Filled Up

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This time of year is filled up! It’s filled with lovely music, with delightful treats and flickr, marc levin-the table is set...Happy Thanksgiving. CC lic 2.0delicious feasts, with decorations of every kind! It’s filled with events like the Christmas tree lighting at Rockefeller Center and Santa in the mall, with fabulous programs of amazing dancing and singing seen by thousands, and precious programs of children’s Christmas poems and crooked halos seen by loving churches.Through the commons.wikimedia.orgwindows of houses on the street where you live sparkling lights peek out of picture windows, while inside someone sips cocoa with marshmallows and sneaks another piece of fudge from the tin set aside for visitors.

It’s as though the world cleans house, puts on its Sunday best, and opens its doors to light and love. It is, after all, Christmas!

And though not everyone celebrates it, everyone benefits by its beauty and bounty and belief; belief that there is something better than what we see on TV, that the beauty of this earth goes beyond color and sound, that peace on earth, goodwill toward men can be more than a platitude. It is, you know. And it came on Christmas Day over 2,000 years ago.

The nation of Israel had waited thousands of years for the Messiah promised by thediploma-152024_640 pixabay (public domain CCO) prophets. Micah 5 gives us one of the prophecies, if you believe in that sort of thing. I do. The nation of Israel did, too; but prophecy often appears differently than those expecting it anticipate. For instance they probably didn’t anticipate a small town, unmarried girl or something as ordinary as shepherds doing their thing.

An angel visited a teen-aged girl named Mary. She was a good girl. She feared God and honored Him and trusted Him. And when the angel, Gabriel, appeared to her and told her that she had found favor in the sight of God; and that He had chosen her to be overshadowed by the Spirit of God; and that she would give birth to His Son, she was – well the Bible says she was ‘greatly troubled’.

If an angel not only suddenly appeared to you, but gave you such a wild message, you’d be greatly troubled, too. She was no doubt scared at the sight of Gabriel, but Mary’s faith in her Creator helped her to listen to his message. She didn’t close her eyes and pretend the angel was just her imagination. And she responded not with an ‘I don’t believe you’ or ‘can’t you find someone else’ or a flat out ‘no’.

She didn’t complain about the gossip that would certainly be spread about her. She didn’t reason with the angel that she could be stoned for being pregnant and not yet married. She didn’t talk about the many things that would certainly cause trouble in her life if this came to pass. Instead, she replied with one of the most beautiful passages of Scripture, something called The Magnificat. It’s found in Luke 1:46-55 and praises God for remembering the little folks and doing magnificent things with humble people.

Mary’s life wasn’t the only one initially affected. Now Joseph’s life was turned upside down, too. He had contracted to marry her, but learning of Mary’s pregnancy left him with few options as a God-fearing Jew. He could allow her to be stoned or he could get out of the contract and let the chips fall where they may. He prayed for God’s direction, then, like most men, he decided to fix it in the best way he knew. He decided he would get a quiet divorce in order to avoid her public humiliation.

However, an angel appeared to him in a dream and told him to go ahead with the marriage because Mary was telling the truth: her pregnancy was a result of the Holy Spirit. Joseph didn’t blame the dream on something he ate or drank. Instead, when Joseph woke up from this dream, he showed great courage and did what the angel of the Lord had commanded him. He took Mary home as his wife, but he had no physical intimacy with her until she gave birth to a son.

Even back in those days, government interfered in the lives of the common man. Caesar Augustus decreed that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. What a huge undertaking! However, it was this very thing that caused Joseph and Mary to have to travel from Nazareth in Galilee to Bethlehem, a town in Judea.

Bethlehem was bustling with citizens who had traveled there specifically to register for the census, and it resulted in packed inns and no room for a young couple who had had to travel more slowly due to a pregnancy. There was room in a cave or stable with the animals and that is where Mary and Joseph settled in for the night.

On this night there were shepherds watching flocks of sheep outside. Some shepherds might lock their sheep in a pen overnight, but not these shepherds. Some scholars think it’s possible they were watching over the lambs born to be sacrificed in the temple.

