Last night I treated myself to my final, final holiday tradition. In the quietness of that mid-January evening, I snuggled into my favorite chair and, one by one, reread every Christmas card we’d received.
Some featured chubby snowmen with carrot noses and funny hats. Others showed angels, their wide wings embossed in gold, their mouths open in praise for the newborn Babe. One, from my friend Betsy, contained a “Kohn Family Holiday Quiz”—a fun new slant on the familiar Christmas letter. (I flunked miserably, Betsy. We need to have lunch!) Among my favorites were the ones showing the Holy Family—in styles both formal and humble. Shepherds and sheep and stars. A dove of peace. Stockings stuffed with presents.
These cards were from far away family, old friends and new ones, neighbors. There was one from a lovely gal who’d worked as an intern for me years ago. Many included short notes. My childhood friend Melva is now a grandmother. My friend Kathy wrote how she believed God had orchestrated our paths crossing. (I agree, Kathy!) I love the ones that include photographs—proud parents, dressed-up toddlers, srubbed-til- they- gleam children.
When the cards arrived last month, I was in full holiday swing. Usually, I was more concerned with “Did I send them one?” that I was with the lovely sentiments and handwritten updates.
But it’s January now. Decorations packed away. Holiday treats long gone. “To-Do” lists tossed in the trash. I have time now to ponder this pile of good cheer and good news from these people who care about me and my family.
Most of the cards will go in the recycling bin. The photographs I’ll stick in the family album. I’ve chosen one card to keep on my desk. It’s the one in the picture above: a black-and-white forest with a wide, snowy road running through its tall, bare trees.
It will serve as a beautiful reminder that life is a journey—a bumpy, jarring, hold-on-to-your-hat ride that gives you few clues about what lies ahead. But this I know: It is a journey made more joyful when you trust the future to God…and pause to appreciate those making the trip with you.
My grandson Drake, who has just started kindergarten, is learning to read. This is a HUGE thrill for a bookworm and bibliophile like me. I can’t wait for the day when he is reading to me. And what amazing worlds will open to him through the pages of books!
A few weeks ago, Drake was in church with me. When the deacon handed me the order-of-the-service bulletin, he gave Drake a packet for children. In it were a few crayons and some pages to color. There was also a word search.
“Look, Nina,” Drake said, placing his thumb over the last letter of a word. “This is the only word I know so far. Go.” He moved his finger, and I glanced down to see the word was actually “God.”
“If you put a ‘d’ on ‘go’ you get the word ‘God’,” I whispered.
Drake busied himself with the crayons and papers, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that discovery. “Go” is the first word in the word “God.”
Go to Him with all your problems. Go to Him in joyful gratitude. Go to Him when times are tough—and when they’re not. Go to Him when you are angry with Him. Go, go, go! Comfort in every sorrow, help in every circumstance, direction in every decision begins with that simple act.
Each week in Sunday School, Drake is learning about God. Soon he will be able to read the Bible for himself. But already he has latched onto a truth it took me half a century to realize. God is all about “go.”
It is a universally acknowledged truth that it takes longer to take down Christmas decorations than it does to put them up. And it’s not nearly as much fun!
I’m slow to pack away the glitz and glitter of December. January is cold and gray and long. (I mean, really, does January need the same number of days as December? I think not!) But after Epiphany passes, I run out of excuses to keep the holiday lights burning.
Defrocking my house always puts me in a pensive mood. I pull the garland off the banister, thinking about how things were when I did this last year. My mother-in-law was snug in her house right down the road, stoking the fire in her woodburning stove and making plans for her spring planting. We buried Mom in October. I pluck the poinsettias from my wrought-iron fence and think about how a year ago my sister’s husband was alive and part of a family fantasy-football league. Her son, Lewis, was working and walking. Now he is learning to live life from a wheelchair. I wrap the hand-painted statue of Mary and Joesph and Baby Jesus and think about how my own son has had three surgeries in the last six months.
Enough! I think.
So when I come to the big tree in the sunroom—the one where the angel topper touches the ceiling—I try a new strategy. For each ornament I remove, I name a blessing. Off comes a gold ball. I have a job that lets me do meaningful work. A mirrored cross in my hand reminds me God is God no matter what the season! Next comes tinsel, beaded roping and glitter snowflakes. My family has grown closer this year. I am healthy—and have insurance coverage when I need medical care. After 40 years, my husband still thinks I’m cute. The box fills with decorations—and my heart fills with gratitude.
Christmas is over, but there’s still plenty to celebrate…even in January.
