Christmas Break

“What was today, Wednesday?” He asked, as I tucked him in last night. 

I nodded.

“Oh, no, the week is going too fast!” 

He stretched and rolled into his blanket, grieving the passing of another day. 

I know how he feels, have tried to hold on to these moments of slow…but each time I leave the house—leave them behind—I feel it slip away.  This morning, I left all three of them sleeping—tiptoed out of the house and siphoned onto the freeway. The traffic wasn’t bad…maybe the rest of the world was still sleeping too. I popped some new music into the stereo. New music makes me happy. I tried to listen but somehow, my mind kept drifting back to that place I just left.  And sometimes I wonder about the things that take us away from each other and I can get lost in how good it feels to miss you and these past few days I have been caught up in the beauty of our life together. 

This is the rhythm of the world—the way it keeps spinning us apart and together, apart and together. Sometimes the fustiness of it all chains me but it always spins back around into wonder...

the scent of peppercorns and

garlic are all that’s left in

this dark kitchen, after so

much merry-making last

night.

while you sleep,

I take this cold bowl

of jambalaya with me—a

sad solatium for arms and

hands and lips and…the

warm of you.

to crawl back

under covers, curl away

from hiemal outsides, sip

from love a bit longer…

it’s an ache I cannot

feed.

our best havings are

wantings, Mr. Lewis said,

and I know it’s true, for

oh, how this missing

sweetens…for the coming

back together.

these days are short and

the wine goes quickly.

let us drink deeply,

love. new wine-skins

will only burst with the

ferment of this new.

better to mend the

tatter; smooth the

worn into a glossy

patina. and we will

grow rich together.

 With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and dear Emily...

The Dancing Priest: A Reflection

“I don’t know why I try. There are no more good single men left.”

My friend put her chin in her hand as she said it, leaned heavy on the table. I wrapped both of my hands around my coffee mug and stared into its milky contents. The clerk at the counter called orders and the hum of life bled into our quiet. 

I didn’t know what to say. Mostly, she’s glad to be single. She’s gone through varying stages of acceptance, yes, but usually she sees the freedom of her life as a gift. But it only takes one bad date and we’re back at the coffee shop--she doubting everything she’s learned about herself, me trying to help her remember what an amazing gal she is. 

I didn’t know what to say, so I took a sip of my café ole and said nothing. Then, a thought occurred to me.

“Well,” I said. “There is Michael Kent.”

“Who?”

She looked bored. 

“Michael Kent. He’s an Olympic gold medalist. A great dancer. And he loves God.”

She rolled her eyes. 

“Well, sign me up,” she said, sarcastically. 

That’s when I realized that my friend knows me way too well. I slipped the book out of my purse and slid it across the table to her.

“I’ve just spent three days with him. I think you’ll enjoy his company.”

::

When I first picked up Dancing Priest: A Novel, I was in dire need of some soul medicine. I was working on a massive final project for the Lay Pastor program I’ve been in for two years—two years of nonfiction piled upon nonfiction. I was also laboring over the next book club selection for my job at The High Calling—another nonfiction manuscript.  My brain was inundated with facts and how-tos and why-fors and statistics and trends and I was feeling mighty heavy with the weight of it. 

It felt like story would never darken my door again. 

I needed a good anecdote and I needed it quick. 

Enter my friend Glynn Young. I knew Glynn is a great writer because I frequent his blog. He’s also an avid reader—of all genres. When Glynn announced his first novel was being published, I was more than excited for him. 

I was excited for me. 

Because I love a good story.

Have I said that?

Dancing Priest did not disappoint.

Not only did Glynn Young write a beautiful love story (and write it well), he wrote a story about perseverance, the value of faith through the hard stuff, and the triumph of moral character. Glynn’s main character, Michael Kent (he can dance), is one of those characters a reader can’t get enough of. 

Well, this reader, anyway. 

Dancing Priest is the perfect antidote for the nonfiction blues.

The next week, when I met my friend for coffee, she slid my Kindle back across the table to me.

“I think I’m in love with Michael Kent,” she whispered, eyes glistening.

I smiled.

“Me too,” I said. 

We bubbled over with talk about the book for half an hour. When we parted, my friend had that old sparkle. Suddenly, I recalled how, after watching Rocky IV back in Junior High, my girlfriends and I formed a fan club for Sylvester Stallone. (Did we really do that?) A small group of adolescent girls could gather and talk about and write letters to Mr. Stallone for hours. We would recite scenes from the movie and collapse in sighs.

Only a really good story can do that for a girl. I think Dancing Priest took a few years off of my imagination. 

