Wondering While Wandering

I just wonder if anyone else has ever seen this in their neighbor's yard at Christmastime. This is a home not too far from us, but far enough that I don't know the people who live there. Each year I see these cute  little choristers and wonder who the people are who live in this house, where they found these guys, or whether they are homemade.

I wonder if the neighbors are singers themselves. I wonder if they would be happy if I knocked on their door someday and just said, "I want to meet the people who have such cute Christmas decorations."

To my thinking, this is just rather unusual, and in a delightful way. I wonder if these are decades old or not. They certainly bring a sense of "times past" when I see them.

I wonder, and then I wander on down the street.

Blogland Faux Pas

Today a very kind reader from the "daily in December" writing group, a person I have never met, sent me an email that, among other kindnesses, expressed concern that she had left comments on this blog but had never seen them appear. She asked if I had seen them, or if they had disappeared into the blogosphere.

I had, in fact, wondered over the past month at the lack of a single comment on my blog, when I was writing more than I have in years. But I was not getting any emails from the blog, as I always had before, telling me when a comment was awaiting moderation. It has been so long since I wrote here on any regular basis, and I know so many people use Wordpress, I wondered if perhaps my blog is just too difficult for commenting, or maybe my writing was just not interesting enough to warrant comment. But I just kept at it, telling myself it was good for developing discipline, whether or not anyone were reading what I wrote.

This email, however, led me to go to the "dashboard" and do a bit more exploration. It took a bit, but I finally found the hiding place of about 25 comments people had left, that were just sitting there waiting!

Having just finished watching the movie Emma this evening (the Gwynneth Paltrow version), I can hear voices in my head speaking in lovely British accents, having a conversation about the impropriety of keeping people's comments waiting, the lack of generosity it shows, and how I ought to have been more diligent in ascertaining the situation behind the lack of comments. What a poor example I have provided of blog etiquette.

But mostly I'm just glad someone pointed this out, and that I found the comments. And I do hope I can figure out how to get some kind of notification sent to my email for the future. Any help with that is welcome.

To all the temporarily banished commenters, thank you for your patience and good will! I assure you I will be on the lookout for comments in the future!

Snow Geese on Arkansas Field

We drove and looked, and looked and drove.

Field after field.

No geese.

"I guess they've gone further South by now."

"I had so hoped to see the geese on this drive."

"Seems like they have been here in December before, but maybe I'm remembering November."

"I thought it was Christmas; there was that song....how long ago was that....?

maybe I was listening to Christmas music,

just earlier in the month,

on a separate trip."

Another field of water, but no geese.

No geese.

We sighed and accepted it, stopped looking out the windows,

returned our attention to each other and the conversation.

And then, a long row of trees, and beyond, another flat field.

And there they were.

Snow geese.

Hundreds? Thousands? How to know?

They humbled and rejoiced us with their numbers, their beauty, their very presence.

And as always, I remembered that other day, that other year.

The geese that appear year after year,

They might as well be angels.

Angels of a lesser order, of course, but messengers for sure.

O ye beneath life's crushing load,

Whose forms are bending low,

Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow;

Look now, for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing

Oh, rest beside the weary road

And hear the angels sing.

Tradition, Tradition

It's funny how you can develop a soft spot in your heart for something that the rest of you can't stand.

That's how boiled custard is for me. I've never liked the taste of it. I don't really even like the feel of it, the consistency. I don't care for custard pie, or coconut custard pie. I can't think of anything called custard that I like.

But in another way I love boiled custard.

Because the only place I ever heard of it or had it, was at my grandparents' house at Christmas time. Even though I didn't like it, it was clearly considered a special treat, on par with the wonderful desserts we had--pecan pie, coconut cake, or some other delicious treat. So I knew it must be special stuff, and I didn't what was wrong with me that I didn't like it.

So when I saw these cute containers of boiled custard in the grocery store, and I had in the back of my mind that my husband did like the stuff when he tried it many years ago at Grandmother's house, I decided to buy some and bring it home.

Turns out he said he never did like it, either, and it wound up being disposed of.

But the truth is, I kept it for a good while in the refrigerator just because each time I saw it, it reminded me of Grandmother and her voice and accent, and the coziness of her kitchen and the elegance of her dining room, and the happiness of our times there.

