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.