Coming home after being away always is a mixed blessing. I am happy to sleep in my own bed, surrounded by all that makes this place home for me. But, the next morning I begin to play catch-up and my tongue hangs out. Somehow, animals always make you pay for your absence. The cats throw up and pee in the worst possible places. The dogs look at you with big brown eyes that say “I thought you were gone forever.” The cows stand and complain loudly that they were not given enough sweet feed. The barn cats rush you as you open cans of cat food. The donkeys butt you with their heads as you try to feed them. The horses, however, win the prize for payback this time.
Charles was finishing up some grading at the stable. I let the horses out to graze so he wouldn’t have to get out to open and close the gate while fending off anxious equines every time he drove through. They had been penned up for the five days we were gone so I knew they needed to stretch their legs, run with the wind and nosh on some winter grass. The donkeys were so excited to be set free that they ran and kicked up their heels, a funny sight.
Chip, our neighbor, called at 9:30 to tell me they were all in his front yard grazing. Someone had opened the gate I had closed and the equine crew love his front yard grass. He didn’t mind them grazing but there was an open road from his house down to the river that I imagined they would love to run. So I went in the mule wearing my bedroom slippers (I am never adequately prepared for these encounters of the frustrating kind) to haul the asses and horses back over into our farm pastures.
Junie B co-operated and let me fasten the lead to her halter. We walked without incident back through the open gate followed by Dixie, Shirley and Kate. A few feet past the gate, Junie B popped her head back and the metal clip broke. She was set free. In about ten seconds, she realized she was loose, wheeled around and ran for her life through the still open gate towards the old road bed that runs through all the farms here. The last I saw of her, she was running wide open with Dixie hot on her heels. The donkeys ran back to Chip’s front yard thumbing their noses at me. I drove home, changed clothes and shoes, prepared for a search and recover mission, cussing myself for being so kind to animals.
When I got back to the old road, there they were, sheepishly walking towards home, Dixie in the lead, trying to find a place to cross over the old rusty fence. I brought them home with the donkeys trotting at our heels. I closed the gate and set them free again. They ran towards the back pasture tails and manes flowing in the wind.
Around four thirty, I noticed the donkeys were back at the stable munching hay but there was no sign of the horses. Once again I climbed into the mule and headed out. First I fed the barn cats (again) then carried more hay to the cows. As I rounded the curve, there they stood, in between two fences, trapped on a narrow piece of ground with a steep drop off, heads hanging over the fence looking pitiful but unrepentant.
After feeding the cows, I climbed through the barbed wire fence and went to them. Dixie spooked and tried to push past Junie B, pushing her off the soft ground ledge down into grapevines and briars in the creek. Back I went through the fence (did I mention it was barbed wire?) to the mule. The clippers were not in the back so I grabbed the hatchet. Through the fence again, down in the creek, chopping grapevines and thorny rose stems, trying to free Junie B. She stood patiently, quietly as I worked, both of us bleeding from encounters with big thorns. When I freed her, she climbed the other bank to join Dixie where they once again were trapped.
Little Michael came to the burn pile to dump some wood. I called and asked for help. He came with his handy dandy all purpose knife that has forty other tools in it, and clipped the barbed wire to let the horses out. After I led the horses home, I returned and we patched the fence so the calves wouldn’t get down in the creek to play. All in a day’s homecoming...
I can’t help but wonder if God has this much trouble with me when I am running away from home. Knowing myself, remembering my run aways from the loving One, the One who always comes to find me, I send an apology prayer straight from my heart to God. Please don’t hold my folly against me when I run heedless towards other paths and recklessly away from You. It is but a momentary loss of good sense and a drunkeness on the illusion of freedom outside the fences of home. When I do not come to myself, turn around and start the journey back to your Loving Presence, will you come looking for me, please?
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Marise's Down Home Cooking... Recipes for Remembering
It was a difficult trip, driving down the interstate to Morven in South Georgia. Mama was going home for awhile to tend to some business... tax appraisals, dentists, doctors... and to touch her place in this world one more time. All the way home mama and I talked about the remembers... Remember when your daddy and I bought the farm and built the house? You and Gayle helped your daddy plant the pasture with sprigs of grass. It had to be replanted twice because the hot Georgia summer sun dried that grass up. Remember Uncle Harold helping your daddy build fences (some still standing after many years) all over the farm? Remember your sister... remember your daddy... remember all that came before you were born and all that came after... remember.
And, the visit to Uncle Harold, now ninety one, stooped and frail with an irrepressible Puck attitude towards life. We sat in the small living room of my grandmother’s house, my Aunt Burma Lou curled up in an Alzheimer fog on the sofa while mama and Uncle Harold remembered. As we stood to leave for the three hour drive back to Morven, my uncle teared up as he hugged mama goodby. “This may be the last time for us to see each other, Shirley.” It may indeed be so.
We drove home with mama pointing out the homes and farms of great-grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins, some known and others unknown. Uncle Rob and Aunt Alice, Poppa’s, cousin Jaymon, poor Mrs. Parker... memories of lifetimes that were a part of her life with my father. Each homestead had a story or a description of those who had lived there in long ago days. Remember...