Christmas is only hours away. If you’re like me, you’ve spent the last week crossing things off your “to do” list—and adding others just as quickly. But, ready or not, the hour is (almost!) upon us.
Personally, I’m ready. No, I don’t have all my presents wrapped. (I’m close, though.) The baking is still to be done (although I did do the big grocery store run this morning—on snow-packed roads covered with a fresh glaze of ice. YIKES!). I’ve got 20 people coming for dinner tomorrow, and I must get the holly-berry china out and washed. I’m nowhere near finished reading the stack of Advent books beside my easy chair.
Still, I’m ready. I’m eager to wake up in the morning and know—anew—that Christ has come into the world. To be reminded that love arrived thousands of years ago in the form of a baby, and that love continues to “arrive” a thousand times a day in the form of God’s provision for me and my family.
My Christmas admonition for you, dear friends, comes from an Advent sermon preached more than 1200 years ago by Rabanus Maurus of Mainz (he was known as “The Teacher of Germany”): “Let your souls gleam with purity, shine in love, be bright with acts of charity, glow with righteousness and humility, dazzle, before all else, with love of God.”
Ah, what would Christmas be without the annual children’s pageant at church? I always look forward to those wriggly little sheep and those on-the-brink-of-puberty shepherds. To the (truly) teenaged Mary and lanky Joseph. I believe the more costumes and kids and songs and bloopers the better. And the program this year did not disappoint.
The premise was that the creatures living in the stable, far from welcoming the Christchild, were angry and panicked that (gasp!) humans were invading their space. Their lives were problematic enough. Who needed more drama? The animals mumbled and grumbled—from the mice in the corners to the owl in the rafters, from the wizened old Billy goat to the spotted cow.
When Mary and Joseph arrived (via the left-hand aisle), Mary was prominently, painfully, ridiculously pregnant. At first we snickered. But then most of us fell silent—many of us women remembering our own discomfort when we ourselves were “heavy with child.”
By the time Mary had given birth (quietly and quickly and backstage somewhere), the animals had had a change of heart. They had cleaned and swept the stable and prepared a manger for the new baby. “Nothing but the best for the special guest!” they joyfully sang. Soon Jesus was snuggly sleeping among the beasts while Mary and Joseph looked on fondly.
The curtain call was, literally, a zoo, with plenty of bowing and waving to family members in the audience. The stage was filled with wide grins, with palpable relief at having remembered lines and entrances and song lyrics. Ducks tripped over black cats and even the skunk took center stage for a fleeting moment. The rooster couldn’t have been prouder.
It’s an old story. And a new one, too. Christ comes. He knocks. Will we open the door and bid him welcome? Or will we behave like…well…beasts. Foolish creatures that fail to grasp the amazing truth: The Creator of the universe seeks shelter within our small, humble humanity. He longs for lodging in our hearts.
The kids stampeded down the center aisle, all smiles and ears and tails. Another pageant come and gone. But the last line of their last song lingered with me long after I’d left the church:
“O come to my heart, Lord Jesus; There is room in my heart for Thee.”
I have just returned from taking my friend Lurlene to the airport. In a few hours she’ll be back home in Chattanooga, Tennessee. (She was as thrilled as a three-year-old to find we’d had a dusting of snow in the night!)
Lurlene’s annual trip to see me in December is as much a part of Christmas as stockings, eggnog, and “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” She comes one weekend in early December, and we see how much holiday cheer and girlfriend chatter we can pack into three days.
This year we took the train into Chicago and saw a stage production of The Addams Family. Some of you may remember the old TV series about this odd, wacky, macabre, darkly funny family: Gomez and the love-of-his-life Morticia, their children Wednesday and Pugsly (who are always looking for new ways to torture each other—literally), Uncle Fester and Grandma. Plus Lurch, the almost-alive butler.
Lurlene and I laughed and clapped and walked out into the chilly, skyscraper-filled night mulling over what it meant to be part of a family.
Christmas is one of those times of the year when the volume is turned up on families. Memories are more poignant. Hurts hurt more. We agonize over gift selections for those we love—and those we are trying to love.
I like that Jesus was born into a family. Mary had a mother—which means that Joseph had a mother-in-law. There were siblings and nosy aunts, uncles who gave too-much advice and cousins who were clumsy and loud. From the very get-go, this Holy Family was surrounded by drama. And not all of it the heavenly-angels-singing kind.
I once got a Christmas card from a friend that read: “’Tis the season to eat, drink, be merry…and tolerate your family.” Harsh. But a bit too true sometimes, too.
Love begins at home, because that’s the hardest place to practice it—day by day, flaw by flaw, frustration by frustration.
