Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!

One of my Christmas presents was a little desk calendar titled “Butter My Butt and Call Me A Biscuit.” Every day has a short folk wisdom reminder for the day. One of my mother’s favorite descriptive phrases... He’s too poor to have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of... is in there.
My Grandma introduced me to the wonderful world of wisdom phrases. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride... You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear... Pretty is as pretty does...Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. Every occasion had a saying that matched what was happening. The images in these sayings are often funny... a buttered butt or a sow’s ear purse... but the humor carries a pithy message. And even if you are dumb as a post or a brick shy of a load, you can catch the drift of its meaning.
Every culture since time began has had its own brand of wisdom phrases. The Bible is full of them. The book of Proverbs is nothing but “Sayings of admonition and knowledge to show you what is right and true.” My Grandma quoted these, too. Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it. A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches.
My Grandfather’s motto could have been “A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” He was known for his gentleness, my first experience with meekness. His strength was in his ability to return good for evil, an acceptance of the realities of life without being defeated by them. He lived through two world wars, one great depression, raised his family without much money on a farm that fed them, saw his son wounded in war, lived and died in the same community into which he was born. He is buried in the churchyard of the church he attended all his life surrounded by other family members laid to rest around him... a baby boy who died at birth lies near him and my Grandma.
When I remember him, I see him standing under the old trees in the front yard of Cloverly, dressed in his khaki work clothes with his straw hat on his head, smiling at us. His gentle hands played horseshoes or croquet with us and I never heard his soft voice raised in anger. When he was angry, his voice remained at the same level as when he was pleased but times of anger were rare indeed. Some of his sweet spirit lives on in his grandsons and great-grandsons. I catch a glimpse of Granddaddy in my son Adam sometimes and it takes my breath away.
This Christmastide I want to practice being meek... not mellow wishy washy butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth meek... but to be seemly and forbearing while strong enough to resist aggression. This will be a challenge since I have much of my Grandma’s tart tongued manner. Perhaps I can find the balancing point between mushy mealy mouthed meekness and sharp sword tongued large mouth cleverness.
This hymn, written as a poem for children by Charles Wesley, captures some of what Jesus must have meant when he said, “Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”
“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Pity my simplicity,
Suffer me to come to thee...
Live Thyself within my heart.
Loving Jesus, gentle Lamb,
In Thy gracious hands I am;
Make me Saviour, what Thou art...
I shall then show forth Thy praise,
Serve Thee all my happy days;
Then the world shall always see
Christ, the Holy Child, in me.
So for today, I will practice being meek and simple like a child, powerless and yet filled with the power of loving obedience to the One who first loved me. I rest in God’s gracious hands and trust that my desire to become more like Jesus will please my Creator. May it be so.

Christmastide

It was a perfect Christmas. Like the stable of old, our home was full of animals... six dogs (Barney became an inside dog for the season)... eight grownups... and four small boys who were filled up and overflowing with tidings of comfort and joy. “Eddie the Elf is hanging from the light, Nana... It’s Jesus’ birthday... Rufus peed in the hall, Nana... I need to go potty, Nana... And when informed the toilet was clogged while he was sitting on it, Aidan responded, “Well, Dammit!” Must have happened at his house, too.
Sofabeds were pulled out in the barbershop and the away room. Cushioned with foam and covered in pads, they provided a resting place. The real guest bed usually goes to the first one to get here or the one with the youngest baby. The boys slept in one room on two single beds, a crib and a pallet on the floor. The girls remembered when they slept on pallets in Grandma’s dining room at Christmas and told their sons the stories.
Food, and lots of it, was fun. Thanks to a friend who wrote about Cuties, our family discovered the joys of eating those sweet little clementines that are just the right size for children. We ate our way through two boxes of them along with some red navel oranges. Pop always peels oranges at night for us to eat. And David is the designated cookie baker, turning out sheet after sheet of crisp sweet rounds that disappear as fast as he can bake them. Turkey, chicken, ambrosia, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, those little green southern summer peas that Granddaddy always grew, green beans canned from our garden, dressing and gravy... comfort food that reminds us of Christmases past.
Christmas Eve was quiet... a gathering in the barn lit by oil lamps and candles with the sounds of the creek. The wagon wheel Advent wreath, garnished with boxwood from the old bushes in front of the farmhouse and candles, was lighted and worship began. The strong clear sounds of a trumpet rang out the news... Joy to the world! The Lord has come! A sweet solo soprano sang “Oh Holy Night” and it was. My heart broke with gladness as I heard Mason sing that lovely old song along with Claire. The ancient words that tell the story were read by Michael and the children. We passed the peace, sang “Silent Night” and felt the holy quiet enter our souls.
Christmas had come.
Christmas morning was filled with excitement... toys ( most of them made noise of some sort), presents to unwrap, breakfast casserole (Nana overestimated how much to make), coffee (lots of coffee), laughter and glee, confusion and mayhem, toddlers toddling and dogs everywhere (Barney sleeping in the big blue chair with Michelle as his pillow). It was a celebration of family with all our ragged edges hanging out.
A subtle shift is taking place as our children now come home with their children. We are being cared for by this gift of time and presence they give us. It is no small gift to bring children and Christmas presents on a road trip to the farm. I know this time is limited. Soon they will need to stay in their own homes and we will be the ones traveling to them. And that is as it should be.
As I sit at my computer being nagged by Wiley the cat, the soft sounds of rain provide a gentle accompaniment to my writing. It is Christmastide, the season that includes Christ’s Mass, Epiphany and Candlemas, a quieter, more reflective season. Originally, like Lent and Advent, it was a reminder of those forty day liturgical sections of time in the church year. Most American Christians, except for the Orthodox and Catholic Christians, have lost the meaning and celebration of this time. Christmas happens and it is over for us. In the process we lose an opportunity to fully celebrate the meaning of God with us.
Advent, shaded by the darkness of the world without its Light, is preparation time. Christmas is a celebration of the birth of the Light of the World. Christmastide gives us time to see the Light, follow the Star, and remember to Whom we belong. There are no distractions of parties and sales and gifts and special programs...only the baby with a mysterious birth in a stable noticed by no one of importance at the time. We who know the end of the story can feel the bitter sweetness of the joy shadowed by the deaths of other babies, killed by a king’s orders out of paranoia and power. This combination of joy and grief in Christmastide reminds us that life is always lived in between... in between darkness and light, joy and sorrow, gracious giving and greedy grabbing.
I will be giving thanks this Christmastide for the good gifts of Christmas that are in my life all year long... a faith that will not let me go, a family who holds each other in their hearts, a farm that gives me a sense of place and home, friends who drop by and show up and play a mean game of Mexican Train Dominos. And I will be praying for God’s grace and peace to descend upon our world. I will seek to live my life this next year as an instrument of this Grace and Peace, playing and singing my solo for God. Good Christmastide to you.

.