Tag: Joy

Recession Christmas, Part 3: Hard Blessings

Part of Christmas tradition is the giving of gifts. It has been argued that this tradition has become too commercialized, that focus on gifts detracts from what is important. I certainly saw advertisements that missed the point and pushed the idea of social status rising from gift quality or price. However, the concept of giving gifts stems from the core of God’s nature and is one of the ways humans in our limited capacity can try to reflect Him in our lives.

Gift giving is one of our favorite family traditions, and rather than allow financial restrictions to cast shadows on our joy, we decided to let it motivate us to deeper intention. Wish lists became highlights of interests and favorites. The kids used their own money saved from birthday gifts and odd jobs for family to buy things like stickers or art supplies, or used their talents to make gifts to suit the receiver’s personality. I raided my fabric stash and used outgrown clothes to make hand-sewn treasures.

It was a simpler approach, reminiscent of a time when life was simpler, but there was nothing easy about it. Handmade gifts take time. A lot of time, squeezed between the usual chores and responsibilities that don’t vanish because holidays are coming. Artwork requires both work space and space for drying paint, which in our full little house means the dining table. Sewing with scraps and old clothes means working with materials that weren’t designed for small projects or for particular work with needle and thread. It means aching eyes and fingers from hours of close work creating straight, invisible stitches. Handmade gifts make surprises difficult, as everyone is working right in front of each other.

The hard tried to take over as Christmas drew closer, raising stress levels and encouraging distractions. Tears flowed, panic attacks occurred. It’s harder for adults to remember the important things than for kids, it would seem. It was the kids who kept us grounded with their excitement for everyone to open the gifts they had made.

When the time came to wrap everything and fill stockings, the true blessings began to be revealed. What we had feared would be a sparse spread had grown to as many or more packages as usual. They were small, but so much thought and effort had gone into every single one that they seemed larger than life. On Christmas morning, stockings that had felt underfilled were received with unmitigated joy. Sticker sheets and snacks produced reactions associated with gifts of gold and incense. Paintings and purses were pored over and strutted with as if made by the world’s finest creators.

Simplicity isn’t easy; it never was. In so many ways our lives are much easier now than when life was simpler. There’s nothing wrong with easy, but sometimes having everything at our fingertips makes us a little too focused on what we can have. Love isn’t about stuff or money, it’s about what we are willing to give up or go through for someone else. Nothing we did was extraordinary; our usually easy lives made hard begin to feel burdensome, but hard carried love that would never have been seen otherwise. Sitting in their little piles of love offerings, our kids declared our recession Christmas to be the best ever. They understood better than we did the blessing of love found in hard simplicity.

Recession Christmas: Part Two

No matter what other traditions people may have around the holidays, food is always a key factor. Every family has their favorite recipes, associates certain flavors and smells with family and good times. My favorite holiday memories from childhood involve baking with my grandmother. We made piles and piles of candy, cookies, and pies.

Although most of the time I rather hate the perfectionist and time-consuming nature of baking, for a few days in December I throw myself into the process with joy. My children wait impatiently for the announcement of “baking day,” and all have their special requests. This year they were all old enough to participate independently, and my thirteen-year-old has fully co-opted her particular preference: sugar cookies.

Made of little more than flour, sugar, and butter, those economical little cookies are the perfect family activity. Everyone’s fingers and noses (and probably clothes) are floured as much as the cutting board. Reindeer, trees, snowflakes, and “gingerbread men” take shape under cutters pressed by small hands. The oven is impatiently watched between turns to “cut,” and golden cookies cover every surface while voices clamor for “just one.”

Other easy recipes soon join the marching shapes. Pretzel and cracker dips splatter chocolate in remote corners. Oatmeal cookies redolent of cinnamon fill the house with their comforting aroma. Gingerbread puffs delightfully in muffin tins. Homemade eggnog whips in the mixer.