Did you know that a sacrificial lamb must be without any defect? What if something happened during its birth that would mar or injure it? For this reason, shepherds caught the lambs intended for sacrifice in something called swaddling clothes – to keep them pure and unspotted.

281 Bokeh Free Images on PixabayThe baby was born that night in the stable, and the biggest, brightest birth announcement ever came to the shepherds. First one angel appeared to them, and God’s glory shone around them. They were terrified and, again, if an angel suddenly appeared to you, you’d be terrified, too. But the angel told them to not be afraid. He then gave them a sign: they would find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

Then a large company of angels also appeared and the heavens erupted with praise to God. That great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.”

And the shepherds hurried to Bethlehem and found everything just as they had been told by the angel. They found Mary. They found Joseph.

And they found something that held more meaning to them than it usually does to us. Cross_in_sunsetThey found a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes – the very thing they used to catch the new sacrificial lambs at birth. Can you say “foreshadowing”?

And they spread the word everywhere they went to anyone to would listen. And those people told their friends and neighbors. And so news of such an amazing event spread to whoever would listen.

Wise men from the East followed an unusual sight in the sky – a star that was unusual for its brightness and connection to prophecies, and timing. It took them awhile to travel, so that when the star came to its destination, Jesus wasn’t a newborn baby anymore. public-domain-image.com 2That star didn’t stop over a stable. It stopped over the home of Mary and Joseph and Jesus. The wise men knew Jesus was special. They knew he was a king. They worshipped him and they brought him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Yes, this time of year is filled with an abundance of things. It’s a beautiful, blessed, filled-up season, but it is all these things because of the one thing that happened in the fullness of time – the birth of the world’s Savior, Jesus.

As we watch the darkness fill with candlelight this Christmas Eve, let’s give praise to God. Let’s praise Him for His bountiful generosity during the season of Christmas and, most of all, give thanks for His unspeakably beautiful and precious gift – Jesus.

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The Star

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The house was a wonderland of tiny snowflakes and bells, of gingerbread men and spritz cookies and fudge, and of wreaths of every size in every room. Scents of cinnamon and orange peel lightly infused the air. Candy canes bunched together in a freechristmaswallpapers.netcut-glass jar. On the dining room table stood a gingerbread house, carefully baked and designed with loving hands. And on a bookcase shelf near the mantel, not too obvious, but fitting in just so, the crèche.

Her eyes roamed over each scene as she walked casually from room to room. She’d always loved Christmas and her habit of decorating for The Day was one of the few things that had outlasted her troubles. The only thing that was missing was the star. She had one at one time and not too long ago, either. A few Christmases ago, it had fallen from the top of the tree and broken beyond repair. That was the year she had retired. It was the year she had been diagnosed with something that sucked the life from her until modern medicine and sheer determination had killed it. And it was the year she had sat alone in silence just as the last minutes of the day had ticked away, and city dwellers were welcoming in the new year with little horns and midnight kisses.

Oh, she didn’t mind the silence. Before – before she’d battled death – she’d loved joining in life with those around her. But she’d changed. Since her illness, she’d become a bit of a loner and quietness soothed her more often than not. Still, at this time of year when families were traveling long distances just to spend the day together and friends gathered for dinners and teas and parties, her quiet life tweaked her. She thought maybe she should read again the Christmas cards sent to her and send her own in return. Perhaps she should join the coffee party announced for the next day by old friends, the annual event she had ignored during her silent years. Maybe she should go to church. An inaudible, dismissive laugh escaped her lips. No, of the many things she could think of only the loveliness around her merited her attention.

She looked at the beautiful tree placed in front of her window. She’d done at least that; a gesture to those passing by that someone in her house believed in the light of life. But it still bothered her that the topmost branch of the Christmas tree from where the little star had pronounced its benediction for over forty years was now bare. It troubled her that the tree’s top missed the star which most assuredly belonged there.

