Christmas Is

Christmas is a collision of images, thoughts and emotions. When these word pictures bump into each other, they form a kaleidoscope of the holidays. It's as though we're looking through a colorful lens at patterns and prisms that dazzle the eye and stir up memories. Each element is keenly felt, yet the combination is a heady mixture of joy and pain, fulfillment and need. Please indulge me as I try to capture sound, color and light in a "Christmas Collage".
Christmas is the cry of a baby, changing the world forever. It's the kiss of peppermint, the comfort of hot cocoa, a moveable feast.
Christmas is the peal of a bell, a tangle of lights, a shiver of hope, a right jolly old elf.
It's an awkward hello and a tearful goodbye. It's an empty chair, an aching heart.
Christmas is a velvet dress, a sticky giggle, a weary soldier, a solitary meal.
It's a whisper of snow, a hint of pine, a toothless grin, a festive package.
It's a hope deferred, a fragile truce. It's a living creche, a dying wish, a watchful prayer.
Christmas is a drink from the cup of Forgiveness -- even when the dregs are bitter.
It's the bray of a donkey, the blending of carolers, a crackling fire. And, steady in the East, one bright star presides over all our distress and delight.
Christmas is, forevermore, Emmanuel, God with us.

Snippets from the Produce Section

It was a regular Thursday night at the grocery store. No big deal. Preoccupied and checking off my mental list of items, I careened my cart in to the produce aisle. And there it was: a simple, hand-written sign -- above the Baby Spinach: "Teenage Spinach ~ discounted prices while supplies last!"
Now, here's why I laughed out loud: I had given a quick once-over to the Baby Spinach, pretty much deciding it was over the hill. No longer crispy, a bit weathered around the edges. But when I spotted the little sign, I decided to buy some. After all, who can resist a bargain?
Whoever wrote that sign is a true visionary, a person with the keen ability to see a deficit and turn it into something appealing. Visionaries are hopeful types, gleaning the happiest from a situation and making it rise to the top.
And this is why I practically skipped out to my car on an ordinary Thursday night, Teenage Spinach and all. What had appeared used up, unsavory, and rather unremarkable had, with a little spin on the name, become a package of potential; a leafy green worth picking through; a symbol of what it means to make the most of a deteriorating situation.
Okay, I know it was just a bag of fresh spinach (well, not so fresh). For me, however, the clever little sign infused a fresh spirit of hope into my landscape. It was just what I needed.
And, just so you know, the "teenage" spinach offered a generous garnish in a few salads, not to mention a colorful addition to my scrambled eggs in the morning.
"Pay attention to details," my English teacher said, so many years ago. "You can miss so much by not reading the captions."
Well, she was right of course. If you see a middle-aged Mom in Aisle 3-B, poring over the labels, that's probably me...gleaning the most potential from the least likely source.

Harbor Pilots

Staff meetings can be brain-numbing affairs that, when finally over, propel you to the nearest window for a breath of fresh air. Some meetings, however, leave you captivated. I have a vivid recollection of a staff meeting in Colorado, during my days as a radio co-host. Our general manager, Jack, opened the meeting with a brief talk on Harbor Pilots.
I'll never forget it.
A Harbor Pilot, Jack explained, is a demanding job, and not for the faint of heart. This person has a seaworthy disposition, a keen understanding of hidden reefs, shallows, choppy waters and rocks in the bay. His actual job is to motor out, in a small boat, to assist the incoming ships before they reach port. That's the easy part.
Once he is within range he leaves his little boat and shimmies up a 30-some-foot rope ladder that has been flung down the side of the larger vessel.
The Harbor Pilot then takes over the wheel, steering the ship safely in. Although the captain of the ship is a skilled navigator with a steady hand, he really needs help in smaller, unknown harbors. That's why he needs the Harbor Pilot -- to steer around the hazards, the shallows, the murky areas only a local can understand. After the ship is anchored and securely moored beside the docks, the Harbor Pilot can return to his cozy office, his coffee, and perhaps even the mundane necessity of a staff meeting.
What Jack wanted us to "get" was the magnificence of this unsung hero. Daily, and sometimes in very stormy weather, this particular pilot climbs onto big ships and steers them to safety. He shows up in all conditions -- smooth sailing or fierce waves --to come alongside, to interpret current conditions, to take over the helm.
Also, and just as remarkable, this is what YOU do when you come alongside a friend who is floundering in unknown waters. You shimmy up the side of the boat, climb in, explain how it is, interpret the shallows and steer around the dangerous rocks when needed. You are a true friend when you do this -- a Harbor Pilot to a Comrade in the shallows. Please! Keep that motorboat fueled and ready for action. And know that you are doing sacred work in the lives of those who are counting on you to reach solid ground.