Life is full of paradox. And part of me still wishes I could like boiled custard, just to have that in common with the grownups in my young life. And because it seems part of a tradition, a culture, that may be fading away. The same way I wish I could speak with the accent my grandmother had, that wonderfully rich, elegant Southern accent. But I can't, at least not for long.

On the other hand, they're selling boiled custard at Superlo Grocery, so maybe that tradition is in good hands. I hope so. I do hope so.

Merry Christmas

"Today, we insist that everything has changed, and that it is good. We rejoice that God has come into our world, in human flesh, and we believe that Christ will come again. We give thanks for the Christ we know now, in the poor and oppressed and despairing of this world, and we believe that we will know him also when he comes in glory. today, we are not resigned; we stand up and sing, for God has not given up on us. We are his own, and we are welcomed to the feast."

~Kathleen Norris, God with Us

Today was a beautiful day of seeing how faith has been working, and is working, in lives that have suffered and struggled mightily. It's not my place to share those stories in detail, but each of these pictures connects with the life of someone who could have easily despaired, but instead stands up and sings because of their faith in the Christ who came into the world and has overcome the world, the suffering, and death.

The image above was sent to me this morning by a dear friend who lived through battles of war in Europe years ago, and now battles illness in later years. She is beautiful and brave, and her faith in Christ strengthens me.

This is the shadow of the wreath on our front door and reminds me of my dear friend who said she always loved the pictures I posted of light and shadow images. She is no longer with us, and I will always remember how courageously and lovingly she faced her illness and death. She won't come through our front door again, but when I see surprising shadow images now I always think of her. She was not resigned to the darkness but trusted in the light, believing that Christ will come again and trusting she could await his coming in glory with hope.

And this little tree is a gift from my sister, given because our grandmother had one like it all the years of our celebrating Christmas at her house. My grandmother's life, and the lives of many people in my own family, including my own, have been changed forever because of Christ coming into the world. Lives that could easily have been lived in despair have instead been lived in hope, in perseverance rather than resignation. When I reflect on what could have been, and what instead is, I am amazed.

In a different way, it is as beautiful and amazing as the moon on the water the other night. God's light has shone in our lives, reflecting off people around us and people who came before us, and when the light shines in the darkness, the darkness cannot overcome it. "God has not given up on us," and so we do not give up.

We stand up and sing. We give thanks. And we feast. Merry Christmas!

The Moon by Night

If I could have stopped, I would be able to share some of the most beautiful images I have seen in a long, long time.

I was driving from Searcy to Memphis the evening of the 22nd and left later than originally planned. I needed to be in Memphis by a particular time for a dinner date. So I could not stop to take pictures.

But I am so glad I left at the time I did. Otherwise I might have missed it.

As it was, just as I was coming out of a more treed and building-ed area, and the sun had just about finished setting, over ahead of me to my left was the biggest moon I have ever seen, about half above and half below the horizon. Rosy peach colored. And just huge.

And for the next half hour or so, I was driving through the flat, wide expanse of Highway 64 with the beautiful huge moon before me, so thankful to be right there, right then. If I had left any earlier or later it would not have been the same. If I had been in an area with trees or buildings, it would not have been the same.

Once the moon had risen a good bit, the timing was perfect for something I could not have imagined. I came to the area where the rice fields were flooded. By then it was very dark. For several minutes it was a movie director's dream--that huge moon shining in the sky, and the light cast by the moon's reflection shimmered across the surface of the water out there in the middle of nowhere, with nothing competing for the eye's attention.

Of course I had to pay attention to the road and the traffic, but there wasn't much traffic, and so I was able to soak in the beauty of this magical evening, this magical moon.

I had been listening on the way over to an interview with Sir Roger Scruton about his book The Soul of the World. I haven't read it, but from what I gathered via the interview, I think he would have agreed with me that night when I felt that I was seeing much, much more than just a rock in the sky reflecting light waves. I think no one could see what I saw and experience it that impersonally, unless they had been taught over time to disconnect themselves from the world around them and the experience of beauty and awe.

I couldn't stop, because of my time constraints, and I think the memory of that moon that evening will remain in my mind and heart longer than if I had been able to stop and photograph it, perhaps, because I gave it my full attention without placing it or framing it. If anything, I felt as if it were looking at me, helping me be in my proper place.

