Mature well beyond her years and big for her age, she is not a girly girl. She looks very much young- adult, and is sometimes mistaken as such. Those her age can’t relate to her, nor she to them. Yet in the midst, her kindness for all, shines. Her laughter comes easily. She faces young adult assumptions, expectations, misperceptions, and uncertainties. She seeks clothing and hair styles in an effort to make her more comfortable in her own skin. Today, we are at her Christmas-gift hair appointment. Appointment complete, her stylist says, “Pretty. What do you think?”
Eyes in mirror smile while unexpected soft voice slips, “I am pretty.”
Walking up my street, I see a man walking toward me. Aww. Looks like Grandpa, I think, knowing it couldn’t be. As we get closer, there is no mistaking. Yes, it is Grandpa. I don’t want to wake up, and miss out. He approaches me. “Grandpa!” He gives me a hug. As is nearly always the case when I dream of the dead, all senses are engaged.
“Grandpa, what are you doing here?” He says he came to tell me not to worry about circumstances that were consuming me. Everything would be just fine.
Then he says, “You know I can’t stay.” Yes, of course. I just don’t want to lose him again so quickly.
“But I will come back,” he assures. He hugs me again, and, just that quick, he’s gone.
My long, detailed dream continues. It seems to last a good portion of the night.
Suddenly, there he is again. This time, he doesn’t speak. His silence stills me, while it declares a grand reassurance.
I wake from the dream, recognizing it hadn’t been merely a dream.
And I smile. When he said he would return, I hadn’t realized he meant that quickly. That night. That dream.
Each year, I choose a word. Grace, joy, giving, hospitality, empathy, prayer … You know, words that improve my focus and my life. Not one for resolutions, the idea of a word of the year appeals to me. It is simple. Embraceable. I nearly chose prayer again, but after much thought and, well, prayer, I decided on open. Open heart. Open door. Open to grace, joy, giving, hospitality, empathy, prayer … Open. And I’ll open 2023 in prayer that my Lord will more fully open my heart to His open arms.
Where are the humble kings? Those who do nothing but what their father tells them to do? Where are those who set aside power who leave glory who serve who wash the feet of friend and foe who wear sandals who cook fish on the shore who feed multitudes with a few fish and rolls who change water to wine for wedding guests who walk with, feed, and touch those deemed unclean who spend time with those others shun who come not to judge, but to save who give their lives for their people. Where is a King of uncommon love? Look to a manger. Look to a cross. Then come. Come, let us adore Him.
Prelude: The wind is howling, as temps dip low and birdfeeders whirl and weave. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We’re hosting here, I believe.
But we’ve a Bomb Cyclone on our hands, and it threatens to wreck our plans.
We’re dreaming of a white Christmas, but not quite like the one on tap where each wind gust threatens to hurl its weapons and blues fill our weather map.
We’re dreaming of a white Christmas, with fam’ly here tomorrow night. We have lots of yummies to fill our tummies, but safe travel’s not in sight.
We’re dreaming of a white Christmas but winds are sweeping off the snow ‘til no treetop glistens. White-out conditions make car travel a no-go.
We may not have a white Christmas, but we have power on inside. Water pipes did not burst. It could be much worse, so we’ll take it all in stride.
Still hoping Christmas Eve happens and safely we can gather here for some much sought-after food, fun, and laughter, and we can spread some Christmas cheer!
there are things my brain knows, but doesn’t tell me.
Or maybe there is a disconnect between this side of my brain and the other side.
Like years ago when I helped a friend bake potato chip cookies to take to my cousin later that night. Somewhere, my brain knew he was getting work training on the other side of the country. But not the part of my brain helping my friend bake. That part might as well have been with my cousin on the other side of the country.
Or that time in the shower an hour ago when I was thinking about hosting Christmas Eve, praying the weather holds out and guests are safe in travel. Praying for these guests that are my family – my daughter and her family my cousins and their grown kids and their little children
and the sudden slap of that’s all.
No grandparents. No aunts and uncles. No parents.
Now, that’s us.
My brain knows this. It intimately knows this information that it didn’t share with me until the shower started searching for tears.
What is the best gift but food for one who is hungry, and drink for one who thirsts? For those who feel most unlovable, love feels most crucial, yet most inaccessible. For those who’ve done wrong, the most meaningful gift is forgiveness in full. For this, God set His power aside to be born of a virgin as a helpless newborn boy, reliant on a woman’s breast for nourishment, heart for love, and her tutelage and care for survival and growth. For this, Christ Jesus came: to feed, to love, to quench, and to fully forgive.
The extravagance of the season, embodied: God wrapped in infant.
(Full disclosure: I decided to write this haibun, using the final 17 syllables I’d written many years ago. May the Gift of this season settle into your own heart.)
pictured words 