Harbor Pilots

Staff meetings can be brain-numbing affairs that, when finally over, propel you to the nearest window for a breath of fresh air. Some meetings, however, leave you captivated. I have a vivid recollection of a staff meeting in Colorado, during my days as a radio co-host. Our general manager, Jack, opened the meeting with a brief talk on Harbor Pilots.
I'll never forget it.
A Harbor Pilot, Jack explained, is a demanding job, and not for the faint of heart, either. This person has a seaworthy disposition, a keen understanding of hidden reefs, shallows, choppy watters and rocks in the bay. His actual job is to motor out, in a small boat, to assist the incoming ships before they reach port. That's the easy part. Once he is within range he leaves his little boat and shimmies up a rope ladder that has been flung down the side of the larger vessel.
The Harbor Pilot then takes over the wheel, steering the ship safely into harbor. Although the captain of the ship is a skilled navigator with a steady hand, he really needs help in smaller, unknown harbors. That's why he needs the Harbor Pilot -- to steer around the hazards, the shallows, the murky areas only a local can understand.
After the ship is anchored and securely moored beside the docks, the Harbor Pilot can return to his cozy office, his coffee, and perhaps even the mundane necessity of a staff meeting.
What Jack wanted us to "get" was the magnificence of this unsung hero. Daily, and sometimes in very stormy weather, this particular pilot climbs onto big ships and steers them to safety. He shows up in all conditions -- smooth sailing or fierce waves -- to come alongside, to interpret current conditions, to take over the helm.
Also, and just as remarkable, this is what YOU do when you come alongside a friend who is floundering in unknown waters. You shimmy up the side of the boat, climb in, explain how it is, interpret the shallows and steer around the dangerous rocks when needed. You are a true friend when you do this -- a Harbor Pilot to a Comrade in the shallows. Please! Keep that motorboat fueled and ready for action. And know that you are doing sacred work in the lives of those who count on you to reach solid ground.

Hidden Confetti

Sometimes you just need a bit of sparkly stuff to lift the spirits. For instance, there was this dreary Spring day and I was kicking around in Youngsville, running errands. My mind was on autopilot as I ran hither and yon, gathering necessary things for the family household and that night's supper. As I splashed into a watercolor world of puddles and raindrops, something caught my eye. Leaning down for a closer look, I was rewarded with a tiny metallic rocking horse. It was pink and gleaming and irresistible; a speck of color on a gray canvas.
At that time I had a volunteer radio show on WTMV-Youngsville, a studio operated out of a refurbished livingroom on East Main. I remember telling my listeners about the confetti piece and comparing it to unseen treasures all around us -- secrets shimmering just below the surface "stuff" of living. It may take a little effort, but it's worth a closer look. Your "confetti" surprise might be very different from mine -- it may be the warm company of a rich memory, or maybe the trusting hand of a child's in yours. Your spark of hope, your confetti, may be a smile across a room, a promise in the Bible, a sea salt breeze, a letter in the mail. Whatever it may be, take time today to notice. Be aware of wonder. Lean down, take a moment, and linger in that discovery. Before too long, you'll be carrying around a generous shower of confetti to sprinkle on someone else who needs a lift.
A rainy day, a radio studio, the smell of wet dog (the station manager's great dane, resting his giant solemn head on my knee)...these memories are keen in my heart, punctuated with an odd bit of hidden confetti.