When all the beautiful food is finished, it’s time to package it up. You see, while we do enjoy eating some of our goodies ourselves, we bake with another purpose. The time spent together is our gift to each other as a family, and the results are our gift to friends. A little of everything is packed into little bags with holiday notes attached, and on the Sunday before Christmas the kids get to hand deliver every package with an excited hug and a Merry Christmas. These gifts, made in an atmosphere of love and by the labor of their own hands, unconsciously reinforce the meaning of giving in their hearts.

Only when the gifts are ready and the mess cleared away do we taste the fruits of our labors. With a holiday movie on the screen, a fire crackling in the heater, and lights twinkling on our rather Seussical tree, we savor the taste of love.

Important

The world is full of wars, conflicts, political arguments, societal inequities, and many other unpleasant things we humans deem important. We fixate on everything that is wrong, twisting ourselves into knots trying to figure out who we are supposed to hate, who or what is the enemy. We bury our noses in news, gossip, and arguments while life goes on around us. This week has brought a particularly negative onslaught, but as loud as it has been, it’s really a very small part of life around the globe. Many seemingly tiny, insignificant events occurred to bring joy.

My last baby turned six years old. As mommy, every birthday observed is a little bittersweet, as pieces of myself grow to be more and more independent of me. For my big girl, every birthday is exhilarating. It means she is one year older, with new privileges and skills on the horizon. It means cake and decorations that she has chosen to reflect who she is in this moment. It means people she loves gathered around her focused entirely on her for at least a little while, a privilege often craved by a child in a large and busy family. For my little diva, one short party is just not enough, she’d like a few days! It means presents, all of which from ponytail holders and handmade pictures to a new doll are equally delightful. Because of all the joy it brings, my baby turning six was one of the most important events happening in the world.

My ten year old son lost his first molar. The tooth fairy has not had occasion to visit our house in some time, although several teeth are being subtly encouraged to invite her, so this was quite an event. We had to take pictures and make sure every family member knew about this momentous milestone. Notes had to be written with dubious spelling but painstaking care so that the tooth fairy would leave the tooth for the treasure box that every little boy stashes somewhere. The prize left alongside the hoarded tooth, a simple rubber chicken target game, brought hours of side-splitting entertainment for every kid in the house, since the chicken darts managed to stick and dangle from the oddest places though never from the intended target. Because of all its simple joy, my son’s lost tooth was one of the most important events happening in the world.

We live in the country and rarely mow our yard until well into spring. Every year it becomes a carpet and then a prairie of wild-growing things filled with happy pollinators. This year the clover has been especially abundant, and my little Irish-blooded crew loves to hunt treasure in the leaves. The finding of three four-leaf clovers in the space of half an hour caused an uproar to rival election day victory. These precious gems were displayed with aplomb and recorded on screen for the benefit of anyone not immediately present. All three have been carefully pressed in the big dictionary for posterity, in case such a rare find is never repeated, while the heralded searchers rest on their laurels. Because of the innocent joy it inspired, finding clover treasure was one of the most important events happening in the world.

These critical events of my everyday life leaves little room for me to worry about the hazards of politics and war. They leave me with little desire to fight over disagreements and hate my fellowman. I pity any who cannot bring their focus to even the simplest of blessings or appreciate even the smallest of celebrations. Where else can we find a way up and out of misery? Where else can we find the ingredients of peace? What could possibly be more important?

Lifted Hands

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” Lift up your hands in the holy place and bless the Lord.” Ps. 134:2

“So I will bless you as long as I live; at your name I will lift up my hands.” Ps. 63:4

“I spread out my hands to you; I am like parched land before you.” Ps. 143:6

When a small child wants anything from his parent, he runs to them and reaches both hands up as far as he can reach, fingers spread wide with urgency. It’s an instinct born of need to reach out to the one who can fill that need. When that same child receives what is desired or needed, he raises his hands again, this time in celebration.

In Bible accounts of God’s people approaching Him in prayer, they spread their hands out to Him in a gesture of appeal, much like that of a child. They instinctively reached for the One who could fill every need. When they sang songs of praise they lifted hands high in celebration of His glory and provision. They worshipped Him.

