slid into our world through the door of a mother’s womb.

This wonder, this…epiphany...breaks me open, drives me to my knees.

I come with my meager gifts. When I left with them in hand I rejoiced to give gifts of such value. I felt pride at the worth in my hands. Now, standing here…I only feel my lack.

But somehow--when I stand before Him--all this melts away. My heart rejoices, despite my diminutive status. He came for me. I know this. I feel it in my marrow.

While I celebrate at this knowledge (Emmanuel! God with us!), my heart is heavy. For there is the return journey home. I must leave this humble place. I must turn my back on this holiness and step back into the every day.

That’s what boxing up Christmas feels like to me.

I gather all my splashes of red. I take down my nativity. But as I cradle Baby Jesus in my hand, heart skips a beat.

Will he not remain with me?

Isn’t this the gift of Epiphany? The gift of the Cross?

Sorrow spins again into joy. Love’s promise weaves this knowledge into my heart: He never leaves.

He never leaves.

We choose some tangible reminders of this truth to remain tucked in our world. The heart remembers the weakness of the flesh--the sin of forgetting.

 

 

And as I gather the splashes of red, mind’s eye focuses on His presence.

And heart whispers Thank You. Thank you for Your Grace.

Jumping on the Bed

Shards of light

fall from sky
on carpet
of deep
and life sleeps
except one…
who must walk
the dogs.
stepping
foot on
this bed seems
a heinous
offense. but
i want to
jump,
ruffle these
covers
and shake
out
the sheets.
sadly
there is no
time
for play;
world is waking
sleepy eyes
peer from
window,
and I
must go
to work.

Epiphany Journey

I have trouble understanding those who take down the tree the day after Christmas. One sweet friend, who likes for her decorations to be down before the start of the New Year, recently told me, "I'm just ready for it to be gone."

I am not ready, friends. 


The splashes of red around my house fill me with untold joy. 

The glimpses of the Nativity with solemn gratitude.

All the presents have been opened; the feasts well-attended…but we’ve yet to reach the Christ child. 

The twelve days of Christmas are not over.

Fellow sojourners, we journey to January sixth, the day of Epiphany on the church calendar. The day tradition holds that the Magi arrived in Bethlehem. The day we celebrate the incarnation of Christ.

Our culture holds little pomp for this humble day. My Presbyterian calendar marks it, but our traditions rarely recognize it. Curious, I began exploring how some other cultures observe this hallowed day. From Wikipedia to personal blogs, it’s quite a tale.  

I discovered some interesting traditions.

In Bolivia, for instance, on the night before the Feast of Epiphany, children set out their shoes with letters in them for the Magi.

In Puerto Rico On January 5th, the feast of Epiphany's Eve, children place water and grass under their beds for the Three Kings’ camels. The Three Kings leave presents under the bed after the camels eat the grass. 

Children in Germany go from house to house on Epiphany eve, singing carols and writing the initials of the Magi in chalk (KMB--tradition holds the names of the three kings as Kaspar, Melchior and Balthasar), near the entrance of each home. The festive Dreikonigskuchen or Three Kings Cake is also served that night to celebrate the occasion.

Children in Spain fill their shoes with grain for horses of these traveling kings to eat . The shoes are then placed on balconies or by the front door on Epiphany Eve. They find their shoes filled with cookies, sweets or gifts the next day. 

Here, I am told that "Some Christian cultures, especially those of Latin America and some in Europe, extend the season to as many as forty days, ending on Candlemas (February 2)."

Imagine. Husband would really complain if I left my splashes of red up that long!

Epiphany. 

Dictionary. com defines it as "a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience."

That's what the Feast of Epiphany celebrates. The realization that Christ incarnate is among us. God With Us. Emmanuel.

We miss the wonder in that, I think, when we gloss over Epiphany. The beauty of Christmas is lost without it. 

Like the kings of old, I seek him. My journey toward Christ continues. 


Epiphany happens every day when I carry Christmas in my heart.

Flicker

I noticed it just as the guests began to arrive.

Rushing by to begin the receiving--tiny flicker at the corner of my eye.

I stopped.

House tidied, food on table, champagne chilled. Forty-some guests arriving. Everything set to ring in the New Year under this blue moon.

And my oven on fire.

Stooping to rescue the artichoke dip (and chicken fingers for the kids); I watched the tiny flame engulf the bottom element, traveling from beginning to end steadfastly.

Burned up.

the element...burned up

They came anyway, and thankfully, the flame was soon forgotten in the midst of laughter and much merry-making. And when the clock struck midnight, we raised our glasses high and toasted this blue moon--this gift of extraordinary friendship…bonds knitted together by the hand of God.

2009 burned boldly--followed its course from beginning to end steadfastly. The departure of time lost in the gifts of the passing days. As the flame of the past year wanes, my heart fills with gratitude that the work of time continues on…And there are many blue moons to come.

Happy New Year, Beloveds. Many blessings in the coming year.