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.)
This photo is not a well-focused, balanced, artistic photo. It is just my snapshot of homemade chicken noodle soup, made by my super caring husband. It is one thing I have to be thankful for while I am sick on my favorite week of the year. And there are so many others. My cozy home, with the Christmas tree up, and a comfortable recliner from which to enjoy it. My soft lavender robe, and just-as-soft tissues for my nose. A family member who will be doing a Thanksgiving meal “porch drop” for Keith and me, and other family members who offered the same and friends and students who have offered food and help and loving words of encouragement and who check in on me just because they are selfless souls who care deeply and a doctor able to see me on the same day I called and insurance to pay the doctor and the medicine and a comfortable spare bedroom for Keith to sleep in so I don’t keep him awake with my cough and WhatsApp to keep in touch for free with my daughter in India and the amazing, gentle care she is receiving for a herniated disc, from grandmotherly women and doctors making daily home visits to the room she is renting from these women and the ease of heart it helps me feel while she is there alone and in pain and without my help and the Father of All who is no less there than He is here and the vast array of birds and fun critters outside my huge windows that let in all the light and loving souls in my life who share their beautiful words and prayers and sentiments and lives and parents who passed on, but left themselves in unspeakable ways right here in my heart and children who struggle, but l.o.v.e. in all the ways afforded to them, and who I proudly call my own and granddaughters who give joy in ways I never could have imagined and their daddy who is not just an in-law to me and music and poetry and books and life and Jesus in the nativity beneath my tree, and His saving cross at the top and the Word of God and the Lamb of God and the love of God and no period, because there is no end
She showed up at the nursing home, waiting to be let in. Of course her chances for entry were near zero, as animals were not welcome. But this pretty golden retriever would not take no for an answer. I don’t know the story of how she actually gained entrance. I can only tell you that by the time my grandmother was in their care, she had already become part of the facility’s staff. We were told that, from her very first moment inside, it seemed like she had just always been there. She knew where everything was. She knew the routine. She knew this was a quiet place, and she abided. She knew when a patient was soon to die. She graciously stayed with them and comforted them until they passed … but not before seeking entry permission from a nurse. She knew her role. This was her life’s work.
I wonder … sometimes, might we glimpse Eden’s garden in full bloom, pre-fall
pictured words 