And I hear there is a sequel to come.  Would anyone like to join a Michael Kent fan club?

How to Hold on to Christmas

(a repost today, friends, as we jump back into work and life and carry on with the gift of it. Epiphany does not come until Jan. 6, but I have been feeling it in my heart today. I'll be holding you dear...)

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…Who 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?)

We are here. 

We have arrived at the stable. 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.

with Jen:

 

Playdates with God: Taking Christmas with Me

After Christmas dinner with the family, we return home to the quiet. I am always sad to let her go—there’s a lonely feeling in discarded tissue paper and half-eaten platters of sweets. I put away all our leftovers and wash up the dishes littering the counter and the corners of my mind. Then we take Lucy Mae for her Christmas walk under Christmas stars. It’s cold, but not as cold as it should be and I love being under the blanket of the sky with my two growing boys. I show them The Seven Sisters and this sparks a discussion about the seven deadly sins. We name them all--shuddering a little at gluttony. It’s a beautiful night and I feel Christmas shining bright with the starry sky.

When we get back home, the lights are on and how can Christmas shine so bright just now and be gone in a few hours? And I start thinking about saying goodbye to Christmas.

“It’s almost over,” I say to Jeff.

“Thank God,” he says, with a deep sigh. And I laugh but I still feel a little sad.

I can carry Christmas in my heart all year but it’s not the same if the world keeps spinning and no one notices. And just when I think Christmas is over, he comes down stairs and casually asks, “Hey, mom? Are you busy right now?”

And I say no and he takes me upstairs and gets out his guitar and he plays me some Christmas songs. I’m sitting on the floor amidst discarded jeans and the brown paisley comforter that was kicked off the bed in his sleep—I’m in this tangled up place listening to Silent Night, note by note.

And I think, I don’t care if the world keeps spinning and churning. I’m taking Christmas with me.

***

Hop on over to The High Calling to read about another one of my Playdates and learn about our new book club selection for the New Year!

 

How do you embrace the God-joy? Every Monday I’ll be sharing one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It can be anything: outside, quiet time. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find Him. Be with Him. And come tell us about it.

Grab my button at the bottom of the page and join us:

 

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also: 

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays.

Sunday

So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger.--Luke 2:16

Joining Deidra in quiet worship today.

Sweet Moments

Yesterday morning the earth rose up to meet the sky and they mingled in the dimpled places and above the river and I drove to work through the milk of it. Everyone keeps saying we won’t have a white Christmas this year but there I was driving through a muted world—all awash with white.

The rain came later and Jeff and I laughed as we ran through it in the parking lot after an early evening shopping trip. As we drove home I noticed how light makes shine on the clinging droplets and the whole world seemed dusted in glitter.

My heart wants to pause and linger by the tree; listen to soft music and get lost in the twinkle of lights. But there is still the busy, the obligations, the chores. Even the good takes me away from quiet contemplation. So I’m trying to be fully present in the busy—find the sacred there.

It’s not that hard. Really. 

This hand made apron arrived in the mail the other day--from the amazing Kathleen. Just to touch the beautiful fabric was a gift. I felt the love in each stitch. 

Thank you, Kathleen.

For Jeffrey, it's not Christmas until we make the sugar cookies. So we put the apron to the test.

The things boys do while waiting for cookies...

May you find everything that is sweet this Christmas... 

 With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and dear Emily...

A Valentine for Christmas

This morning I read Luke 12:22-31—“…Consider how the lilies grow…” and so I do.

It’s unseasonably warm here for almost Christmas; the weatherman says it will get up to 65 F today. When I take Lucy Mae out for her morning business, the air is wet with mist and the scent of earth fills my nostrils like so many growing things stirred in the soup of all the seasons gone by. It feels like spring.

And then I read about lilies and it takes me back to a poem I read last night in this book my friend sent me for Christmas. It’s a book of valentine poems and it has been softening my heart for Love.

The Bluet by Ted Kooser

Of all the flowers, the bluet has

the sweetest name, two syllables

that form on the lips, then fall

with a tiny, raindrop splash

into a suddenly bluer morning.

I offer you mornings like that,

fragrant with tiny blue blossoms—

each with four petals, each with a star

at its heart. I would give you whole fields

of wild perfume if only

you could be mine, if you were not—

like the foolish bluet (also called

Innocence)—always holding your face

to the fickle, fly-by kiss

of the Clouded Sulphur Butterfly.