"So God made.....the moon to rule over the night."   On this night, I saw the majesty of this beneficent ruler! And it occurred to me that every month, a full moon rises over these fields. Every month, it shines on the water. Every month, this beauty is created, whether anyone notices or not. It's fascinating to think about that. That God has made things in such a way that incredible beauty abounds continually, with or without a human being to notice it. Because God is beauty, with or without an audience. It is simply who he is.

I missed a few nights of writing because of the trip and catching up at home, but this experience of the moon was so lovely and connects in my mind to the discipline of watching and waiting that comes with Advent. We miss so much beauty if we are not practicing waiting, developing eyes to see and ears to hear.

I'm thinking of the shepherds in the fields at night. Something about being awake at night seems to be important if we want to see and hear God's messengers, at least some of them.

The glory of the Lord, like any light, shines brightest in the night.

Messiah

Tonight we heard Messiah by the Memphis Symphony Orchestra and a small choir formed from the Memphis Symphony Chorus. They outdid themselves. It was wonderfully, powerfully done. I'll be dreaming the music, I suppose.

The man next to me had brought the score with him and said for me to poke him if he accidentally started singing. It is hard for me too, in a way, to sit there and not sing. I saw a woman on our row mouthing the words.

Seeing the people around me was almost as delightful as hearing the music. Something about the way the pews were shaped and placed made it easier than usual to see people. And because they kept the lights up.

So I saw this man with his well worn score, the woman mouthing the words. People all around were gently swaying in time to the music, as I found myself frequently doing. I noticed a woman two rows ahead of us who could barely contain her joy when it was time for the Hallelujah Chorus, and when everyone broke into applause, she not only clapped but also raised her hands upward, the way people sometimes do in worship.

I sat there and wondered how many people there believed what was being sung, or how they believed it. I thought about this again after Worthy Is the Lamb, when the applause rang on and on and on, longer than usual for a symphony performance. And certainly longer than you would expect for a piece so frequently performed, so familiar.  My own hands began to hurt from it, but there was no way I would stop as long as it was socially acceptable to keep clapping! The joy in the air was palpable.

Messiah is long and covers much territory, and my mind went to so many places this evening as I listened to the music--to the stories and ideas the passages point to, and to times in my own life when I've sung the music, or when I've "beheld the Lamb" in a particular way. I thought about the ways I've gone astray like sheep, and about my high school music teacher introducing us to various pieces and talking about how Handel used the music to "show" sheep straying here and there and valleys being exalted and rough places being made plain.

Tonight I wondered where all the minds in the room were going, what all was represented by the people present, what their stories were, why they loved this music so much. And there was no doubt at all that they did, given that prolonged applause. I thought of Kurt Vonnegut's story about the child who had seen the sun, living on a planet where no one had seen the sun and didn't believe it was real. They teased the child who talked about it, and the story doesn't have a happy end, though the sun proves to be real, after all.

I just wondered tonight, what does Messiah mean to all these people in this room? For how long will it continue to be cherished and performed in a culture that seems to be growing more and more secular? Will the music alone be enough to keep it alive? And if so, how often might it actually cause someone to wonder, to ponder, to search?

It's amazing where all a mind can go during two and a half hours of music!

But it kept coming back to the words and the music, and tonight was a beautiful gift in this life of watching and waiting for the eventual Hallelujah Chorus. Hallelujah!

Watching and Waiting: Fog

I wrote words for these photos yesterday and somehow lost them.

I was crestfallen, but then today found more words that fit with what I was thinking,

so perhaps it was best this way.

These images come from my walk in the park yesterday morning. The fog was amazing.

I tend to love fog, so I found it beautiful.

But I was also thinking how it might be for someone not used to fog and not familiar with the place.

It could be disorienting, even frightening.

If you'd never experienced fog before, you might wonder how long it would last,

or even if your whole world had somehow changed.

I thought about people I know, mostly younger than me, going through hard things,

disorienting experiences, confusing transitions, strong emotions,

which tend often to make it very hard, if not impossible, to see clearly.

The fog yesterday was so thick, it condensed on branches like this. Beautiful to me, but not so beautiful if you were wondering whether your feet would ever be on dry ground again! 

In the fog, our eyes can play tricks on us. You have to lean on your knowledge of what you knew was there before, and trust that memory, that knowledge.

This is beautiful as an image of reflections on water, but when life situations feel this unstable and distorted, even the light coming to us can seem painful sometimes.

