One last musing from the junk drawer: Christmas Presence

A note from last December for future years–

Christmas is about presence
“God with us”
Emmanuel

So may I give you a story for Christmas? Or your favorite breakfast or a song. Or something else that doesn’t fit so well under a tree? An old memory or a new one. If I can’t be there, may I package one up and send one? Buying comes cheap these days, so may I give from a place where money’s unsought?

They say the wise men brought gifts, and they did, but they gave things no one else could bring. Years of study and watching and anticipation. They devoted themselves to the signs of the sky, and when the time was right, they followed a star to find their new king. The gold was a mere adornment to giving their homage, their everything.

Mary gave her body, her life, and with Joseph, reputation. Shepherd boys brought wonder for the Lamb born in Bethlehem.

There was One, though, who came to buy.

The newborn servant warrior-king. Born to purchase what no one else could with perfect obedience and His very own blood.

I can’t give you that. But I can give you a story or a song. Scrawled out with the hands He fashioned me. Sallying forth on the breath He pours into me. Every fraction of an inhale counted out to me from His wisdom. Every morning bright and yawning eve. And when He asks me how I spend my Decembers I don’t want to say “Christmas shopping”—frantically searching for just the right thing for people I don’t know as well as I should. I want to say—being there. With You. And with Yours. With the lost and the broken and the rich and the weary. With the hopeful ones, the joyful ones, the faithful ones. And sometimes we spend money, but always we spent time. And I didn’t let shopping mall fluorescence dim my little light’s shine.

It’s made me tremor a few times this year thinking about how much the marketplace gets out of Christmas; how much our rejoicing in the Lord’s birth is tied to what money can buy. Is that a contradiction? Double-mindedness? A sneaky way of serving the wrong master? Has the world bought Christmas? Or am I buying into a lackluster spirit?–A critical, gripey, miserly way of seeing. Am I listening to an ascetic, Pharisaical voice saying, “Thou shalt not buy Christmas presents.” Or am I staying out of crowded parking lots enough to hear a still small song of peace and rest?

It’s not that I think grinchily about gifts. I love giving gifts. Getting them, too. But I’m not sure going out and buying stuff for each other is the most appropriate way to celebrate Christ’s coming. “Yay, the Messiah is born! Let’s go buy stuff for each other so we can be more happy!” I’m not saying I know how we should celebrate. I’m just proposing a little less wrapping paper.

Groceries, car parts, books, light bulbs, ballpoint pens, and thrift store menagerie. I spend enough time shopping the whole year round. Heaven knows I don’t spend enough time on the deep things. Too much time ordering on Amazon, not enough time ordering my home and relationships. Too much seeking that $2, $20, $200 solution to my problem; not enough time seeking Him. Too much time cluttering, not enough time creating. I think it’s about time I abandon the shopping cart for my sewing machine, garden, notebook, and guitar. I’m aching this Christmas; I just want to give you my heart. Let me pour it into a pie or a letter. I know it’s not store bought, but could it be better?

A little less package, a little more present.

So may I give you a bonfire or some old photos I found? Maybe package up an inside joke or pass the cider round? ‘Cause when your closet’s overfull and dessert is every day, I’d rather not give you more. I’d rather give you different. Not Hallmark. Not Target. Not an autographed card XOXO with no “Hey, how are you? How did the move go? How’s the new job?”

Maybe I’m a dreamer, but I’d rather give you me.

And given first to Him.

Musings from the Junk Drawer, part two

Poetry, Ponderings

Probably wrote this while studying world history and reading Oliver Goldsmith’s “The Deserted Village.” Except this one wasn’t an assignment.

Here’s more thoughts from a schoolgirl, the “pink sticky note poem” typed.

Civilization

Each empire has its tyranny,
Each empire has its slaves.
To no avail each empire climbs–
No empire will be saved.

Mighty Rome!
Her roads and conquest
Fell at barbarian hands
And into darkness long
Was plunged, ’til kings
Should rule again.

A civilization thinks it’s new,
Yet mirrors all the past.
The things it knows
Will come and go,
Like dew upon the grass.
Though each to permanency strives,
Only the cycle lasts.

From Babylon and Egypt,
To Persia, Greece, and Rome–
All across the continents,
Empires have grown.

All thinking themselves walled in stone,
The folly herein lies:
No civilization standing now
Will heed the ancient cries–
“You will fall, just like the rest,
So wake from your blind pride.”
She doesn’t hear until duress,
And then, alas, she dies.

We see the dreadful pattern;
We cannot find its cure.
We do not heed the trap at first,
Enchanted by its lure.

And, oh, of the life pastoral,
Of the joy of simpler times!
We would have stayed in fairer climes
Had empire not appeal.

And so we feed the monster,
And gild it with our work.
But small it starts, delights us,
We’re giddy in our mirth
Until it turns and strikes us,
Slinks off to seek rebirth.

Each civilization has its glories,
But all the more its faults.
We look to the past stories,
But we cannot make it halt.

You see, my friend, because we err,
There is no paradise
Until through death we become heirs
To our eternal life.

All that on two sticky notes! I think I’d better keep them for proof.

Giving Thanks: For and With (plus another musing from the junk drawer)

Love Like Steel, Ponderings

Thanksgiving is what I ought to do every day, every moment if I stop to ponder what a wondrous story I live in, what abundance I’ve been given. And by abundance I don’t mean bank accounts and too many pairs of shoes and a loving family. I mean life and all of its heartache and joy, burden and song, crumbs and crossiants. A life that bubbles over with the wine of gladness but also tastes the bitter cup of suffering. A life that keeps on giving and never runs out. Ever.

Giving and given, a feast forever.

Thanksgiving, a day of feasting, is a day for full tables, and I don’t just mean what goes on it. A once-a-week, once-a-year, once-in-a-while, “let’s come together to say ‘Thank you, LORD.'”