All this talk of lilies and of bluets and the smell of spring makes my heart smile. It takes me back to my girl-ish days when I wondered into fields of bluets so often. My childhood home was a place of secret beauty waiting for my young eyes to unveil. How the bluets could grace a bed of moss—crocheted across the green. I would gather small bundles, clutching lightly at their delicate stick-like stems, and place them in thimbles all about my dollhouse. They were just the right size for that miniature representation and always I sought to make my pretend world more beautiful than the real. With a little imagination I could pretty up these stacks of wooden crates and leftover scraps of our life that I carefully placed together to create a place where I could dream another life. One filled with beauty.

Jeff laughed when I told him the name of these simple flowers, and when he saw a wild violet he asked, “And what are these called? Purplets?” How I do love that man.

I count this scripture about lilies and provision and trust a valentine—just as the poem—and I wonder at the simplicity of it. In this season of excess, remembering my simple life as a child can be a haunting. It’s a fleeting ghost—a pang of empty, a twist of revulsion in the gut. The tree is too big and there is too much red, too many lights, and all these bits of Christmas scattered in every corner seem too much, so pointless and dumb. I mean, I have a tree in my house, for heaven’s sake. Sometimes, I want to strip all this away…it seems like such a waste of time.

On Sunday, Rev. Jan said, in her sermon, “There is one thing God doesn’t do and that’s waste time. He uses it all.”

So, I’ve been thinking about that. Dreaming of valentines. And bluets.

 

with Jen:




and Michelle:

Playdates with God: Be the Gift

The robe that I ordered came in the mail and I tried it on straight from the package. It smelled funny, but I turned and looked at myself from all sides in the mirror. I’m giving my first real sermon on Epiphany Sunday and as I looked at those folds of white cloth covering me up, I was seized with terror.

Who am I?

I wanted to fold myself into this white, disappear, forget about these past two years of study and prayer and all the things that led me to this place. The thought brought me to my knees, but I threw the robe in the washer first. Maybe I could wash it all away, remove this dirt and fear and all that makes me unworthy in the foamy bubbles of Cheer Ultra.

And I am on my face, dissolved in tears and I am asking What in the world were You thinking? when He reminds me of this scripture I read just this morning. I feel it like a Divine hand on my shoulder and it brings to mind these words from the Spiritual Exercises:

Spiritual Consolation [may be defined as moments]…when we are saddened, even to the point of tears, for our infidelity to God but at the same time thankful to know God as Savior. Such consolation often comes in a deep realization of ourselves as sinner before a loving and compassionate God, or in the face of Jesus’ Passion when we see that Jesus loves and entrusts himself to God his Father and to us without limit, or for any other reason which leads us to praise and thank and serve God all the better (Spiritual Exercises 316b).

I email my mentor and she tells me: We are all unworthy, Laura. Just be the gift God made you to be.

I’ve been distracted by the sermon, by the exegesis and the final exam—which feels more like writing a dissertation. I’ve been missing Christmas.

You are my Christmas spirit, I tell Jeffrey before he gets out of the car for school this morning.  

Why, thank you, he says, smiles and hops out. And on the way back home, the world is a frosted globe, and the birds soar in flocks against a blue sky, and this song takes away my voice to sing and I am blinded by tears.

Just be the gift.

I’m looking for Christmas everywhere. And finding it in each passing moment. 

 Hop on over to The High Calling to read about another one of my Playdates and learn about our new book club selection for the New Year!

 

How do you embrace the God-joy? Every Monday I’ll be sharing one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It can be anything: outside, quiet time. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find Him. Be with Him. And come tell us about it.

Grab my button at the bottom of the page and join us:

 

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also: 

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays.

Oh, to Empty

The dark comes early and my body responds in kind. The wind begins to blow as I sit here on the couch in the early evening. I have turned on the Christmas lights and the room twinkles with warm. There is a soft blanket around my knees and a dog asleep beside me.

I don’t know what is wrong with the turning of the earth—mid-December and 62 degrees outside. The birds linger in this mild. Just this morning I saw a flock of hundreds silhouetted against the burning sky—flying over the freeway.  

Where do you go? I wanted to call upward as they inked out the sky. But they don’t hear my heart-cry. They don’t look down.

I watch the trees surrender under the wind’s soft breath. The veriest top bends low and scrapes her branchy crown on the earth.

Sometimes He asks me to bend low too.

When he told me what they had taken from him I was angry. So much loss, so much. He cried and he was mad and he felt the small. Helpless to change the way of a few who let fear make decisions for them.

He grieved, but he surrendered it all.

And I felt my anger melt into wonder.