I found myself yesterday thinking of these people, thinking these things, and wanting to say, "Watch carefully and wait. Don't give up. Refrain from making rash decisions about which path to take."

As a friend once told me in a tough time, "Don't doubt in the dark what you've seen in the light."

Those are good words.

And then today I read these words of John Donne, from the blog of a friend of a friend:

But today if you will hear His voice,

Today He will hear you.

He brought light out of darkness,

Not out of a lesser light;

He can bring thy summer out of winter

Tho' thou have no spring,

Though in the ways of fortune or understanding or conscience

Thou have been benighted til now,

Wintered and frozen, clouded and eclipsed,

Damped and benumbed, smothered and stupefied til now, 

Now God comes to thee,

Not as in the dawning of the day,

Not as in the bud of the spring

But as the sun at noon,

As the sheaves in harvest.

It wasn't quite noon, but this last picture was taken less than an hour after the first one. The sun's rising to a certain point completely cleared away the fog, and it felt like a different world.

This Advent I'm thinking those words of John Donne might make a good Christmas gift to lots of people living in the foggy confusion of our world these days.

"Now God comes to thee." Emmanuel!

Watching and Waiting: Fire

(I had nearly a whole long photo essay ready to post, and somehow with a click, I lost it all. So tonight, Gerard Manley Hopkins to my rescue.From The Wreck of the Deutschland, Part 3.)


              Now burn, new born to the world,
              Doubled-nature'd name,
The heaven-flung, heart-fleshed, maiden-furled
              Miracle-in-Mary-of-flame,
Mid-numbered He in three of the thunder-throne!
Not a dooms-day dazzle in his coming not dark
                    as he came;
               Kind, but royally reclaiming his own;
A released shower, let flash to the shire, not
                    a lightning of fire hard-hurled.

Christmas Clothespins

God is with us in so many ways. In no way do I intend disrespect by suggesting that He is with us even in the form of clothespins. Hear me out.

My beloved Grandmother at some point had some clothespins spray painted gold to use at Christmastime. I don't even recall what she used them for, nor when I somehow became the recipient of some of them. I began using them to pin Christmas cards we received to a string or ribbon hung on the dining room window. Or hung from the mantel, at our former house.

Seven clothespins were not enough, so I used plain ones until one day of one year, while hanging up Christmas cards, I realized that I could also spray paint them and have a bunch more gold clothespins.  I had never used spray paint, which I guess is why I hadn't thought of it before. But I thought it couldn't be that complicated to buy some and paint them. So I did.

Ever since then I've had two contrasting sets of clothespins that I pull out during Advent as we wait for the cards to arrive. At first it kind of bothered me that the two "gold" paints were not the same, but not for long.

This year as I was taking them out, I noticed the difference in the colors. I also noticed the difference in the heft of the clothespins. Grandmother's, as you can see, have the two little indentations near the end. They are heavier than the others and better made. I couldn't find any like that when I was shopping for them. All they had were these slightly smaller, definitely flimsier, lighter-weight ones. I wouldn't want them for hanging clothes on a line. I can't imagine they could hold onto a pair of denim jeans. Still, they are fine for hanging Christmas cards. But I still prefer the others, the older ones.

They are built more solidly. They have a firmer grip. They were carefully painted. I didn't realize until it was too late that when I painted mine, which I did in a bit of a hurry, I missed some spots. But Grandmother's are solidly painted, fully covered. And of course, best of all, they were hers. They were in her house, in her hands.

And Grandmother was among the first people to teach me about God. And to love me, which she learned from God. And to show me through the trials of her life and in her many letters over the years, how much she loved and trusted in God.

And so these solid, firm, whimsically golden clothespins, because of my Grandmother, speak to me of God and faith and love. And I do my best to imitate. And even though my attempt didn't turn out quite like hers, it helped me bring  forward to the present something from Christmas past.

God is with us in so many ways. Even in the form of clothespins.

This is for Yesterday

From the living room of a dear friend where we sat yesterday in the glow of the lovely tree, our conversation roaming far and wide as it nearly always does if we have more than five minutes together.

Said conversation led to more watching and waiting, as I offered to pick up said friend's daughter returning from college. Heavy rain, misplaced keys, an accident on the highway all led to a rather suspenseful evening, but all was well in the end when said daughter came home to said tree and I imagine slept very well.