And Christmas doesn’t make that any easier. But it does make it more important. Divine love came down, to a stable and a manger...and a family.
There are many things in this world you can do quickly. You can drink a milkshake quickly (brain freeze alert!). You can tie your shoes quickly. You can scan the want ads or brush your teeth quickly. You can even zip through your bedtime prayers (although I wouldn’t recommend it).
But one thing you positively cannot do quickly is…put up Christmas decorations. I should know—I’ve spent the last three days doing just that.
First, there’s the opening of the big plastic tubs—tubs that have spent the last 11 months in the loft of the barn with their lids collecting (yuck) an impressive amount of dirt and small spiders. These bins house an assortment of lovely decorations—and junk I haven’t quite gotten around to tossing out. It all must be handled and sorted.
There’s the macramé Santa for the coat closet door. The copper-colored poinsettias and pine roping for the hallway banister. Candles for the windows, the Santa placemats, the wooden crèche just right for little hands to handle. Balls for the tree—how could ALL the hooks hook-up like that? And lights…I KNOW they were in neat circles when I put them away. But now (alas!) they have twisted and turned, cleverly hiding their end plugs…where?
Nope. No speed records have ever been broken by someone pawing through tinsel and a lifetime’s accumulation of “keepsakes.”
Hours pass as I walk from room to room, placing decorations, making decisions (the rocking chair Santa goes back in the box this year), fluffing bows and testing lights. Slowly, ever so slowly, my house is transformed. Shadows are broken by twinkles of light; tabletops hold favorite Christmas books and statues of the Holy Family. The air smells of pine (okay, so it’s a candle) and a tall gold angel takes over the center of my dining room table.
Almost everything in December goes too fast for me. Advent has barely begun, and already I feel the familiar hum and pulse of frustration. How shall I get it all done in just 25 short days? I want to bake more this year. I want to ring the Salvation Army bell. I want to wrap presents for Toys for Tots. I want to give a holiday party and take my friend Victoria to lunch. I want to drive around at dusk and look at lights with my grandchildren. I want to mail my cards early (or at least not late).
Oh, yes…and I want to wait with expectation for the coming of Christ. I want to sit near a window and watch a winter sunset—crimson and startling—break open behind bare trees. I want to remember that all was darkness before He came. I want to know, to feel, the thrill of revelation mount with the passing of each day until (wonder of wonders!) it’s Christmas. And nothing will ever be the same again.
Yes, December is a quick month. But its short days are meant to be savored, not squandered or sucked dry with detail. ‘Tis the season. Let’s pray we don’t miss it.
Last Sunday I dressed up like “Priscilla Pilgrim” and gave the children’s sermon at our church. It had been years since I’d given much thought to the Pilgrims (I’m not proud of that fact) or what they’d endured. I mean, Thanksgiving usually finds me worrying about the turkey (Will it thaw in time? Will it be dry as the Sahara?) and whether or not the crusts on my pumpkin pies will burn this time (probably). Then there’s the plates and flatware to count out and napkins—paper or cloth? Grocery store lines and last minute guests and…well, you get the idea. So I’m grateful that this year I got to spend some time with the originators of the feast—those hearty, pious, ravenous Pilgrims.
The year was 1620. Determined not to be forced into the Church of England, 102 sturdy souls climbed aboard a small boat and headed out to sea. Sixty-five days later, they sighted land. But storms had buffeted their craft and sent them WAY off course. Instead of Virginia, their original destination, they landed in Massachusetts. Instead of friendly colonists who would welcome them and help them prepare for winter, they faced a cold, desolate, empty land—and savages peaking out from the forest.
That first winter was one of hunger and sickness. Almost half the Pilgrims died—46 shallow graves were dug into the frozen hillside. But when spring came, they praised God and picked up their plows. With the help of those savages—who had become their friends—they planted and reaped a bumper crop.
Party time! The first Thanksgiving was on.
My family has had a rough year. Maybe yours has, too. But we still have much to thank God for. We live in a land where we can worship as we please. We have access to good medical care. None of my grandchildren is hungry or cold. Our houses are snug against the coming winter. And God is still in control—and still wanting me to trust Him with the details.
After church, several of the children posed with “Pricilla.” “Wasn’t it fun having your picture made with a Pilgrim?” I asked. “Want to make a fun face for the next shot?”
And so, with the enthusiasm and abandon peculiar only to children, they put on their fun faces…
Happy Thanksgiving, dear friends. May your day be filled with gratitude and good food…and a few funny faces.
Growing up, Mary was someone who showed up once a year—in December when we put on our annual church pageant featuring shepherds and wisemen and angels and, of course, Mary the Mother of Jesus.
