Come away from glare of city lights, Of sparkling baubles, flattering speech; Walk far and fast from false allure, And surface treasure, now impeach.
Reach deep into the mines of God; Stretch high to beauty still unsung. Consider better thought and find The unsearched gem of heaven’s tongue.
— CJP
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“I wanted to protect you.”
That’s what my husband answered when I asked him why he insisted on going as we crawled into bed at 3:15 a.m. after a very long trip to get one of the kids back to his university after Christmas break. (His car’s transmission chose Christmas break as the time to hand in its resignation.)
Instead of making the trip by myself on Thursday with maybe a layover until the return trip on Friday, we made the whole thing on the day some touchy weather hit. A trip including a bit of snow, slippery roads, numerous cars in the ditch, and a very exciting episode of a big, beautiful truck right in front of us spinning every which way made for a longer than anticipated drive. You want to know about the truck? I was the driver at the time, and after it had come to a rather breath-taking stop, and I had avoided even a hint of a connection between our two vehicles and driven around it as it faced sideways, there was a traumatized silence in the car from my husband and son. I pumped my fist and yelled “Yea, Mom!”. Motherhood has taught me that sometimes you have to thank yourself if others near and dear are slow to do so.
I’ve been thinking about my husband’s answer (given by someone who in the dead of night, despite loud tromping sounds and glass shattering would insist it was only the wind) and have concluded that definitions from the dictionary aren’t necessarily the ones we use in real life.
Who was the prince who fought through the briars to get to his princess? Was it the guy in Sleeping Beauty? Raise your hand if that’s been your experience. However, all my life I’ve watched my dad pull the car up to the door of wherever my parents happened to be, and go around to open the car door for my mom. All my life I’ve watched this. Even when I started filling the role of chauffeur and my dad had to resort to using a walker, he’d still pull the car door open for my mom, one hand on the walker and one on the door. That’s kind of a princely thing to do, isn’t it?
What about the prince in your life who keeps your gas tank filled (no, really, I’ve heard of that happening), or carries your very heavy sleeping toddler as you walk through the mall, or mows the lawn after a long day at work? I heard of a guy who was too exhausted to keep driving and pulled into the rest area so his wife could take the wheel. He instantly fell asleep, his tired wife drove around the rest area, woke him up and told him it was his turn again. And when, miles down the road, what she’d done finally dawned on him, he didn’t blink – he just kept driving. Just to be clear – it wasn’t me. Do you think a fellow with a farmer’s tan who keeps going despite his own exhaustion is in truth more of a prince than the animated hero of great fairy tales?
I very often feel like a princess. Her name was Cinderella before she had those glass slippers. The castle where you live might not have servants. It probably doesn’t have servants. Okay, it doesn’t have servants. But there’s something to be said for good intentions and doing what we can despite not having a white horse or ball gown.
Often the protective thing to do is to be there just in case. Thanks for protecting me, honey. You’re a prince!
Image: en.wikipedia.org Cinderella_1950_Disney”Cinderella 1950 Disney” by Walt Disney – Original Trailer (1950). Licensed under Public Domain via Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cinderella_1950_Disney.jpg#/media/File:Cinderella_1950_Disney.jpg
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a present. It may have been the necklace she’d received from her grandmother when she was twelve, or maybe it was some other little thing she’d received from one of the foster families in the years after that and before she’d run away. But it was all so very long ago now.
She’d never blamed anyone. She’d never known her parents, them both being the kind that disappeared when troubles arose – troubles such as a baby. Her grandmother had cared for her until she, herself, needed care. It had just seemed best to start out on her own. She’d done pretty well, too, if she did say so, herself. Never married. No, not that. Too much – trouble.
But she’d made a decent living and a few friends here and there, and had retired before they’d let her go, though no one would have said anything about age.
When December came, she had carefully lifted out cardboard boxes holding the treasures of her favorite time of year and had pulled each piece out to put in its proper place. She wasn’t certain why she felt compelled every year to do such a thing. There wasn’t anyone to make 
happy by little Christmassy touches, and she didn’t actually believe in the baby in the manger. Jesus was a word that slipped out when she was frustrated, though why she should use the name of the one she didn’t actually believe in mystified her if she thought about it, so she mostly didn’t.
Christmas Eve descended into a clear, dark sky sprinkled with stars. As she sipped some cocoa, she sat back and took in the sight of her house decorated for a day celebrating the birth of someone who she deemed unworthy of celebrating and wished this year would be different. She wasn’t one of those who believed something you bought for yourself could be called a gift, but she wished, this once, she might receive a gift.
The doorbell rang, and she jumped up. No one ever came to visit. Who would come now? She opened the door to nothing but cold air on a dark night. She leaned out and peered down the street. No one. Yet there, on the top step was a box with her name on it. She pulled it into the warmth of her home and slit the tape.
And there,
nestled in straw
was the best gift of all.
This time of year is filled up! It’s filled with lovely music, with delightful treats and 
delicious 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 
windows 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 the
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.
The 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. 
They 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. 
That 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 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 
cut-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 
thinking 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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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.
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
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 
pull 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:
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.
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.
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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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.