And I know I certainly did--though a Christmas party and then a movie at home meant I forgot to write anything....so this is for yesterday.

Watching and Waiting: Risotto Lessons

Many years ago I made risotto alla Giuglia (risotto with onion sliced thin and zucchini and yellow bell pepper cut in Julienne strips.) for the first time. I was young and still getting used to using a big knife, and Julienne strips took considerably more time than simply chopping, or even dicing something.

And at that time I had no access to Arborio rice, so I used long grain rice, the only kind I could get.

With the chopping and time it took for that hard rice to soak up all that broth and cream (and a teaspoon of pepper), making that recipe took an hour or more. I worked hard to get the onion slices as thin as possible. And then holding the zucchini chunks upright and carefully slicing those thin strips took a good while. And then standing and stirring, standing and stirring, standing and stirring as I gradually added the broth-cream mixture.

It doesn't take me as long now with my current knife prowess and the way Arborio rice soaks in the liquid more quickly. But I'll always think of that recipe when I think of how it often just takes time to have anything really good. And you have to pay attention. As my cookbook says, the "judicious" adding of the liquid and stirring is they key to a good risotto. Not too much too fast, but you can't let it dry out, either. Watching and waiting and paying attention.

So tonight as I did that, I also thought about Advent. And now it's late, and I'm just going to leave it there and let the readers draw their own meaning from this little reflection....

Jesus Christ The Apple Tree

The tree of life my soul hath seen
Laden with fruit and always green
The tree of life my soul hath seen
Laden with fruit and always green
The trees of nature fruitless be
Compared with Christ the applle tree

His beauty doth all things excel
By faith I know but ne'er can tell
His beauty doth all things excel
By faith I know but ne'er can tell
The glory which I now can see
In Jesus Christ the apple tree.

For happiness I long have sought
And pleasure dearly I have bought
For happiness I long have sought
And pleasure dearly I have bought
I missed of all but now I see
'Tis found in Christ the apple tree.

I'm weary with my former toil
Here I will sit and rest a while
I'm weary with my former toil
Here I will sit and rest a while
Under the shadow I will be
Of Jesus Christ the apple tree.

This fruit does make my soul to thrive
It keeps my dying faith alive
This fruit does make my soul to thrive
It keeps my dying faith alive
Which makes my soul in haste to be
With Jesus Christ the apple tree. 

The apples in the bowl are from Thanksgiving, when I made an Italian apple tart. The recipe said to peel the apples--actually, it said to pare them--but I was pressed for time and also like to leave some of that nutrition in there. And then I just thought they looked so cute!

We sang this sweet song as part of the Lessons and Carols service. It's such a fascinating metaphor, I think, and this writer has done a good bit of thinking about how it may have come to be. I did not know until reading this about the association between the Latin words for apple and evil. Fascinating: that whole idea of Eve eating an apple has a very logical explanation! (And I realize while writing this that I may well have heard that at some point, but if so, it sure didn't stick.)

Each time we rehearsed this, and when we performed it, I would get a little teary-eyed at the words of the last stanza, "This fruit does make my soul to thrive; it keeps my dying faith alive...." When I look back over my life so far and think of the various ways my faith has been kept alive when it felt close to dying, it is humbling and heartwarming.

If you've never heard the song, here's a sweet performance of it by the ever-wonderful Kings College Choir of Cambridge.

Magical Musical Morning

This morning we drove downtown to the Peabody Hotel for a lovely treat. Being at the Peabody is in itself a lovely treat. Originally built in 1869, it was demolished and a new structure built a block away between 1923 and 1925. It closed twice in the 70's with financial difficulties and reopened in 1981, when I was in the ninth grade.

That is so strange to me, to think of this place empty and uncertain of its future, and to think of downtown Memphis as a forlorn, financially failing area. I remember when I was younger driving by downtown (we lived in Arkansas, and my grandparents lived an hour northeast of Memphis, so we went through Memphis a lot) and knowing that it was considered ugly and pretty barren. But we never went there, so I have no visual memory of that time.

And now downtown is so alive and full of wonderful places, and the Peabody is a huge part of it all.

And they have a huge Christmas tree every year! (That bit of railing you can see on the left side is the second floor of the building, so that gives you an idea of what I mean by huge.)

