God Rest You, Merry Parents

Christmas is a wonderful time to create magic for children, and to teach them to appreciate the magic that comes on its own. We had such fun gathering together as a family and working through all the joys and struggles that family life presents. Our family is unusual in that my sister married my husband's brother. (Yes, that's legal and not just in Kentucky.) My sister claims responsibility for the whole thing since she's the one that prayed that she and I would still share the same last name as grown-ups. The result is that we can all gather together in one house, in-laws and out-laws alike. Our separate families are beginning to truly meld into one. Last year was wonderful but this year was even sweeter as we worked our way through Christmas Adam, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
Our faith journey was tentative this year, because everyone is working through our study of Catholicism. We attended the Presbyterians' church service as a reasonable compromise, but we both found it lacking the elements we were looking for. Our connection as a family to the larger body of the faithful has become complicated in ways we never expected but that are also invigorating. We are being stretched in our appreciation of doctrine, and our understanding of Christian practice. There were other moments of faith that were easy as an old pair of blue jeans. We read the Christmas story, dressed the kids up for a nativity play and sang every Christmas carol we know--and some we didn't.
There were all those other joys too. Christmas presents--thank you, Mary, for the frying pan and Mother for the satchel--cookies, and wonderful food. I must recommend the America's Test Kitchen Cookbook. I made everything from Crab Imperial to Candied Sweet Potato Casserole, and every dish turned out perfectly. We also enjoyed the Barefoot Contessa's, Penne with Five Cheeses. Sam's Club had all kinds of ready-made treats that we enjoyed such as Blackened Salmon, cheese, and Shrimp Scampi. My sister brought Grandmother's fudge. Mother brought her famous Christmas Wreath Bread, and Mom Vi baked us five different kinds of pie--bless you for the raspberry, mmmmmmm.
Throughout it all, the children grew up. They learned about sharing toys with cousins and siblings. They learned about giving up what is yours for the benefit of others. They learned the joy of giving--thanks guys for taking the kids to the Dollar Store. They learned about the Savior. They learned to be thankful for what they have and for what they are given. I was proud of all seven of them as they grew and worshiped and ate together. May they always be blessed with such happy hearts eager to do good.

Cleaning and Scrubbing can't wait 'til tomorrow

I love that little poem about how "cleaning and scrubbing can wait for tomorrow, for babies grow up, we've learned to our sorrow. So, quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep. I'm rocking my babies and babies don't keep." But it's Christmas and everyone is coming and the cobwebs need to go.

Unless I find myself moving faster than previously imagined possible this is my last post before Christmas. Merry Christmas. Remember who you are truly making preparations for and enjoy the treasure of His presence.

Blowout

You know you've been baking when you blow out your oven mitt.

The annual Christmas card

An old college beau refused to begin to date seriously until I promised that we'd still be exchanging Christmas cards into the far future, no matter the outcome. I promised, and until this year I've kept that promise. I can't send him one this year since he didn't bother sending me a forwarding address, that's ok, he hasn't kept his end of the bargain in a decade now. I wish him well, and I thank him for getting me started on a tradition I most certainly wouldn't have started on my own.
It's a strange thing to try and distill a year of family life into a card and one page newsletter. I combine the philosophical essay and the all-out brag fest into one, hopefully, interesting jumble. This year was especially difficult because the year was a rather strange one and full of rather strange happenings. In the end I played it safe, and the letter is pretty indistinguishable from the year's previous--new clip art though.
I considered skipping this year, but I've come to rely on writing out those addresses. It's satisfying to come to the end and look at the large stack of Christmas cheer ready to keep the US Post Office busy for a couple days. The feeling of keeping in touch with people as diverse as my kindergarten teacher--Hi, Miss Briggs! and my old college boyfriend--Oops. Having such a variety of people that are worth a stamp is reassuring that the world really is the optimistic place I've always expected it to be.
I'm sorry if you didn't get your card this year. It would help if you kept up with the forwarding address.

Amelia Bedelia's Christmas

No, I'm not referring to the predictably enjoyable Christmas book in the Amelia Bedelia series, Merry Christmas, Amelia Bedelia. I am referring to my approach to personal relationships which says that people will forgive you for almost anything if you can make a good dessert. As I've already mentioned, I have been involved in a cookie baking frenzy. The unexpected side affect of all those cookies in the freezer is a confidence in my decisions as I plan Christmas activities, menus and gifts that I wouldn't ordinarily enjoy. Everything you need to know about life you really do learn in kindergarten.
Merry Christmas to my former preschool/kindergarten students by the way. I'd love to hear from any of you that might find me here in my little corner of the world-wide web.