It reminded me of Philippians 2:5-11. It says that Jesus made himself nothing. Being in very nature God…he made himself nothing. (NIV). The NRSV says he emptied himself. It’s the Greek verb form kenóō—“to empty”.

In Christian theology, we call it kénōsis—the voluntary emptying of my own will and allowing myself to surrender to God's will.

He cannot fill me unless I am empty.

Sometimes the world empties me when I am too weak to do it myself. Circumstances steal joy, hope is squelched and love runs out the door. And I am empty…empty.

Sometimes Christmas does this to me. Empties me out as I grieve lost years, yearn for different stories, ache to let my roots tangle back into…something…else. But when I bow low, offer it up to the One lowered himself—the One who emptied all…

Then, I am filled.

 with dear Emily...

The Shepherds Kept Their Watching...

“These were no ordinary shepherds,” he said. And his words captured my attention, because, who wants to be ordinary?

We’ve been going through a sermon series on The Songs of Christmas and this past Sunday my pastor talked about the shepherds.

“These were no ordinary shepherds,” he said. “These were the shepherds who kept the flocks dedicated for the temple sacrifices. They, of all people understood what it meant to watch and wait.”

He told us that on the road to Jerusalem, close by Bethlehem, was a tower, known as Migdal Eder, the "watch-tower of the flock." Here was the station where shepherds watched their flocks destined for sacrifices in the Temple.

In his book Sketches of Jewish Social Life, Alfred Edersheim says:

“…It seems of deepest significance...that those shepherds who first heard tidings of the Savior’s birth, who first listened to angels' praises, were watching flocks destined to be offered as sacrifices in the Temple… It was here that those who tended the sacrificial flocks, heaven-directed, found the Divine Babe— the first to see Him, to believe, and to adore. But this is not all. It is when we remember, that presently these shepherds would be in the Temple, and meet those who came thither to worship and to sacrifice, that we perceive the full significance of what otherwise would have seemed scarcely worthwhile noticing in connection with humble shepherds…we can understand the wonderful impression made on those in the courts of the Temple, as, while they selected their sacrifices, the shepherds told the devout of the speedy fulfillment of all these types in what they had themselves seen and heard in that night of wonders; how eager, curious crowds might gather around to discuss, to wonder, perhaps to mock; how the heart of "just and devout" old Simeon would be gladdened within him, in expectation of the near realisation of a life's hopes and prayers; and how aged Anna, and they who like her "looked for redemption in Israel," would lift up their heads, since their salvation was drawing nigh. Thus the shepherds would be the most effectual heralds of the Messiah…”

These were no ordinary shepherds. They were watching. And waiting. They had been prepared.

And as I listened to my pastor’s words, I wondered, “Haven’t we been prepared too? Haven’t I?”

Will I go and seek the Christ-child?

When the magi called on Herod, he asked the chief priests and the teachers of the law where the Christ was to be born. They knew. Hadn’t they been prepared? And yet, they did not go and seek him. Instead, these foreign emissaries went to worship him in their place.

Will I seek Christ?

The seed cannot grow if it is eaten. My heart is hungry, yes, but hungry for the fullness of the crop. And so I am asking myself what it means to seek him fully.

I am following the Star. Who wants to be ordinary?

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

 With my sweet friend Jennifer today:

and with Jen:




And Michelle:

Playdates: Spying on Advent Traditions

The morning we trim the tree, fat flakes dress the earth in threads of white. In the boughs of the naked maple—a flash of red—a cardinal in a nest of snow. I watch from the window, my feet planted in warm. The house glows soft with twinkling light.

It’s quiet—quiet here, quiet inside the walls of me. I touch the moment gently—feel around inside my heart.

Is this how it feels, I wonder?

I’ve been looking for Christmas for 18 years—ever since I married my husband and felt free to open my heart to this beloved tradition. I grew up in a home that did not celebrate the birth of the Christ-child, see. And every year when December 25 approaches, I feel the bindings of those roots. I want to leave a different legacy for my children—one that delves deep into the mystery of Christmas. Every year I look for just the right formula, try on different activities with my family in the quest for the perfect tradition. 

Hop on over to The High Calling to read the rest of the article and maybe get some Advent ideas too!

How do you embrace the God-joy? Every Monday I’ll be sharing one of my Playdates with God. I would love to hear about yours. It can be anything: outside, quiet time. Maybe it’s solitary. Maybe it’s loud and crowded. Just find Him. Be with Him. And come tell us about it.

Grab my button at the bottom of the page and join us:

 

Sharing with L.L. Barkat today also: 

And with Lindsay for Messy Mondays.