Music was the reason for our visit. Or better said, family who were involved in the music. The Harding Academy A Cappella Chorus were there to sing Christmas pieces and other music, and they did a wonderful job. One of the basses is my nephew, and his dad drove the group down on a school bus, so it was a morning of family, music, Christmas lights--and ducks!

If you don't know about the Peabody ducks, then you really must come to Memphis and see them for yourself. We got there in plenty of time to see them do their thing. And we got to hear them join in the singing a time or two, making for quite a contrast to the lovely sounds coming from these young people's voices.

This little fellow came from behind the couch where I was siting to get closer to the group. He stood there transfixed for a good long while. I wondered if he had ever heard such singing before. Since singing has always been a part of my life because of church, I can't imagine what it might be like for a child (or an adult, for that matter) to hear beautiful harmonic voices singing like this for the first time. It probably would seem like something of a miracle.

And it is, really. That we are made in such a way so that our voices can make such beautiful sounds, expressing thoughts and feelings and just doing amazing things. We take so much for granted, but this morning, and this little child, opened my metaphorical eyes, and my literal ears, once again to not only the beauty but also the sheer wonder of music.

Watching and Waiting

Photo from Memphis Flyer


It's late, but I'm committed, so here goes.

Advent is so much about watching and waiting, things we aren't very good at when we've not had to do much of it. And of course the Advent readings bring very serious themes to our minds and hearts related to watching and waiting.

For tonight, however, I'll take it in a different direction. This evening we went to the airport to watch and wait for the arrival of our niece/granddaughter/daughter--my brother's daughter, who spent this semester in Greece and Italy. Nine of us all together stood near the doorway where the passengers appear, by the top of the escalator that goes down to the luggage retrieval area.

The Memphis airport brings so many things to mind. When we were young, we went there to greet my uncle, and later my uncle and aunt, who lived in Michigan, England, and Belgium at various times. I imagine we went there, though I can't remember clearly, to greet my grandparents when they returned from their "Holy Lands" tour with my uncle. (I put it in quotes because I just remember so well hearing my grandmother's voice as she referred to that trip, always with that term.)

I remember the first time I ever flew into and out of that same airport, going to and coming from Italy.

Tonight my husband remembered a time when we arrived there from Croatia, and recalled that my aunt brought Kentucky Fried Chicken for the group of family that had gathered, and that we ate there in the gate area.

All these trips were back in the lovely days before so much of the airport was off limits to anyone but travelers, and we could actually wait for loved ones and see them right as they walked off the plane. I miss those days!

Many memories, much to wonder at and the thankful for. I never dreamed that airports would become so much a normal part of life. I still remember so well the first time being up in the clouds, the first sunset, the first sunrise, the wonderful KLM flight attendants on my first flight over. On my flight back from Italy after my semester over there, I had so much hope that someday I would be able to go back, but I really had no idea whether or not it would happen.

Tonight we were waiting for my niece. Her older brother stood nearest the "do not pass this line" spot, all set to take a picture of her when she appeared. Grandparents were visiting farther back. I stood there chatting with the younger nephew and with friends whose daughter was part of the same group. Time passed, we waited, and it did seem that enough time had passed that we began to wonder.....And then we heard a loud cry our of nowhere and turned and saw that the expected one  right there in the hallway hugging her mom! As if she had just materialized out of nowhere!

It turned out, if I understood right, that they had come out at another terminal and had walked down from there to the luggage area and then up the escalator to where we were. Creating quite a stir!

It reminds me of the verse, which I just found in The Message paraphrase-- "Be vigilant....You have no idea when the Son of Man is going to show up." It's not as poetic as the "Watch therefore" of older version, but that "you have no idea" sure fits for our experience this evening! Not only could we not predict the exact time, but we didn't even know which direction she would be coming from!

And it fits my own experience with airports and flying across the ocean. No idea what lay ahead. No idea that at this point in my life, I wouldn't be able to remember how many trips I've made. Life is full of surprises.

It amazes me how much we talk as if we can plan things out. Of course we have to plan, and we must make decisions, but so much is not in our control. Advent is good to remind us of that. There's a lot we have no idea about, but we can watch and wait for the One who does know and does show up, often when least expected. And if we are watching and waiting for Him, then just as tonight, even though it may be a startling experience, it will also be sweet.

Carols of Praise

Good tidings of great joy!