But come January, Mary got packed away with the bent halos and the bathrobes. I mean, we were a protestant church. We weren’t supposed to think about Mary…were we?
But all that changed six years ago, when my friend Lurlene and I took a long-awaited trip to Italy. The very first time we went for a walk on the streets of Cortona, a picture in the corner of a display window caught my eye. It was Mary as I had never seen her. (That’s her in the pic above.) I bought it on the spot…and soon this Mary was joined by a half dozen others, picked up in Assisi and Florence and Rome. I framed them and hung them in my main hallway, where I could see them often. I bought a calendar of Madonna images, too, and put that in my office.
Mary became a part of my daily routine. I passed her on my way to the kitchen. Smiled up at her as I went out the front door for a walk. Nodded her way when I headed to bed at night. We began to feel like friends. On days when I was anxious, she offered me peace. When I was happy, she seemed to be smiling along with me. If I were struggling with a spiritual problem, looking up into her face made me feel not so alone.
Last year, when Lurlene and I went to Greece, I spent much of the week there searching for a icon. Finally, on our last day, I went into an art studio in Athens. Hundreds of icons filled the back wall. “There are so many!” I exclaimed to the store owner. “How shall I choose?”
He smiled knowingly. “You do not choose your icon; the icon chooses you.”
And so it did—a gentle picture of Mary snuggling with Jesus. “Mary of tenderness,” he said as he wrapped it for the long trip back to my Indiana hallway. I just knew she’d get along with her Italian counterparts.
Recently, at an art fair, I bought the coolest necklace. It's made of a bottle cap and has a sparkly picture of Mary inside. It seems to go with everything I wear.
So my Marys are growing in number.
Soon it will be December, and a few more images of Mary—most of them with Joseph and Baby Jesus—will perch on mantles and tables. And when I look into her face—no matter how it’s represented—I’ll be reminded of the importance of saying “yes” to God, even when what He’s proposing seems wildly impossible.
Yes, I’m learning that Mary has a lot to teach me—much more than can be contained in one short month. Welcome, Mary, to the other eleven!
One of my daily treats is reading the newspaper. I love snapping open my Chicago Tribune and catching up on world events, seeing what advice “Ask Amy” has today.
The “Nation & World” section always has a small story titled: THE NUMBER. It can be anything—from the number of geese migrating to the number of inches of polar ice melting into pond water. Yesterday the number was small. “6 seconds.” I tried to guess what that might be. How often someone orders a Big Mac?
But here’s what it said: “6 seconds…that’s how often a child dies of hunger.”
Could that be? But the source of this troubling fact was the director-general of the U.N. food agency. He ought to know.
To make the moment even more poignant, I read this informationo while I was eating breakfast at Cracker Barrel, spooning gravy over my second biscuit.
I was raised on a farm in central Indiana. Even as a child, I could understand poverty. My family didn’t have much. Some people I knew had even less. But hunger? It was never, ever in my frame of reference.
We worked hard growing our own food—from green beans to beets to beef cattle. Mother made sure we sat down to a table laden with meatloaf and fried potatoes, with hot cornbread and blackberry cobbler. And we fed others, too. Many times after a big Sunday dinner, Mother would say, “Let’s take the leftovers to the Georges.” The Georges were the poor family at the end of our county road. Some years it wasn’t the Georges. But my mother always knew someone who could benefit from a hot, home-cooked meal.
My life these days is filled with healthy, chubby-cheeked babies. But now, when I watch them stuff broccoli into their mouths, see them nibble on Gold Fish crackers, I’m going to be thinking about other children. Children whose bellies are never full and whose futures are as empty as their plates.
But I can to more than just remember their distress. I can take canned goods to our church’s food pantry. I can write (modest) checks to organizations serving holiday meals. I can drop my change into the “Share the Bread” can at Panera. I can support my county’s homeless shelter. I can give small-but-important monthly contributions to World Vision and the Red Cross.
I can’t cook a big pot of macaroni and cheese and gather these precious, hungry little ones around my table. I can’t make them cakes on their birthdays or pour them sippy cups of cold milk. What I can to is love these children from afar. Most importantly, I can pray for them. For their daily bread. For those organizations that work to feed the needy.
Yes, I can pray. And you can, too.
Heavenly Father, I come to You on behalf of the hungry and dying children of the world. Enlarge the resources of those serving them, Lord. Multiply, even now, the bits of food on their plates. I know that you are a God of love and provision. Be where I cannot go; do what I cannot do. Please...and thank you. Amen.