“Therefore, I want the men in every place to pray, lifting up holy hands without anger or argument.” 1 Tim. 2:8

When we as God’s people approach Him today we must still have this attitude of child-like trust and appeal. We must come to Him without reservation, knowing without possibility of being dissuaded that He will hear and respond. When we offer gratitude, it must be more than just empty words; it must be drawn from deep within us, so joyful that it cannot be buried or contained. We must worship, our hands and our souls spread high before Him.

Are You Entertained?

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Thunder rolled, a deep rumble that drew all eyes to the mountain. Clouds gathered to darken the peaks, lightning punctuating the unending noise. The glow of fire began to turn the roiling shadows red, flickering tongues of flame piercing the billowing waves of black. Invisible shofars reverberated in the air as the watchers clapped hands over ears in pain and terror. Men and women fell to their knees as the earth rocked beneath them. Then came the words, the unavoidable voice that held all rapt: I am the Lord your God.

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The walls rose white in the sun, reflecting its brilliance over the descending streets of the city. Gold crowns at pinnacle and gate held what seemed to be the pure flame of God Himself, drawing the notice of every citizen as they went about their daily business. Thin trails of smoke rose from the inner courtyard as the priests offered the daily love offerings of individuals seeking God’s presence. The sound of singing echoed from the inner walls of the outer court and drifted to the ears of passersby, drawing them in to join the celebration. The entrance bustled with activity, the lowing of cattle vying with the calls of shepherds as excited citizens prepared for the coming feast. Already pole frames were being erected, with piles of branches and rugs near each, ready for the week’s commemoration of the wilderness years. Levite servers bustled about, children racing through the streets stopped to stare at the gleaming temple in innocent awe, while their parents sang snatches of psalms and chattered about tales of days gone by. All eyes drifted often to the towering brilliance, and whispered prayers of thanksgiving accompanied joyous smiles.

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Stone by stone the great pillars rose overhead, soaring to the vaulting arches and crystal panes of the impossible ceiling. Light filled the space, reflecting from the polished buttresses as if they held the light of God within themselves. Standing on seamless stone tiles far beneath that glow one could imagine oneself within the walls of Heaven, breathing the breath of God. The voices lifted in song echoed from above, mimicking the heavenly choirs unheard by mortal ears. Eyes could not remain earthbound, but soared upward seeking communion with God Himself.

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The colors blended together, casting shadows from painted lanterns that seemed to hold light unbound by physics. The bowed head of a woman, cradling the linen ready for the coming of the child, carried the anticipation in the pains that already cramped her womb. The man, almost formless in her shadow, holds the pent-up breath of every passerby gazing on the image. The great empty road in front of her, lit by the lantern yet somehow sliding the eye back to her waiting figure, gleams of possibility. When will the Savior arrive? Will the couple, chosen to provide the simple human life He will lead, find shelter in time? Like the figures frozen in the painting, breath stops in every throat watching, waiting with them.

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Color washed across the sky, particles of light playing a silent symphony against the atmosphere. A ridge of white marked the edge of darkness as the last rays peeked above the banks of clouds. Below, a haze of yellow fire blazed like the glory of Heaven itself. Eyes and hands lifted in awed worship.

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Over and over God has focused His people. His inspired writers told how over and over He drew their minds and hearts back to Him using grand architecture, beautiful music, inspired artisanship, captivating stories, and shocking displays of power. Over and over those writers spoke of His intention for worship being an offering of man’s entire self, a connection with all that God is in order to lift mankind out of the physical realm into the spiritual one. Over and over He has entertained the souls of His people within Himself.

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Voices rise in stirring melody, singing words of praise to God. Sounds of music tremble in the air, quickening the heartbeat and wakening souls to touch the Father. Hands lift and heads bow as the weight of the Savior’s love crushes resistance.