My post a couple of months ago about blogging more regularly seems now like a fuzzy dream. It was not so smart to set that goal, perhaps, shortly before making a three-week trip overseas, coming home to a family wedding, Thanksgiving guests, and then having all the catching up to do with that.

But today is the second Sunday of Advent and a good time to renew that goal, and I've been encouraged by a group of others who are blogging daily in December, so maybe I'll catch some of that energy and keep this going.

That angel up there looks a little like I feel. Not extremely energetic, but doing his part. I'm not sure where the artwork came from, but it's on the front cover of the program for the Lessons and Carols service I sang in tonight. Lessons and Carols is my favorite event of the Advent/Christmas season.

I remember the first time I ever heard these words. It was Christmas Eve in 1994 or '95. I turned on the public radio station and was amazed to hear prayers being prayed and the scripture being read. We had only fairly recently come to live in the States, and public radio was fairly new to me, but not so new that hearing scripture being read didn't seem like a sort of miracle. When I realized it was a cathedral full of people and heard them praying the Lord's Prayer, it struck a place deep inside me.

I kept listening and was delighted to be introduced to the Lessons and Carols service and to the fact that it aired every year. It was such a beautiful surprise, and I recall having tears of wonder and joy in my eyes more than once as I sat on the floor wrapping gifts and listening.

A few years later I was equally surprised to learn that this service was actually performed in our very city, and it wasn't long after that, that I joined the choir so that I could be a part of it.

Perhaps I'll write more later about why this service means so much to me, why it so often brings tears to my eyes. It has to do with lonely exile, gloomy clouds of night, and sad divisions--and the hope of Emmanuel in the midst of all that.

This (above) is the place in the service where I nearly always realize I'm not going to make it much further without a tissue. It is absolutely glorious singing this descant arrangement to "O Come, All Ye Faithful," with the choirs, the congregation, the organ and brass ensemble. If sound could somehow show in the air, I think the whole space would be sparkling with gold and deep blue at that point. It's a powerful beauty that pierces some deep place in the soul, the way only music wedded to words with deep meaning can do.

Of course the air doesn't actually turn gold and blue. So I'll end with another bit of the front cover

A Prayer for the Weary

Lift up our souls, O Lord,

to the pure, serene light of thy presence;

that there we may breathe freely,

there repose in thy love,

there may be at rest from ourselves,

and from thence return,

arrayed in thy peace,

to do and bear what shall please thee;

for thy holy name's sake.

Amen.

(A prayer by Dr. E.B. Pusey, Anglican theologian, 1800-1882.

I'm not sure where I originally found this, but I love it.

To "be at rest from ourselves," such a generally unspoken need.)

Bridge

This bridge, in the park where I often walk, has become so much a part of my internalized normal, and part of what I love about this park, that until I just now looked at this picture that I took this morning, it never struck me that it could look unwelcoming or pointless to the uninitiated. Because at the end of the bridge is a closed gate. And it is in fact a locked gate.

So it's a bridge you cross simply to then have to stop. And that sign you can see makes it clear that you are not to try to get over or around the bridge.

But I love the bridge because I think it's pretty. It's solid. I use it to do stretches. I look over the edge to watch ducks, fish, turtles, and when I'm lucky, a heron. I love to stand or lie down and just look at the sky.

And I love that closed gate that says "KEEP OUT."

Because it also says "WILDLIFE REFUGE."

I love that right here in the middle of a big city is a place set aside for wildlife. Wild life.

"We need the tonic of wildness" says the all-natural rose-scented facial tonic I bought at Whole Foods mainly just because I loved that quote. It's from Walden, by Thoreau, who went on to write, "At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature."

When I was in college, an English major taking an American Lit class, I remember writing either in a paper or in my journal, that I thought I had been a Transcendentalist all my life without knowing it.

Well, I know more now and would not say that. But perhaps it's fair to say that I'm a Transcendental-ish Christian.

At any rate, I chose the bridge picture to represent yet one more transition, one more moving from one place to another, in that I really do hope to start writing more again. It feels as if my brain, and thus my mind, have recovered enough from the thesis writing and then the neck surgery I had this spring, to be able to write again. I even kind of feel the itch.

And for now this blog will be a sort of wildlife refuge for my writing, still meandering here and there. It's a mystery to me, a bit of a wild thing, still, where it may go.

But any readers are welcome to walk the bridge-- and you may also open the gate.