Finding my Temper

Often we talk about losing our temper, but lately I've been busy finding mine. I've had a tendency to deny that I've been injured, and so I've been carrying around the anger that results from injury without any way of acknowledging and dealing with it. The result has been a low grade anger that seems merely a product of a crabby temperament. The more I explore my conscience and all the mismash of things that I've had in there as guides for my understanding of life and morality, the more I am discovering these injuries and thereby finding a home for my temper.
"Ahhh, that's why I'm so upset," I find myself saying over and over. This of course makes possible the requisite forgiving and releasing of the anger. Pretending that my life has been perfect most certainly does not make it so, and recognizing and dealing with its imperfections seems to be the fastest way to inner peace. I thought that by denying that people I love have hurt me I was dealing with the issue in the most charitable and Christian way, but in reality I was doing both of us harm. They weren't allowed to apologize, and I wasn't able to forgive. Life is not perfect. The people I love are not perfect. Recognizing and accepting that is actually the better way of grace.

The Weight of Glory

I am a woman who struggles with avarice when it comes to books. One of my favorite things about Kurt is his complete acceptance of my need for books. One time I was apologizing, yet again, for an expensive trip to the bookstore and he looked at me and said "But you need them." That my friends is how you know you've got a keeper. In any case, I still agonize over book purchases. Could I get this from the library? Will I want to reread it? Is this really important enough to spend book budget on?
Sometime during college, I began to notice a certain nudge from the Holy Spirit when a book wasn't an indulgence, but an important step forward in my growth. I've found that I never regret books purchased after listening to that nudge. On my day off a week or two ago, I picked up the Joy of Cooking and then enjoyed an aimless wander through the shelves at Barnes and Noble. On an end cap was an array of Lewis. I don't have a complete collection of Lewis, much as I would like one, so when the Holy Spirit nudged me to pick up The Weight of Glory I didn't waste any time agonizing. I've been so glad I listened.
First, I found myself struggling to understand the conflicts within my conscience, and then as I was reading my latest acquisition, I came across the surprisingly applicable essay "Why I am not an Atheist." The way he laid out what our conscience is and how we are to use it was tremendously helpful. Second, I was reading Transposition when I suddenly understood a friend's short story in a new and helpful way. Thirdly, sorting through my conscience had led me to my JEPD crisis, and there it was again, my issue in Lewis' collection of essays. Lewis says much the same things about the Old Testament that my new Catholic Bible says. Now that's an opinion I can trust.
It is a surprising thing to hear from the Living God in a quiet nudge, and to find obedience so overwhelmingly repaid. I wish all the little nudges were this easy to discern and obey. I would be a much better person than I am.

Woman without a country

I've been studying Catholicism in an effort to decide if I want to convert or not. In the course of my studies I was given a Catholic study Bible. It has an enormous reader's guide in the front, almost the half the size of the book. I've been working my way through it. Today I get to JEPD, and to Catholics, literary analysis is a perfectly acceptable approach to Scripture for students and theologians, and I find myself really angry.
I went to a fairly prominent if not terribly academic evangelical university. As part of everyone's course work we were required to take either introductory or advanced classes on the Old Testament, the New Testament and Theology. I was put in the advanced group, and my professor for Old Testament was the then president of the Evangelical Theological Society. He was the best Evangelicalism had to offer. Every day we came in after reading our assignments from Cragie's Old Testament, and we'd shred the higher critical approach. We'd be shocked and amazed that such people could in any way consider themselves people of faith. I did very well in the class. A pre-med student and I set the curve and we set it high.
Two years later I took Literary Criticism, and suddenly the tools and ideas we'd roundly condemned and censured as destructive to the faith were now to be embraced and put into practice with vigor. While no one else seemed to find a problem with subjecting Mrs. Dalloway to critiques we wouldn't even consider applying to Scripture problematic, I couldn't do it. The underlying tension between don't think at all here, think intensely there was too much, and I had to withdraw from the class. No one recognized it as a crisis of conscience. The closest they came was considering if the professor was teaching heresy.
Now here I am again facing ye olde JEPD problem and I don't know where to take it. I don't know how to feel, and I don't know who to ask to explain this one to me. What do you do with a thinking Evangelical?