Stories are told of hopelessness banished, lovelessness redeemed, helplessness relieved, or evil vanquished. Beautiful things, films about simple joyous themes, and music reflecting love and life wake souls to God’s presence and draw their eyes from the sorrow of darkness to the joy of His light. They entertain toward faithfulness.

The Self-Limited God

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The Everlasting. The Omnipotent. The I AM. The One without physical form, without physical space, without limits of any kind. This God, the Alpha and Omega, Creator of all things, took on the form of His creation. We repeat this often, and quote scriptures about it, but I wonder if we truly grasp the enormity of it.

Many religions have stories of deities who took on human form. These deities were either already limited in power and as flawed as humans, or they merely appeared human temporarily to deliver messages or enjoy themselves while retaining all of their power. Only this one is different.

He didn’t appear as an emperor or great warrior. He didn’t appear surrounded by prestige and wealth. He came as a baby. An actual baby, not the perverted vision of one. He arrived squalling and cold, blinded by even the dim light of a candle-lit clay-walled barn, flailing limbs not answering any but reflexive signals from the still-developing brain of a human infant. He could have exerted power to change that, but He didn’t.

He lived as a child, experiencing the bumps and bruises and frustrations of learning to accomplish tasks using human hands and feet. He submitted with respect and honor to the training given Him by human parents whose own understanding of His law was flawed and stumbling. He endured the privation that was part of the life of a poor working family, and faced the inevitable injuries and humiliations of apprenticeship in a manual trade. He could have exerted power to change all that, but He didn’t.

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He became a nomad without home or income, endured starvation, thirst, exposure, and fatigue. He wept and raged, prayed and laughed. He expended all of the energy His human body could contain on others, teaching and comforting. What power He chose to access as a grown man was also directed solely into others, even when hardship brought him to the brink of His human mortality. He became the subject of taunts, the target of prideful rage, and the focus of selfish demands. He could have exerted power to change all that, but He didn’t.

He was dragged to trial for crimes He didn’t commit, beaten and humiliated and tortured as nothing more than a pawn in a political game. Railroad spikes were pounded through the nerve bundles in His wrists and ankles before He was left to hang from a beam for hours, every breath an agony, His life slowly dripping away in the blood that oozed from wounds not allowed to close. He could have exerted power to change all that, but He didn’t.

Can you imagine what it must have been like? Can you imagine being limitless and yet trapped inside human limitations? Can you imagine being in that situation by your own choice alone? Can you imagine choosing such humiliation to rescue your creation that had rejected you, that would despise you for the poverty-stricken and unimpressive position you had chosen, that would still somehow be unable to ignore your truth and would hate you so much for it they would destroy your human life?

His body was wrapped in linen and hastily placed in a donated tomb. Because the Passover Sabbath had begun, the usual burial rites involving fragrant oils to preserve the body were delayed until Sunday. On Sunday morning, after having been released from His self-imposed limitations, as His human body showed signs of decomposition and decay, He once again stepped into it and changed it irrevocably. By that unfathomable action, He freed all of humanity as well. What a wondrous, unimaginable, selfless, self-limiting, unfathomable God.

The Corner

It wasn’t beautiful, the corner of Cedar and Walnut. In fact, whatever planner decided to name the streets after trees must of have had some twisted sense of humor. No forest could have less to do with the dirty, dingy gray of metal and concrete.

Despite uninviting appearances, the bench at the corner was always full. Pedestrians couldn’t seem to resist its invitation. Sometimes they paused there with coffee and sandwiches from the warmly lit shop on the other side of the concrete wall. Mostly they just sat and read, chatted with strangers who joined them, or smiled with thoughtful eyes that saw anything but the noisy bustle of city streets.

They called it Le’s Corner in the neighborhood. Most didn’t know why, but the old man who ran the shop spoke the name with moist eyes. He ran trembling fingers over a faded black and white photograph of a tiny girl. Even in the aging exposure her eyes lit up the room, and her smile seemed just for me.

