A Sweet, Subdued Celebration

Our Christmas was memorable for the unexpected.  First, my father-in-law was admitted to the hospital a few days prior with a severe infection in one foot.  Originally, it was hoped that he would be out by Christmas, but it turned out he was to stay until three days after.  

In spite of that, we were anticipating a somewhat normal celebration until mid-day on Christmas Eve, when both my wife and I succumbed to a potent, swift-acting stomach flu.  Others in the family had been afflicted with it earlier but we had (so far) avoided it.  We were to host a Christmas Eve celebration at our home and the next day have Christmas dinner at our daughter's house nearby.  Just an hour before family was due to arrive Christmas Eve, we had to call everyone and cancel.  Still, our eldest daughter and her husband came over to spend the evening with the rest of our girls.

So, between trips to the bathroom, we lay weakly in our bedroom listening to the sounds of our offspring making the best of the circumstances, enjoying the company of each other.  It is hard to describe the comfort that comes when you are essentially incapacitated, but can still catch an inkling of the Christmas joy experienced by your offspring.  By Christmas morning, we were over the worst of the symptoms.  Which meant we could at least be physically present for breakfast and the subsequent unveiling of the contents of Christmas stockings.

Meanwhile, my wife's brother and sister visited their father on Christmas Day.  Their Christmas dinner was at the Olive Garden.

We were at last able to convene for a post-Christmas dinner yesterday.  The food was great, the children noisy, and the realization that nothing can be taken for granted was palpable.  Grandpa was out of the hospital, but not yet able to join us.  Conversation wandered to "tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago" with a special gratitude because this Christmas was so different, reminding us that each Christmas gathering is a gift, and that while next year holds no promises, it does offer hope.  'and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts' (Romans 5:5).

Christmas Cards

Each December, the mail brings Christmas Cards.  Some are from family we will see on Christmas Day, or friends we may see at church Sunday or work the next day.  There is little their card will tell us that we don't already know about the year past.  Still, we are happy for each one we receive.  In addition to those, there are a significant number from those whom we have not seen in years.  The only link between us is that annual effort these dear ones make to get that card (pre-printed or customized with photo), add the address to the envelope (by hand or by computer label), insert a greeting (lengthy letter or simple signature).  

Whatever the level of creativity or volume of news, the simple arrival of that Christmas greeting represents so much. 

"Another year has passed and I am alive, whether well or feeble.  I am thinking of you as I prepare your card for delivery.  I remember fondly the times we shared together, though long past.  I am thankful for the Providence that had our paths cross and for the hope that one day we will see each other again."  

Knowing how that touch across the years and the miles speaks to our hearts is why we still send out our own Christmas Cards. It makes for a truly Merry Christmas.  Thank you.

Surprised By Santa

I hold a prejudice against Santa movies.  What does Santa have to do with Christmas, anyway?  So, when my family suggested The Santa Clause 2 for our Friday night movie recently, I was not in favor.  We had watched it several years ago.  My recollection distilled down to a middle-aged Tim Allen chasing a younger woman so he could marry and keep being Santa (the 2nd 'Santa Clause').  The rest of the family insisted it was really cute.  Cuteness is oozing out of Miracle on 34th Street, another 'Santa' movie that still goes against my grain.  Cuteness on its own does not sway me.  However, I succumbed on the pretext that I was tired and would probably sleep through it.  But a strange thing happened on the way to dream-land.  I began to see things in The Santa Clause 2 that I had either forgotten or not noticed the first time.

Such as a god-like figure (for what else is Santa?) coming to earth to find a bride to live forever with him in an eternal city of happiness (Ephesians 5:25-27, Revelations 19:6-9).  What about that North Pole?  A magical place where immortal creatures live a happy, purposeful existence mainly concerned with obedience to their Master and blessing humanity (Hebrews 1:14).  

We are shown an 'anti-Santa' seeking to overthrow the dominion of the real Santa, who wants everyone to get what they deserve -- a lump of coal -- while the true Santa 'cuts kids a little slack this time of year'.  A picture of grace (Psalm 51).  

Then there is the school principle, soon to be the future Mrs. Claus.  The offspring of two fallen parents (Genesis 3, Psalm 27:10), left with a hardened heart.  Through a supernatural demonstration of generosity to a crowd of miserable people, Santa breaks through the hardness  (Psalm 34:18, Ezekial 36:26, 2 Corinthians 5:17).  

Obviously, the analogies fall flat at some point.  The notion that Christmas would not exist without Santa Claus delivering toys is annoying.  Tim Allen still comes across as lecherous.  Yet, in spite of a very different intent, the yearning for an eternal happily ever after, for redemption from the hurts of a fallen past shines through in The Santa Clause 2.  Though rationality tries to squish it out of us, this instinctive desire for a transcendent reality is an essential part of what it means to be human, to be a creation made in the Divine Image.

And it shows up in the most unlikely places.

Light And Dark

Christmas lights have sprouted up on houses all over the neighborhood.  Except ours.  Our strand of large, old-fashioned bulbs spent three neglected years trimming our eaves until thoroughly bleached and faded by the sun.  I was finally shamed into taking them down.  Now, I am trying to convince the rest of the family that our not having lights provides needed contrast for the twinkling homes around us.  After all, if every house had lights, what would be the novelty in that?  I am not winning the argument.

The Christmas concert we attended last weekend opened with "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence".  The  Vanguard University choir filed in through the doors of St. Andrew's Presbyterian church holding candles and sang the ancient chant a cappella, including these lines:

Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
As the Light of light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
That the powers of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.