She turned off each light, sat for a time in the dark, then stretched out on the couch 1247049723_c54dbb2677_m starhttpswww.flickr.comphotostoasty1247049723thinking of better days and happier times. She must have drifted off, for it was two in the morning when she woke. She rubbed her eyes, then rubbed them again. There above the crèche was a little light. It wasn’t the shape of anything, but it made her happier than she recalled ever being. And she watched it as, in the stillness of the night, it glowed with a warmth she had forgotten. As she watched it in its tiny place above the Christ child, peace flooded her spirit. It was as though goodness, itself, was in the room with her, filling her up with hope and love.

She glanced at the clock. Who cared for sleep? If she hurried, she could address those unsent Christmas cards and still make it in time for the coffee party.

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Curtain Call

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The weather forecasters all agreed. It was going to be a doozy. The balmy warmth that had washed November with its counterfeit promises was about to be blasted to smithereens by a winter storm of snow and ice and the kind of cold that froze not only toes, but bones. Newscasters, mayors, hospitals, and the police force throughout the Midwest pleaded with anyone who watched or heard: Stay indoors.

Thea had pleaded, herself. Stay put. Don’t come. But it was the first Christmas since her husband had died, the first Christmas their only child had been without her strong, dependable papa who always made everything better. He had owned a small theater company that barely scraped by. His grand plans to expand and change lives had never materialized. But it didn’t matter to Clara. To Clara, he surpassed all the directors in New York and London combined. His words echoed in her memory: “Follow your spark, sweetheart. Follow your light.”

She had finally turned off her phone to ignore her mother’s messages. She didn’t want to hear them because they told her something that didn’t accommodate her desires. She didn’t want to listen because she was nineteen.

She wasn’t a child anymore. She could take care of herself. If the roads became impassable, she’d simply take the nearest exit and find a café to wait it out.

Miles multiplied, and as millions of tiny snowflakes pelted her window, obscuring dark from light, Clara began peering down every passing exit, each town’s darkened signs a testimony to businesses closed to the impending storm.

Thea jumped at the teapot’s whistle, then scuffed to the kitchen. With a shaking hand, she poured the steaming water into the cup of peppermint tea, then held the cup close to her face the better to feel the warmth of it. She glanced at the clock. Clara would have been on the road ten hours now if she had left as planned. Then, in a sudden act of faith, Thea poured a second cup.

https://pixabay.com/en/blizzard-snow-flurry-snowflakes-91904/ public domain

She placed it on the fireplace mantel, then stood in the spot she had haunted for hours this day as she had watched the sky turn from winter white to darker gray until light receded into wind-whipped, snow-covered darkness.

What was that? She squinted, then blinked. Her breath fogged the window and she felt its cold pane on her cheek. The infinitesimal light grew larger. A light, but not headlights. A spotlight shone down on the car as it inched its way down the street following a string of footlights that lit its path.

“And then,” Clara concluded her story of sliding on the icy road and desperate prayers for help, “the lights came on. It felt like I was back at Dad’s theater.”

They held hands as through the window they watched the curious lights dim, then go out in the whiteout of the night’s blizzard.

Image: https://pixabay.com/en/blizzard-snow-flurry-snowflakes-91904/ public domain

 

In The Meantime

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Years ago I decided I should start a gratitude journal. It might have been an idea from Oprah, Regis and Kathie Lee, or Reading Rainbow. I can’t recall, though I do recall the sound of the narrator’s voice from The Poky Little Puppy vhs tape. She was a good ol’ gal. The journal wasn’t meant for lofty thoughts. It was just for simple thanks.

During this season of Thanksgiving I thought it might be interesting and kind of fun to httpspixabay.comenbuilding-blocks-toys-play-abc-123-397143 public domainpull out that journal. For the sake of imagined privacy, I will not name names. This is from – let’s just call it ‘the early years’. Here are some entries:

  • Going into the kitchen and coming upon 3 humming happily as she plays with her toy broom and baby carriage.
  • I’m thankful I can pray for others. Whether I hear a siren and pray for a stranger or for someone on the prayer chain or, like tonight,, hear of something on the T.V. I just heard comedian Bill Cosby’s son was fatally shot and found along the highway; and I prayed for that family and will again.
  • Graham crackers with frosting.
  • The nasal suction thing.
  • The light in little 4’s eyes.
  • I got the floors washed today.
  • Bleach.
  • We have enough money for more milk.
  • I got a nap today!
  • I got the paper read.
  • Everyone ate their supper.
  • I found a parking lot to park in.
  • The thrift store.
  • The kids clapped when I placed supper on the table (parmesan noodles, cooked carrots, applesauce) – such good kids.
  • A lovely nap!
  • Everybody is sleeping in their own bed.
  • 2 told me death is like a peanut. The shell stays and the peanut goes up to heaven. Then 1 added some practicality, “or like a snail”.
  • There was a 1/2 hour period of time when it was quiet and Brian and I sat in the same room, reading.
  • The cross.
  • Tea.

It’s instructive of what my life was like then; a little snapshot of small things that made me grateful. There are only a couple of big things on the list: prayer and the cross. Without them there would be no list. Not for me. (Or maybe I should say without them I would be such a different person, I’m not sure I would make a list.) The rest, though, are the minutia in the life of a mother with young children. It does seem I was a bit overly focused on sleep. (Just know there were other entries with the word ‘nap’ in them.) But those days of limited sleep and money were every bit as good as days with more of both, maybe better. And that’s what gratefulness is, isn’t it: Acknowledgement of the small things in our lives that fill us up?

As we come upon this time of Thanksgiving, let’s be glad we have not only the capacity for gratefulness, but know Someone to thank. Even during these days of tragedy and hostility we can find the good things, the interesting or happy or satisfying moments.

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We, my friends, could very well be witnessing the waning days of this old world of ours. People have thought that before now, of course.

There’s a lot of passion about a number of things. People, good folks, are divided over how best to live out our faith. I wonder if Jesus aches at our arguments even as He waits for word that it’s time. The earth, itself, rumbles here and there with nature’s groanings. There are a few unfulfilled prophecies to watch for in the meantime. But that’s just it. IN THE MEANTIME, while we wait for the next shoe to drop and do whatever we decide is the best thing to do during these days, we can be thankful. This world is a good one. It always has been. It’s still beautiful and the people in it can be, too. Every season brings its own gifts. Let’s be grateful while we have time to show it.

Images: https://pixabay.com/enbuilding-blocks-toys-play-abc-123-397143-public-domain.jpg; goodfreephotos.com11.jpg

One Thing

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This old world has seen a lot over the years. It has seen the magnificence of its own birth when everything was fresh and pure and splendid and thriving in the excitement of life. It has seen the formation of families and of nations; and witnessed the goodness, security, and peace; or the harshness, manipulation, and destruction of hope that infuse them depending on whether their leaders are Godly or self-centered. It has witnessed quiet acts of desperation and unnoted acts of charity. It has seen everything there is to see in day-to-day moments and millennia of history.

A person, you and I, doesn’t see as much. The things that we see in our daily lives and the changes we notice over our few decades are just a drop in a grand ocean of time. Our viewpoint is limited to what we see or hear or read; or, if we make the effort, think for ourselves. That’s unusual, though. Most of spoken thought is simply repeated thought. We aren’t ever as wise as we might imagine nor as good.

We have the same hours in a day as anyone throughout this big wide world has ever had. We can fill the minutes with small things or big things that no one, not even the one who does them, will remember a year from now. Those things seem so important. We are so hurried with our duties, so tired with our work.

Still, there is something that helps our vision, an act that clarifies muddled viewpoints, one work that doesn’t tire, at least not in the common sense of tiredness. Yet it fights battles we cannot see, meets unmet needs of those we might not even know, and connects us with the One who made this old world that has seen so much over the years. That unseen thing leads us from that which we see to something beyond our limited sight.

Now you get to choose. Will you wring your hands when the next bomb goes off, light a candle and say a prayer, then continue on with life as you’ve become accustomed to living it? Or will you take the other road, the one that appears to be inactive because it’s invisible?

One uninterrupted hour. Every day. Choose a singular spot. Be part of the magnificence! PRAY.