He had made the bench for her when he was just thirteen. She had loved people and spent more time talking with passersby than playing with the toys neatly arranged upstairs. Baba had even said that she kept the shop open because no one could resist stopping to visit with the sunny child and often passed the time sharing a cold snack or the warmth of a hot drink.

Everyone knew her name, and she knew theirs. Visitors would be brought to her corner as if to a temple or a great attraction. No one noticed surroundings when she sat on her bench; light and color seemed to emanate from her and soak into everything.

When she was gone, people came for the memory. They brought their children for quiet chats, who came out of habit and comfort as they became adults. Le’s brother fed them all, and her picture hovered like a shining star over the corner.

Thankful

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As we enter the holiday season this year I feel the mood around me to be different than past years. Politics, economic uncertainty, and a persistently negative media presence seem to be doing their best to destroy our spirit and leach the joy from the season. It is one of Satan’s most effective tactics to play on our fears and uncertainties until they grow to drown out everything else. I refuse to let that spirit win, so here are my joys.

1) The prospect of rising food costs has provided incentive for learning forgotten ways of providing. This year my family is experiencing the old-fashioned togetherness of foraging for wild foods. My husband will be taking my son hunting for the first time and teaching him how to dress out his harvest for himself. Already we have found bounty and beauty that we never saw before though it lay right beneath our feet.

2) Locally grown resources abound around my home. There are dozens of farmers within driving distance, and small, local groceries stocking their produce are much promoted. Those same stores also sell locally produced canned goods like jelly and sauces. A local meat processor does enough business that it had to double its capacity this year. Our state has begun to drill its own water wells. Local sawmills have begun to pop up.

3) We have good neighbors. We look out for each other, trading needs without question or hesitation. Young or old, well off or not, everyone has something to share.

4) We are blessed to homeschool our children, to have them with us always, to know them in ways I never knew possible, to guide them in finding who God made them to be. We are blessed with amazing friends who share this blessing, whose children reflect their abiding connection with the God who made them. The relationships that have grown from our shared connection are a source of strength and joy through all challenges.

5) We have the knowledge, constantly increasing, of the provision God made for our mental and physical health. Because of this, we are capable of caring for ourselves in case of illness or injury, and of using God’s bounty to reduce the need for intervention.

6) We have a roof over our heads. It may not look like much to the world; it’s small and needs repairs. Our furniture shows definite signs of wear, and our decor is, well, functional. Despite its perceived shortcomings, it is a home that we are blessed to fill with life and love.

7) We will spend this holiday with family, as we have every year of our marriage without interruption. We will carry our bounty of food to their home, where my nephew will rush to the door to greet “his kids” and my daughters will daub themselves with ingredients in their eagerness to participate in producing the feast. We will join hearts in prayers of gratitude and joy and chatter excitedly about Christmas plans.

8) God’s creation has screamed His name from every corner this season. I don’t remember such a vibrant fall in our part of the country as this has been. Brilliant colors, the sounds of well-fed wild things, and crisp weather surround us, filling us with contentment.

9) I am blessed with an unshakeable marriage. That isn’t an accident, and I will never take it for granted. Our relationship has been forged by the fires of loss, childbirth, health challenges, financial uncertainty, and miscommunications, all of which we fought through together to know each other as intimately as ourselves. We are two halves of a whole, and I pity anyone who may try to break our bond.

10) I am safe in the arms of my Savior. He left infinity to wear our finite form, to become like me, to struggle like me. He experienced life like me from birth to death, a death more horrific and humiliating than any I am likely to meet. And He did it to show me who I could be, to show me a life I could never have imagined otherwise. Because He did, nothing on this earth can touch me, no matter how hard life gets or what is done to me. I am eternal with my Father and my Redeemer.

Christmas Train

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The whistle blew, a cheery sound in the crisp air. Even the steam from the pipe crystallized into gray mist that blended with the distant mountain peaks. The world around lay white and silent, the train with its crimson cars and bright window frames a brilliant spot of color.