Canned Words

Words in a jar -- pickled, spiced, or sweetened; preserved to sustain life through the winter months. If I were the canning type, that's what I'd boil up and distill into tidy canning jars. I'd arrange them just-so in a pantry, and not alphabetically, not at all. Words, to my great delight, arrange themselves, thank-you-very-much, and are not usually amenable to snug quarters. They are, however, ready and waiting to be gathered up and poured over any occasion, giving it life and memory and color.
In case you hadn't noticed, I love words. I love dwelling in their chaotic midst, absorbing their flow of energy as they fall out of people's mouths, out of the TV set, out of the radio or a novel or the newspaper. Words swirl around me, or wait quietly to be discovered inside a greeting card, or tumble from my own mouth as I answer the phone.
Words.
To capture them and preserve them with the steady hand and the slightly crazed passion of a canning Mom, now that would be wonderful. I'd snip all the warm, nurturing words and boil them down to a thick gravy or soup. Into the jars they'd go, for sustenance on chilly, bereft days.
Spiced words would go into another rack, with generous amounts of color and sparkle to pepper my dialogue when the conversation goes bland.
Into another bevy of glorious Ball Jars, I'd pack in simmered, savory words of Forgiveness; to surround me when I've done wrong, or to pour on the sagging shoulders of someone who needs them desperately.
Delicious words would be in their own category, like so much sweet chocolate -- words like giddy, zenith, savvy, vivid, zephyr,bombast and benevolent....preserved simply for their sheer elegance. These words are to be used sparingly, keeping their rich texture and dizzying impact inside the vortex (another really cool word).
Words of good humor and grace would be gathered and sprinkled with dashes of light and air. These would be tossed generously into every verbal encounter, lingering softly at the edges of each day.
I'd so like to radiate virtue and good upbringing by saying all negative words should stay out of the pot. But I know some of them will get in there, and many will slip unnoticed into the jars. When they spill out -- and spill they will -- I'd have a jar of wit nearby, to absorb the acidity.
Patience would be parlayed, stirred slowly and condensed into phrases like "it's okay," "let's try it again," and "I don't mind waiting." Such phrases would be carried in a portable pantry at all times, as patience is trending at an all-time low.
A few jars of whimsical expressions are a must for any word lover's pantry. Pithy little morsels like "finer than frog's hair," and "the bee's knees". Or "throw me over the fence my coat" (a solid Pennsylvania Dutch combo) and "shut the door, were you born in a barn?" to keep our farming heritage in view.
Jars and jars of comfort to soothe aching hearts, to serve in seasons of grief.
Plenty of sunny words, the kind that float up to the top and land unexpectedly on the crest of someone's stubborn noggin.
At least one jar of pure laughter - the belly shaking, tear making variety - for immediate relief during tense or uncertain times.
Words of contemplation, for those windswept, snow laden days that take your breath away and make you proud to live in a four seasoned climate.
Words. Chopped, boiled down, colorful and comforting inside jars waiting silently on a pantry shelf. Words ready to be called into action, ready to grace the table of winter, ready to spill summertime all over a plate of want. Words to take away the chill, words to stir the memory and warm the aching heart.
Pardon me while I go and fetch my apron, a large stirring spoon, and an adequate (gargantuan) pot.

Waiting for Hope

Hunker down and wait for hope. These are the watery, pastel words on the only canvas I have covered in my entire, non-painting, life.
It was a weekend retreat, 6 years ago -- a silent retreat. The weekend still pulses through my veins as a turning point. Subtle, yet powerful; quiet, yet resonating still.
On the first night during orientation, we ladies were given free clearance to talk and mingle. After that we entered into a time of silent reflection. There was a syllabus, but the structure was fluid: we could paint, draw, hike, journal, and read to our heart's content. We were encouraged to take a blanket out to the lawn at night and watch the stars. Or walk a nearby labyrinth. Or maybe explore a woodsy, hidden path. The point was to become quiet way deep inside, so that we -- I -- could hear God in a new way. It's hard, after all, to hear His whispers amidst the clamor and commotion that is life. Becoming intentionally quiet is, at first, hard work. After some time, though, the silence is nice. For me, the silence was a prelude to hope. All whispery weekend long, I had this notion bubble up inside me, this idea of hope on the horizon. I felt like a child again, waiting for Christmas morning -- the anticipation was tickling my innards, just begging for some tangible expression.
And so I painted.
There, in the dining room, the hostess had placed all kinds of art supplies. At orientation, she had told us art is a wonderful vehicle for articulating our thoughts. "Even if you are not naturally pulled to art, try it!" she enthused. "The action of carrying an idea from your heart to the canvas is a gift. Don't deny yourself this gift."
And so I painted.
Sitting cross-legged in the window seat, overlooking an expanse of lawns, gardens and autumn-adorned trees, I painted the words: Hunker down and wait for hope. Then I took the brush and softened the words with pastel colors. The merging of words and paint, color and texture, had a soothing effect on me. I shared the smallish 8 x 10 watercolor with no one, not even my husband. This was personal and besides, how would I explain the phrase, "hunker down and wait for hope" ? What did it mean, really?
I couldn't possibly know back then, but now I understand. God was preparing me to weather a great and turbulent storm of grief. The little word picture would crystalize what I needed to do, moment by moment.
Hunker down. Wait for hope. For rescue, for relief....for recovery. And in its wake, healing.
During my move from the farm house into the apartment, I found the picture. It's up in the attic at the moment. I'm thinking maybe it's time to give it light and a place of honor on the wall. In the living room, I'm thinking. I guess I'm no longer embarrassed to showcase an amateur piece -- it is a vibrant reminder of God's provision before the storm. And it is a gentle nudging into a place of calm amidst the urgency of living.
Waiting for hope, I've discovered, is very active. It is a continual state of anticipation, a profound sense of trust. Hunkering down, well, that's a posture of being quiet. It's a state of mind where I tuck in and allow Somebody Else to make sense of my day.