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One Soldier

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He wasn’t sure of himself. He never had been. He’d never been a stand out kind of guy. His grades were unremarkable and he was probably forgotten by his classmates before the last strains of Pomp and Circumstance died away. He had few noticeable skills. He was not the one the coach had depended on or praised. He had been placed in an inconspicuous part of the school choir. Throughout his young life he’d had the same insecurities as everyone else who was so focused on their own they failed to see his.

Sgt. Tim Martin, an infantryman with Headquarters and Headquarters Company of the 1st Battalion, 17th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division, shows evidence of the long journey after returning from Operation Buffalo Thunder II at Forward Operating Base Spin Boldak, Afghanistan, July 2, 2012. During the eight-day mission, Afghan and American forces cleared more than 120 kilometers of rugged terrain and escorted approximately 60 truckloads of humanitarian aid for distribution to the people of Shorabak.

But that was the thing. Somewhere beyond the self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy he wondered if the inconspicuous life was really the majority life, the ordinary life, the normal life. If that life – his kind of life – was one that most knew intimately, yet denied publicly, he was as ready as anyone to do the job before him. Maybe life wasn’t about standing out as much as it was doing the work in front of you; not running from it nor ignoring it nor disparaging it, but just doing it.

The whir of the plane’s engines grew louder. He stepped into not just a plane, but so much more. He handed over his known for the unknown and took his stand as one more unheralded, noble life.
http pixabay.com en eagle-america-flag-bird-symbol-219679
 Armistice Day, also known as Veterans Day, is November 11.
Note: This slice of prose is not the story of the soldier pictured. His story is as follows: Photo: https://www.flickr.com/photos/dvids/7519763810 cc attribution 2.0.jpg of Sgt. Tim Martin, an infantryman with Headquarters and Headquarters Company of the 1st Battalion, 17th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division, shows evidence of the long journey after returning from Operation Buffalo Thunder II at Forward Operating Base Spin Boldak, Afghanistan, July 2, 2012. During the eight-day mission, Afghan and American forces cleared more than 120 kilometers of rugged terrain and escorted approximately 60 truckloads of humanitarian aid for distribution to the people of Shorabak.
Photo: http-pixabay.com-en-eagle-america-flag-bird-symbol-219679.jpg

Predawn Visitor

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I could feel it staring at me though my eyes were closed and the room was still dark. I knew only that it was small with a big presence. I could tell it was small, because its breath on my face was slight. I claim it had a large presence because I had lain there under my covers sensing its proximity for a good five minutes, too afraid to open my eyes.

It was of no use – lying still and silent while my unknown enemy stared. I opened my eyes and met his gaze: small, round, black button eyes blinking in the dark.

I started to speak, but my throat, dry from sleep and fear, prevented me at first.

Finally, I whispered, “Who are you? How did you get here?”

I felt his breath. He blinked once more, and was gone.

Every night after that he returned, watching me until I felt his stare and awoke. I lost sleep, knowing what was to come, unable to keep my drooping eyes open long enough to catch his entrance, not knowing how to keep him from his secret mode of appearance and retreat.

Is this the thing of nightmares? Is this a harbinger of a future of unexpected haunt and impossible solutions to problems I would face?

Beware, dear reader, not of things that go bump in the night, but of things that make no sound at all.commons.wikimedia.orgPhoto: commons.wikimedia.org

One Moon

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Last night I sat in my dark living room with the curtains open so I could watch the lunar eclipse, aka blood moon, from the comfort of my living room loveseat. The pictures disseminated in the weeks leading up to it made it look like it would be vivid and amazing.

From my point of view, the moon had more of an orange tinge than the red it appeared to have in those pictures. It was a full moon alright, but it’s size didn’t seem much different from what I have grown used to over half century.

Was it my vision that was off or did I just not have a close enough perspective? Was everyone who saw what I saw, but exclaimed over it just listening to what they were told without paying attention to their own senses?

The moon was eclipsed by a sure and steady shadow moving with unavoidable precision, not that we commons.wikimedia.org. creativecommons licwould want to avoid it. Natural phenomena, whether or not they live up to the hype, are pretty special, after all.

