Simple gifts...Perfect imperfection

Simple gifts…Perfect imperfection…Imperfect perfection
Every time I drove by and looked up, the mistake I made pops out and I cringed. It was such a lovely idea. We would create a barn quilt based on the design of Michael’s grandmother’s friendship quilt as the finishing touch for the restored high barn. The quilt, sewn by grandmother and her friends, was given to his grandfather when they married. I was captivated by the concept of a friendship quilt so I enlisted the help of the farm family. Jim, Jay and Michael assembled the wooden framework. Jay and Jim drew off the pattern. Leisa, Diane, Jeannie, Julie, Michael and I painted the quilt but the bulk of the painting was my responsibility.
I spent hours in the barn painting the last three days before the deadline to hang the quilt. Who knew painting stripes could be so time consuming even with the help of painter’s tape? The finished piece is eight feet square so there was a lot of striping going on. The final day came. Jim came to help hang it. As the men hung the new barn doors in the morning, I was still painting. Lunchtime came and I had to wash out my brushes and let go of the work. Ready or not, it was time.
Later that evening, I went to see the quilt panel and there it was! How could I have missed painting stripes on that star point? It is so high off the ground there is no way I can remedy the situation. All my joy in the project teetered on the edge of extinction. Old voices flew to the surface of my soul. Anything worth doing is worth doing well…What a stupid mistake…What’s wrong with you…If you hadn’t waited until the last minute…
And then, David had the word of grace for me. He reminded me of the Amish tradition of on purpose imperfection. Everything they create has some “mistake”, some flaw, some visual reminder that no one among us is perfect. I heave a sigh of relief and let go of the anger at myself. I, too, am an imperfect creation. In this holy season of Advent, I will remember to extend the grace of affirmation for the imperfection in myself and others. We are all stumbling around in the darkness awaiting the Light of Love to dawn. The gift of perfect imperfection, a simple gift not a design flaw… Thanks be to God.

Simple gifts... Joseph in blue jeans

It was a bone deep cold winter night and the dark skies were sprinkled with star confetti. We stood leaning against a brick wall wrapped in coats, scarves and hats waiting for the play to begin. Two fat wooly sheep grazed on the courthouse lawn by the front walk with their plump rear ends facing us. All the stores in downtown Marshall were still open and the warm light spilled out onto the sidewalks. Fire engines rolled by closing off the three main streets into the town and folks began to gather. Little children with their parents, older couples, mountain old timers and newcomers mingled and met as we waited together. A young man shimmied up the telephone pole to run the spotlight mounted there as robed actors began to roam the streets in front of us. The narrator was introduced, a prayer offered and the old, old story began.
Joseph, with blue jeans and work boots peeking out beneath his robes, appears in the light with Mary. Both are sitting in a small lean to on the left side of the courthouse lawn. Mary folds clothes as the narrator starts to tell the story. Roman guards stand by a table on the front sidewalk blocking the entrance to the courthouse as the townspeople walk by. The spotlight shifts to the end of the bridge street as Joseph (or Joe) leads the donkey carrying Mary towards the stable. The donkey moves in fits and starts as donkeys are wont to do, but is calm and beautiful in its donkey way. After being turned away from the Inn, Joe and Mary and the donkey make their way to the stable set up on the right side of the lawn. A baby is coming and they begin to make ready.
The spotlight shifts and there are shepherds standing around a fire, a real fire, and all of us yearn to feel the heat of those flames. The blue and white lit star on the front of the courthouse shines as little children angels stand lifted up around the roof of the stable. Their tinsel halos, white robes and sweet for the moment faces catch my heart and I smile. Three wise men bearing gifts amble up to the stable and the story comes to an end.
For forty eight years folks have gathered here to see the story at Christmas time. It is the antithesis of the current slick big stage indoor productions so favored by many churches. This story telling, a little ragged around the edges, is a moment of mystery and possibility with real life peeking out under the robes. All the churches in the community band together with their choirs and musicians providing the music. Actors are young and old and everything in between. It is a big production number in that sense but one that fosters community between different churches, not competition.
As I stood there wrapped in my own robes to keep the cold at bay, I caught a glimpse of another small town thousands of years ago making ready, not for the birth of the Christ Child, but for a census. Small towns haven’t changed much since then. Everybody knows everybody and everybody’s business. Joes, clad in jeans and work boots, make a living for their families the best way they can. Marys work at home and outside the home but they are still mamas. Little children are sweet bundles of stickiness, our angel future. I give thanks for the simple gift of this evening spent with neighbors and friends, some known but mostly unknown. And I give thanks for all the Joes and Marys who live their lives surrounded by the commonplace wrapped in mystery. Give me eyes to see, ears to hear and a heart filled with joy, Lord, during this ordinary holy time.
P.S. Thanks, Leisa, my sister of the heart, for inviting mama and me to go with you.