A Frog Blog

It has been said that if the first thing you do each morning is to eat a live frog, you can go through the day knowing it's probably the worst thing that's going to happen to you all day. Eating the frog: this is a metaphor for tackling the most challenging task of the day -- the one you are most likely to put off, but usually the one that might have the greatest positive impact on your progress.
My advice? Eat the ugly frog first. Down the hatch. Be a brave soldier, staring down that deadline, that cleaning project, whatever it is -- and go for it. Just pinch your nose, grab that wiggly critter and swallow it whole. After this, you can move on to the other frogs, the smaller ones that aren't quite so daunting.
I know you think I'm talking about frogs here, but really I'm talking about time management; it's just more playful to use the frog analogy.
Try this: At the end of each day, whether you're at the office or at home, make a list of all the things you need to do the next day. Then, select your most important task (the ugliest frog). Clear the workspace around it so you have this one thing, sort of like a big warty frog, sitting on your desk. It will be waiting for you in the morning.
Do this every day until it becomes a habit. In due time you will find you are more productive through the entire day, having spent the early surge of your energy eating the wartiest frog.
If absolutely necessary, make Frog Jello. This is the art of mixing in enough humor, coffee and perspective to make the frog taste better.
When a co-worker or family member offers you a donut or a sweet roll, tell em you've already had the breakfast of champions. Then politely excuse yourself and go on to the next item, um -- frog, on your list.

Home Bittersweet Home

We as humans tend to anesthetize life's big events. We like to recapture major changes in nice, digestible terms such as "a new normal", "a fresh start", "hitting the reset button", etc. Putting a positive spin on things is, well, my strong suit. And so I am guilty as charged; when people ask about my move from the country place to the town dwelling, I say pretty things. Things like, "Oh! I love it. So close to my work!" Or something equally perky such as, "Oh! Did you know I have a balcony porch?"
Please know I really do embrace the cool stuff surrounding my new digs. It's just that I want to also recognize the pain that comes with a move. It's a package deal.
There's the flurry of activity -- the huge household sale, the realtor's handshake, the final lap around the pond in your neighbor's ATV. The arrival of friends with trucks, trailers and strong backs, ready to get you from Point A to Point B with major sweat equity in the belly of Summer.
There's that sweet First Night in the new place, dog-tired and overjoyed  for an air mattress and a fan.
But there are other firsts. The first time you come home to no wagging tails at the door, no urgent meows of where-have-you-been. You sucked up the no-pet policy when you signed the lease, but wow -- who knew the comfort of an animal could be so strong?
There's the first time you grocery shop and automatically grab your daughter's favorite cereal. Wait, you say to yourself -- she moved out months ago. And you put the Fruity Pebbles back on the shelf. You suddenly want to crumble in a heap of misery, but you can't do this in Aisle 7 of the market. You'll have to wait. As others bustle past with their carts, coupons and husbands in tow, you have a sudden keen vision of your own husband leaning on the cart or reaching easily for the top shelf because he was 14 inches taller than you. Who knew grocery shopping would become another exercise in grief?
There's the first rogue wave of sitting alone in your new livingroom. This was meant to be a quiet victory, this looking around and feeling warm and fuzzy about the combination of paint, light, bookcases and coffee table. This should result in a long sigh of satisfaction, a sense of home-at-last. Instead, you look around for any sign of him and realize this new home will hold no memories; there is zero shared history within these walls. This is the day you initiate the new carpet with your own tears, lying face down until your muffled sobs have robbed your victory moment; you sleep this way and drag your aging aching joints around the following day. "Are you ok?" your friends say, concerned. "I slept funny," you reply.
The other day I decided to be extreme and fuss over my solitary dinner. I used the good china, and ate by candlelight. It was exquisite. Somewhere between the greek salad and the brie (on expensive little thin wafers), I laughed out loud. It was a sweet dripping chuckle, arising from the solar plexus and exiting in a fine spray of table wine through the nose. I looked across at the empty chair, and could only think how annoyed he would be about the candle. "Turn the lights on!" he'd bellow. "What good is a meal if ya can't SEE what you're eating?" And so you have another first: A flash of memory that brings tears of mirth, rather than sorrow. Who knew?
Home, bittersweet home. A new beginning, sure -- also a velcro-like peeling away of the old and familiar. Home, to be truthful, is a place where it's really okay to feel everything. It's a place to be safe and real. It's the place where you can take off your public persona and look in the mirror and recognize the scared girl behind the career woman; the worried mom behind the confident mentor; the married widow underneath the label that says "unattached". No so. I will always be tethered to him. Even in a new place where he did not say goodnight and check on our daughters before switching off the lights.
Goodnight, my Love. You are not here, but I have carried your memory into this place. I'm sure you'd be pleased with the lower utility bills, and yes -- I have a good handyman. I carry a flashlight in the car, and I always park underneath a street light, the way you advised in your caring policeman voice.
It's been 3 years this weekend. I'm going grocery shopping today. If I need something from the top shelf, my dear, I will think of you. And I will ask for help. And I will be brave and not cry. When I get home, I will take off my public face, and I will be honest. It's okay to cry at home, where the walls can hold my pain.