Think of it: that moon, whether appearing fairly ordinary to my unaided eye or whether viewed as the amazingly huge, beautiful orb caught through the lens of a photographer, was seen by people from all points of the earth over which it hangs. The child in Buenos Aires and the nursing home resident in Sheboygan peering out his window, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and the street sweeper in India, the Pepperdine University college student and the Lincoln Elementary School third grader allowed to stay up late all saw the moon last night. People all over the world watched the moon from indoors or outdoors or affluence or austerity.

Every eye looking at that moon, every person with a happy or horrible history, every perspective, whether from comfort or constraint, saw the same light in the sky. And while they were watching, God was watching them.

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Spinach and ‘Shrooms

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There’s a lady on T.V. who cooks some really great-looking recipes. She subscribes to the 80/20 theory of eating 80% healthful and giving yourself 20% treats (read unhealthy, but usually sweet, sometimes salty, and among the things that Bob Harper wouldn’t approve of). She’s an inspiration. I should do more than nod my head in agreement.

In the spirit of good eating and healthy recipes, here’s something I threw together that actually tasted pretty good. Caveat: Unless I’m following a recipe, I don’t measure when I cook. In the recipe below, I am giving you a calculated guess on the measurements since – altogether now – I don’t measure when I cook. Therefore, make it work by adding or subtracting as you desire.

Spinach and ‘Shrooms

  • 1/4 c. olive oil
  • 1/2 onion, chopped
  • 1 1/4 c. mushrooms, chopped
  • 1 handful of cherry tomatoes, halved

Sautee in skillet on medium/medium high heat for around 5 min.IMG_3769

Add 5 oz. fresh baby spinach and cover (glass lid preferable). Steam at same temperature for a couple of minutes until spinach wilts. It won’t take long.

Sprinkle with feta cheese. Salt and pepper to taste.

Enjoy!

80/20 reference: Southern Fried Fitness http://robynshea.com/

Blobbing

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“How’s your blob?” This, from my dear mother (aka Jean the Queen) who’s idea of writing has to do with a pen and a lovely card or letter which she writes and sends to various fortunate people in her life. A blog, a book, a letter: who’s to say which is better?

“It’s called a blog, Mom.”

“What?”

“A blog.”

“So have you been blobbing?”

Sigh. (Are you really not hearing me or are you amusing yourself?)

This, part of a recent conversation with my mother about the various activities in our lives. The year has been full, and sometimes things get pushed aside in order to make room for other things.

My cousin tried to warn me. When I started this blog (see first post here: https://www.myfiresidechat.com/2013/10/29/treasure/ ), he cryptically said, “It’s like buying a cat. You have to feed it.”

I’ve been starving this cat a bit, but it will survive. It will survive while I muddle around learning how to sell – something I rate right up there on my ‘the last thing in the world I’m comfortable with’ list the way other people rate public speaking.

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It will rub up against the furniture while I write posts for other bloggers in order to let different audiences know about my book.

It will hide under the bed while I figure out the best way to autograph a book (on the title page under the title, full name – subject to change as I learn) and how to do a reading at a book store (introduction of myself, the genesis of the book, and 15 minutes of reading followed by book signing – subject to change as I learn).

It will wander outside and get stuck in a tree while I try to figure out how to make a meme. Yes, I did figure out how to find a hat for the monkey just last night. My struggle with a computer design program, which for all intents and purposes seems quite a simple way to design memes or ads or whatever we should call them for the general population, has been much longer than is understandable even to me. The fellow who narrates the tutorial (the one who tells me to find a hat to put on the picture of the monkey) has a lovely voice and seems so calm. He would be appalled at what is happening on my end of the computer every time he gives a next instruction.

It will jump into a chair and nap while I make cold calls and send emails and a review copy of my book to bookstores.

But every so often, I’ll reach down and pet it and feed it. Someday soon when I’ve figured things out, I’ll get back to writing more again which will satisfy not only the cat, but me, too. And my mom. Though she doesn’t read my blog. And calls it a blob.

Photo: http://www.freestockphotos.biz/stockphoto/17885 imagesX15DD7Q1