Inside the warm cars passengers laughed and talked, excited to be sharing the experience of travelling to see family and friends for Christmas. Many carried gifts wrapped in bright fabrics or butcher paper and tied together with brilliant ribbons or twine. Children escaped their distracted mothers and ran up and down the aisles, shrieking with laughter.

Suddenly the train slowed, then stopped. Worried passengers lifted windows to peer out, oblivious to the frigid air that poured into the compartments. Some complained with offended vehemence when the conductor passed through with a hurried explanation that a tree had fallen across the track. Would everyone please be patient while the engineers cleared the track? It would be a bit of a wait, but they would be underway again as soon as possible, never fear.

A couple of strapping young fellows rushed boisterously out into the snow to volunteer their services with an ax and make themselves generally underfoot. Some of the women took advantage of the halt to relieve muscles cramped from long hours on wooden benches that vibrated with the motion of the wheels. They trudged up and down the snowy tracks, wrapped tightly in voluminous cloaks while their irrepressible children dashed about soaking their clothes in snowdrifts and forgetting hats and scarves in the general excitement.

The whistle blew sharply, calling for a mad scramble back into the cars before a puff and a rattle set them moving again. “William!” A voice drifted through the steam as it rose above the icy trees. The small boy leaped to his feet and clattered from the room, tossing a glance over his shoulder at the train waiting on its track under the tree before shutting the door on the Christmas wonders to come.

Blessed

“Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for the kingdom of heaven is theirs. You are blessed when they insult you and persecute you and falsely say every kind of evil against you because of me. Be glad and rejoice, because your reward is great in heaven.” Matthew 5:10-12

Being an outcast is not generally a situation we humans consider enjoyable. No one enjoys being insulted, assaulted, or ostracized. We consider a life at risk or taken to be a tragedy. God designed us with a strong desire to connect with each other and to protect human life at all costs. Because of this, we tend to have difficulty applying the above verses. What could possibly make being ostracized something to be celebrated? If we are designed with the need for each other, why would we be told the opposite made us so blessed as to be envied?

The answer lies in previously mentioned blessings: humility, mercy, purity, hunger for truth, the ability to grieve, and selflessness. All of these blessings are characteristics that bind us to one another, lead us to pursue what is best for each other. They are qualities that lead to action no matter the cost, which fact leads us to another blessed character trait, that of peacemaker.

The world tries to, and far too often succeeds in, convincing us that peace can only exist in the absence of conviction, that it is only gained by giving each other exactly what we want when we want it. The problem is that there is no such thing as absence of conviction. Selfishness is the conviction that I am more important than anyone else, and is the source of such confused behavior. Peace can never be achieved by promoting selfishness; though some goodhearted souls may destroy themselves by trying to be all things to all men, those with conviction of their own importance will never submit to anyone else’s desires. They will end in conflict with other equally selfish individual, and no one will actually be satisfied.

Humility, mercy, purity, hunger for truth, the ability to grieve, and selflessness are also conviction, but not in self. They are conviction that we have a Source, a purpose greater than any human desire, a mission to convict others of the same. This conviction of and reliance on the Source of all we are and have eliminates the desire for validation of self. It quiets the commotion the world seeks to create within us by focusing us on the Source of truth. It leads us to seek to create that same quiet focus, that peace, within other individuals.

We can all understand the blessing of such inner peace; the entire world seeks after it even if they misunderstand how to get it. But what does being a peacemaker have to do with persecution? The peacemaker, the holder of conviction in greater than self, doesn’t cater to human desires, their own or anyone else’s. Those with conviction of their own self-importance cannot comprehend that kind of strength. They live in fear and misery because they can never actually get everything that they want and thus will never possess the security to not care how others react to them.

The peacemaker, knowing this, accepts personal tragedy as unimportant. The peacemaker knows that only the Source of humanity holds what is best for humanity, that nothing treasured by the selfish can bring true security, that no attack from the selfish can break the quiet of truth. They rejoice, not because they suffer, but because they are unbroken. They rejoice in the conviction that the blessing is so much greater than the suffering. They rejoice because they have eternal peace.