Because saying thank you with others is a special thing. Thankful for you, and with you, because you’ve been where I’ve been. Stood beside the grave while I was crying. I held your baby on the sofa and heard her sleepy sighing. You lent me your crockpot, served me “hope you feel better” soup from your stockpot. We danced in the rain, got mud between our toes, and found a tickle of laughter in the midst of daily woes. We traded recipes and shirts, you held my hand and prayed. I listened while you told me your hurts. We built bonfires and changed car tires. You brought me eggs from your chickens. I helped clean your kitchen. And everybody knows the kitchen is the heart of the home. Nobody goes it alone. So we all come to gather and feast. For a day. At least.

“A community is made strong by mutual sharing, helping, and easing one another’s burdens. Praying for one another. Serving one another. Working together.“

(And singing and feasting, too!)

Buried in the junk drawer was a note to self from four years ago. A challenge to my “DIY” all by myself attitude. Me, not willing to ask for help. Because I didn’t want to admit I needed it, didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t think anyone would want to lend a hand or advice or whatever I needed and they had.

I was young; maybe I thought I didn’t have anything to offer, so I shouldn’t ask. Didn’t realize that asking for help is an offering. Offering an opportunity to grow closer, to show love.

“In refusing to ask for help you deny others the opportunity to serve you. Over time, they might feel less inclined to seek your help. You’re not burdening others by asking for assistance. You are helping to keep the community alive.“

Feeding your people is also a good way to keep the gang alive. So here’s to Thanksgiving!

Poets, Philosophers, and Pizza Crusts

Love Like Steel, Ponderings

Ordinary Moments in a Library Corner and Unloading the Truck
Plumbing the meaning of “I love you,” spoken,
And when we say thanks for the little things you do and compliment your smile,
Does that mean “I love you” too?
Just for you?
If you hold a mirror to my words,
Is the image true?
Do I say the same with what I do?

And can I say it if I still have room to grow?
My desire to be given, does it show?
Because, I just want you to know…

Yes, I love you.

—

An extravagant thing, saying I love you. Because Love is bigger and higher and greater than words can measure, but not for hearts to hold. To truly love, that is all–that is bold.

So I’ll aim to treat “I love you” like the good dishes. On purpose. Only habit when every day is joyful feast.

Which brings me to the pizza crusts, a philosophy in passing. Courtesy of a text message, October 8th.

“Ok, then I’ll feed you the less-than-stellar pizza crusts. Only because I love you, truly. I always want to give you the best, but better is to give you honestly. And baking can be pretty awkward sometimes. :)”

The Girl Who Kissed Grasshoppers

Outdoors, Ponderings

She might flinch from people sometimes,

But where most of us would flinch, she doesn’t.

There’s a lot to be learned from her, I think.

The Cottage, two sketches

Outdoors, Ponderings, Uncategorized

(written 6.26.19 while gazing at a watercolor on my desk)

Thatch flecked by ocean spray, dappled with sunlight through the cotton-bottomed clouds holds a shield over our heads. We cut it from the marshy edge–wiry grass on permanent tilt from the ocean’s wind. Plucking up reeds with knife and scythe we paused to ponder. Watching the shorebirds, we marveled at life beside our bundles of living things now marked for death. We’ll loft them high above our heads; they’ll keep us warm, their wet will be our dry.

There’s a life in their dying, a purpose, a plan. Held between the dew and the smoke of the hearth, held between the sun and the cool of the stone. A haven, a border, for a span. And then return to the marsh from whence they came. To serve another purpose.

And the grass springs up green again.

Stones stacked tight against Atlantic gusts. Holding up strong on the outside so all is soft and close within. We splashed them white in late spring, laughing as we worked, brightening the landscape with our steady cottage home.

A Word-Wrangler’s Answer

Ponderings, Word-wrangling

“Harnessing the power of words?”

“Yes.”

“But that doesn’t really say anything. I mean, what is it you do?”

Silence, my favorite way to speak.

“No, I get it. You’re good with words. You’re a writer…”

There’s more, I can tell, so we wait.

“…But it’s kinda vague.”

“I know. It’s a roundabout way of saying I’m a writer because I want to remind people of what writing is, at its core.”

“Communication.”

“Yes. Using the power of words. To convey ideas, truth, feelings.”

A nod.

I continue, “And it’s not just that it’s vague, it could even sound ominous. ‘Harnessing the power of words.’–It’s a perfect description for writing propaganda for a totalitarian government.”

“And you’re okay with that being your tagline?”

“I think we should acknowledge that words have power. It can be a scary thought. It carries responsibility. And I don’t think you can be a great writer if you aren’t a little awed by what words can do.”

“I guess you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Yeah. It’s why I write.”

“Because you like power?”

“Haha. I walked into that one. No. Well, I like using power well. I want to make the most of my life. Words seemed like a good way to do that, for me. I think it started with teaching, helping the other kids in my class. There was something powerful about explaining things the right way to the ones who were struggling. It would click, and I could see a new light on their faces. It was like I was watching their brains make connections. And it took the right words to unlock it.”

“That’s really cool.”

“And then I realized how much I had learned from stories, and I wanted more there to be more good ones, so I started writing. And, well, music adds something really special. So musical theatre–to inspire, to embolden. Words wielded well can do marvelous things–they can open people’s eyes and hearts, and…I think that’s important.”

“Wow. So you think of yourself kind of like a windmill and the words are the power, the wind. You harness them to get things done…or something. I’m going off the word-wrangler post, here.”

“Sure that’s the idea, but I wouldn’t choose a windmill. I’d say harnessing like a sail.”

“Like a sail? Powering a ship?”

A smile. “Moving people.”