Cookie Crazy

I've been feeling the mood coming on for a couple of weeks now. Some have a need for speed. I have a need to bake. Christmas is the time to unabashedly indulge in cookies, cookies and more cookies. I can't tell if it's all the fussing and the mixing and the monitoring of the oven or if it's the sheer joy of such variety, creativity and abundance. I love baking cookies. The last time this mood struck with full force I ended up with something like 80 or 90 dozen cookies in the freezer. I put them to good use. I made up tins full of samples of each variety and gave them to the neighbors.
This year I'm only planning on twenty batches which will yield somewhere around 30 or 40 dozen.
If you live nearby, be looking for three different kinds of brownie, three different rolled and cut cookies and four drop cookies. I'm only really cutting loose in the brownie department, most of the cookies will be pretty standard, but still tasty. Big Lots let me down on the tins, so I'll need to find alternative packaging, but I'm pretty creative. Something will come to me. Everybody else, well, I'm sorry, but you should move closer I'd like to see more of you anyway.
Merry Christmas and Happy Baking.

In the Empty

Dandelions roar in forsaken places--
Stubbornly converting radiation into bloom.
Where cultivated flowers wither
The dandelion shouts.
"We are not forgotten.
We are not abandoned.
We are not alone.
If 2 dead fish can feed 5,000
We can reproduce 100 fold."

A bit of fun

I found this piece when I unearthed some notes and scribbles for a poem I was working on bemoaning my repetitive use of a certain rhyme scheme. I just enjoyed it's weird admixture of fear and Jiminy Cricket.

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray this scheme my fears to keep
I wish I knew another rhythmn
2 left feet can't do nothin' with 'em.

A bruised reed He will not break

Sometimes God liked the stuff he put in the Bible so much He quoted himself to get it in twice. One of my favorite passages is the passage from Isaiah 42 that Jesus fulfills as noted in Matthew 12:18-21. I love the idea that Jesus won't even break an already damaged reed, even a smoldering light will be allowed to smolder on. For too long now I've been a damaged reed and a smoldering light, but today I felt the touch of Jesus. Today I went to church, and no one hurt me. Today was a day of decision and I haven't made one yet. I was left to continue mending without any fanfare, fuss or deadline. Puzzled but pleasant people once again offered me the sign of peace as I once again sat through the Eucharist. My fellow classmates all went forward and underwent the peculiar ritual of having the sign of the cross made over them several times and several ways, and then they were dismissed, while we sat alone in the crowd of the confirmed.
Slowly it is dawning on me that I am safe. I have found a harbor where I can rest unmolested, unhurried and unharmed. I can listen for the voice of Jesus without adrenaline pounding in my ears. I can inquire for direction without the fear of disappointing others or being manipulated into hearing something I didn't hear. The hand of Christ is held out to me open in invitation not command. No one is love-bombing me into misery. Thank you, St. Mary's. I'm sorry it's taking so long.

Writing a letter to Santa

My husband told me to take today and go have fun. He said I'd been working way too hard, and I deserved a day off. I kissed his face and grabbed the car keys and headed out to the nicest mall in the area. It was wonderful. I finally broke down and bought The Joy of Cooking. I worked on my novel. I found a great top for our annual fancy date--on sale! I bought little doo-dads and stocking-stuffers. Then I saw The Nativity. If there'd been a guy at a table just outside the movie offering a DVD of what I'd just seen at some ridiculous price, I'd have bought. I haven't seen such a wonderful Bible movie ever. I apologize to fans of The Passion of the Christ but I didn't like that as much as I loved this. Take tissues.
Then I did a little more putzing to come back to the everyday world before driving and I saw a "write a letter to Santa" kit. It had cutesy stationary and envelopes boldly stating "no address required." And I remembered my father's letter to Santa.
My dad is one of those people who was born with faith, and as a child a lot of that faith was invested in Santa. He'd reached that age where believing in Santa can get a guy beat up, so his mother took him aside and gently filled him in. Dad wouldn't buy it. He told her she was wrong and that he'd prove it. He was going to write to Santa and ask him to bring something special just for his mommy so that she'd know that Santa was real. There was nothing more she could do but wait for the inevitable disillusionment Christmas day.
Christmas day came and all the packages were opened and everyone was enjoying their new toys when my dad saw a box that was still unopened. The shape was similar to the box his Pop Warner football pads had come in so Grandmother had Dad open it. When he did he erupted with "See, Mom. See. I told you Santa was real. I told you." There in the box was a beautiful bride doll for Grandmother just like Dad had asked. I have it in my hope chest, and to this day no one knows how it got there--except for Santa.
I've never had my kids write to Santa. I've presented Santa as a person to emulate, and we've watched the excellent video Nicholas, the Boy Who Became Santa, but I've never taught them that Santa brings their presents. Standing today looking at that goofy kit, I wondered if I kept them from a great faith building exercise. Maybe in my eagerness to keep the focus on Christ, I've missed an opportunity to let the children grow in faith on their level. Too late now for us, but maybe not for you.
Merry Christmas!