Messiah, Mama, Music, Memories

I was "home," at my dad's house, for a short visit earlier this week and took this picture. I was struck once again by how this Messiah album goes back into my earliest memories. How I used to think it said "MESS ee ah," which to my young mind sounded like "messy," and I knew it couldn't mean that, but I didn't know what it meant. At some point of course I learned the meaning of the word, and I learned to say "me SI ah," and my freshman year of college began singing the "Hallelujah Chorus" and "Worthy Is the Lamb." Eventually the one called the Messiah took on an importance in my life I could never have known when I was 5 or 6 and trying to make sense of this album cover I saw in our house day after day.

I suppose this album was in this record shelf before I came into the life of the household. And I suppose my mother was the one who brought it into that household, because she loved music and sang in the college chorus and would have been the one to buy or be given this music.

Today marks two years since her dying. Many thoughts and feelings have coursed through my mind and heart in recent days because of this date, but tonight it seems best simply to share from Messiah, music that once meant so much to her. I look forward to singing it together Someday. And of course it comes from the Bible, which mean even more to her:

Behold, I tell you a mystery;
we shall not all sleep, but we shall be changed,
in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet.

The trumpet shall sound,
and the dead shall be raised, be raised incorruptible,
and we shall be changed.

For this corruptible must put on incorruption,
and this mortal shall put on immortality.

O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?
the sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law.

But thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

If God be for us, who can be against us?
Who shall lay anything to the charge of God's elect?
It is God who justifieth,who is he that condemneth?
It is Christ that died, yes, rather that is risen again, who is at the right hand of God,
who makes intercession for us.

Worthy is the Lamb that was slain,
and hath redeemed us to God by His blood
to receive power and riches, and wisdom and strength, and glory and honor and blessing.

Blessing and honor, glory and power be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne,
and unto the Lamb forever.

Amen.

Epiphany Crowns and Haloes

"Adoration of the Magi," tapestry by Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris

It's fascinating how various parts of daily life can manifest themselves in ways that intersect and surprise.

With Epiphany on the horizon, my mind had been returning to my blurry memory of the image above, which I used a couple of years ago in a presentation as part of my DMin degree, comparing this image to the image woven in words by the prophet Amos in chapter 6, where wealth and complacency accompany pride and are condemned.

I put a lot of work into that and was sad because I thought I had lost it forever, since I did it on the laptop that was stolen this summer;I had looked for it a couple of times in other places without success. But this evening one more search led me to find it in my emails.

I was reminded that the final sentence of what I wrote alluded to the choice between wearing crowns or being given haloes, because one thing that struck me in the tapestry is that all three kings have removed their crowns, and the one approaching Jesus has laid his on the ground, no doubt with an eye to Revelation 4:10 scene where the 24 elders cast their crowns before Jesus.

Whether kings or not (go here for a helpful article on the identity of these men), the wise men must have been wealthy to have traveled so far, and to spend their lives studying the stars. But they used their wealth to find and worship the Light of the world rather than as a means of gaining pleasure and status like the wealthy Amos addressed.

So, feeling happy that I'd discovered a copy of my work, and also being able to look again at the beautiful tapestry after finding the name and artist, I opened the book that we've been reading from throughout Advent and Christmas, to see what the reading for today is.

Here is what I found:

The child we seek

doesn't need our gold.

On love, on love alone

he will build his kingdom.

His piercéd hand will hold no scepter,

his haloed head will wear no crown;

his might will not be built

on your toil.

Swifter than lightning

he will soon walk among us.

He will bring us new life

and receive our death,

and the keys to his city

belong to the poor.

~Gian Carlo Menotti,

from "Amahl and the Night Visitors"

And there it is--"his haloed head will wear no crown." I may have read this poem before, but I had never noticed that line until tonight. It has felt like an evening among old friends, somehow, even though I'm sick with the flu and home alone. A sweet reunion of sorts.

If we all desired the holiness of the halo over the power and prestige of the crown, what a different world it would be. Literal crowns are rare, but the desire for wealth and power certainly isn't. We can at least put down our own crowns and hope and pray for this crown-crazed world. And like the wise men, look for the light and follow it to its Source.

Postscript: I believe the way I originally discovered this tapestry was via the blog of my friend Janet a couple of years ago. Her poem based on it, which I've linked to, is worth reading, also.