The coming of Jesus that we remember each December is about light breaking into darkness.  And yet, somewhere between the daylight savings time change and early December, I notice a creeping spiritual and emotional lethargy.  Part of it I attribute to S.A.D., something I scoffed at until I had enough time trials to observe the trend in myself.  In December, I am leaving for work in the dark, coming home in the dark, and spending most of my day in a cubicle far from a window.  The extra daylight hours I productively enjoyed during the summer have gone. In our highly-regulated society, we expect trains, planes, and emotions to run according to our schedule.  But, they don't.  Therefore, we find treatments.  Yet, I wonder if this seasonal response of my body and mind to the dark is not really the best preparation for the Savior.  I understand that the time of year we celebrate Christmas is a result of melding the church calendar with pagan practice and that Christians in the southern hemisphere are getting Christmas suntans.  But, I am who and where Providence has placed me, feeling the darkening winter days and looking for the Star that will break through once again.

P.S. - I recommend the Fernando Ortega rendition of "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence" as an addition to your Christmas music library.

One Hot Sunday

On a particular Sunday when I was five or six, I was sitting next to Mom in the morning worship service at the Assembly of God church.  The song service was over and the sermon had begun.  Though it pains me to admit it, my keen interest in the finer points of theology was not fully developed and my attention was wandering.  Until the anointing fell and the shouting started, I often got, well... bored.  

Offering Envelope - before unfolding

One way I would alleviate this condition was to dissemble an offering envelope and doodle in it.  For the convenience of givers, the old wooden pews had little envelopes into which you put your cash before depositing it in the offering plate.  On the outside were places to put your name so your record of giving could be updated, as well as whether the gift was designated for something specific.  Next to the envelope slots were pencil holders which usually held those half-length pencils with no erasers.  But, since Mom was sitting right there, I didn’t think I could risk making use of these convenient art supplies.  So, there I sat, my idle mind primed to be the devil’s workshop.

Then, my wandering gaze spotted a small, red object on the pew a few feet away from me, just out of reach.  I discretely sidled over, stretched out and snatched it up.  It appeared to be some kind of fruit or vegetable, but it was unknown to me.  Naturally curious, I began examining it from all angles.  It was a little longer than my fingers, shaped somewhat like a pickle, but tapering unevenly to a rounded point from the wider end where the small, green stem was.  The color reminded me of a ripe tomato, but the surface had a waxy sheen that made the red vivid.  I squeezed it a bit and nothing came out.  It seemed to be filled with air underneath the rubbery surface, but rather deflated like a bicycle inner tube that has most of the air let out of it.  I thought this might be what tomatoes do when dried like grapes, sort of the tomato equivalent of a raisin.

About that time, Mom noticed what I was doing.  

I caught her glance and whispered, “What is it?”

“It’s some kind of pepper,” she replied, “and you’d best leave it alone.”

With that admonition, she left my fate -- and the little red pepper -- in my hands.  Whether she was simply trying to follow the sermon and was only giving me partial attention or had deliberately left an opening for me to exercise self control is uncertain.  What is certain is that I knew that pepper was a black powder that Mom liked to dump on perfectly good food.  Pepper came from little pepper corns that looked nothing like this fruity thing.  There were, and still are, lots of pepper trees in Fallbrook, many of them around my school playgrounds.  So, I knew what a pepper corn was -- though I wasn’t sure exactly how it became the pepper in the shaker at home.  It dawned on my young mind that for the first time in my short life, Mom was mistaken.  This, I was certain, could not possibly be pepper. 

Mom had turned her attention back to the pastor while I sat there wondering why she thought my mystery fruit was pepper.  As a test, I held it up to my nose for a good sniff.  It had a vaguely spicy scent reminiscent of pepper, but definitely different.  I poked my thumbnail into the skin and left a curved indentation.  I sniffed again.  It still didn’t smell like pepper to me.  There was only one thing left to do: an autopsy.  Carefully, I ran my thumbnail along the length of the ‘pepper’, and then peeled it open.  Inside the limp carcass, I saw little collections of white seeds.  Aha, this is a tomato, I thought, though the now more noticeable scent seemed to contradict that notion.  My scientific mind was racing as I considered how to present my discovery to Mom.  But, as she still seemed to be quite focused on the sermon, I thought better of bothering her.  Instead, I decided to pick the seeds out, dropping them into the hymnal rack in front of me.  It was at that moment that the hazards of improperly dissecting mysterious fruit came to light.  Perhaps it was the lingering chemicals I had released into the air, perhaps it was just a coincidence, but I had the urge to rub my eyes and proceeded to do so.  My eyes were suddenly seared with an agonizing burning sensation.  I was sure my eyes were melting.  Tears began streaming down my face.  Had the pastor noticed, I’m sure he would have been gratified to notice my fervent response to the message, unless he discovered the real reason for my emotional state.

Shortly, Mom noticed my discomfited squirming.  In a fearful, quavering voice I whispered my dreadful symptoms.  She told me to keep my hands away from my eyes, gave me a Kleenex or two, and let the tears do their work.  After a few minutes, the misery diminished to a painful memory.  By this time, the service was drawing to a close, and though a bit blotchy-faced and red-eyed, I was no worse for the wear.  On the drive home, Mom explained about peppers, a spicy vegetable that people use to add flavor to certain dishes like chili.  It was entirely plausible, but I still questioned way sane people would want their food to be so painfully hot.  More importantly, I learned that while the devil is advertised in scripture as wearing an angel costume, or roaring about like a lion, he also enjoys appearing as something more in keeping with his nature: a bright red vegetable loaded with the fires of hell.