As the only surviving sibling of our immediate family, I find myself trying to hold in my heart all the remembers my mama has. When she is gone, the remembers will need me to tell their stories. Remember Aunt Elly? When she was too poor to afford meat, she would put her dishcloth on a board and pound it with a coke bottle so the neighbors would think she was tenderizing steak. I remember, mama. Remember Burma Lou’s seven layer chocolate cake with cooked icing? I remember. Remember when you were three and your cousins were shooting at you with the B.B. gun and nearly put your eyes out? Remember Sukie Lou, your first calf that you raised on a bucket? Remember Miss Ora, your step-great-grandmother, who made all the quilts I have? She needed the money and mama needed the covers. I’ll remember.
Then it was time to drive away, back to North Carolina, leaving mama behind for a month or so. As we walked out to the car, mama said “This is my last trip home. I no longer feel safe here alone.” We both wept as we turned away from each other, neither of us wanting to bear the other’s grief in our parting. The last trip home... the end of her life in Georgia... remember, now, where you come from. I will, mama.
On the drive home, we stopped in Vienna (Vi(long i)enna) for lunch at Marise’s Down Home Cooking. It is well off the interstate and you have to know where you are going to find it. On the outskirts of town, a modest rectangular concrete block building had a parking lot that was filling up at Sunday noon. The Methodists and Presbyterians had just gotten out of church and were forming a line. We beat the Baptists so the line was still short. The AME and Bethel Pentecostal Church of God would follow the Baptists.
Little Will was playing with Mr. Lee in front of us. We could tell they were friends from church. Will, like all the other boys there, was dressed in khakis, an oxford cloth shirt neatly pressed and a tie. A little girl, like all the other little girls, was dressed in her Sunday best with lace on her socks and a bow in her hair. All the grown-ups were greeting each other with small town familiarity, comfortable in their knowledge of one another, dressed for worship in their Sunday best, too.
Marise, along with her family members was serving dinner. Ham, fried or baked chicken, greens, pole beans, macaroni and cheese, dressing, mashed potatoes, potato salad, cranberry sauce, pickles, tomatoes, onions, cornbread or biscuit cooked like mama and grandma used to cook... meat and three sides with a drink for $6.95, dessert extra. Black and white folks mingled in the line waiting to be served, talking and calling each other by name. Comfort food... the food that feeds the community... the soul food that comes with remembering. These folks sitting in the dining room at Marise’s, members of that small town community, bowing their heads to say grace, laughing and joshing with one another taught me a lesson at Sunday dinner.
Show up for worship and for dinner. Wear your best and behave your best at least once a week. Listen to the preacher and your mama when they tell you the stories about your people and who you belong to. Remember my name. Remember who I was and where I came from. Remember me in my time of trial. Remember me in my youth and in my old age. Remember me when I am dead and gone.
Feed my sheep, Jesus said. I wonder if he meant for us to feed our souls with remembers? Do this in remembrance of me... Share a meal. Call each other by name because you know each other’s souls. Call my name and remember me. I remember, Lord, I remember. In my remembering, I will tell the old, old stories that live on in my heart of Jesus and his love. And I will remember, mama, where I come from and the stories you have told me.
And, the visit to Uncle Harold, now ninety one, stooped and frail with an irrepressible Puck attitude towards life. We sat in the small living room of my grandmother’s house, my Aunt Burma Lou curled up in an Alzheimer fog on the sofa while mama and Uncle Harold remembered. As we stood to leave for the three hour drive back to Morven, my uncle teared up as he hugged mama goodby. “This may be the last time for us to see each other, Shirley.” It may indeed be so.
We drove home with mama pointing out the homes and farms of great-grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins, some known and others unknown. Uncle Rob and Aunt Alice, Poppa’s, cousin Jaymon, poor Mrs. Parker... memories of lifetimes that were a part of her life with my father. Each homestead had a story or a description of those who had lived there in long ago days. Remember...
As the only surviving sibling of our immediate family, I find myself trying to hold in my heart all the remembers my mama has. When she is gone, the remembers will need me to tell their stories. Remember Aunt Elly? When she was too poor to afford meat, she would put her dishcloth on a board and pound it with a coke bottle so the neighbors would think she was tenderizing steak. I remember, mama. Remember Burma Lou’s seven layer chocolate cake with cooked icing? I remember. Remember when you were three and your cousins were shooting at you with the B.B. gun and nearly put your eyes out? Remember Sukie Lou, your first calf that you raised on a bucket? Remember Miss Ora, your step-great-grandmother, who made all the quilts I have? She needed the money and mama needed the covers. I’ll remember.
Then it was time to drive away, back to North Carolina, leaving mama behind for a month or so. As we walked out to the car, mama said “This is my last trip home. I no longer feel safe here alone.” We both wept as we turned away from each other, neither of us wanting to bear the other’s grief in our parting. The last trip home... the end of her life in Georgia... remember, now, where you come from. I will, mama.
On the drive home, we stopped in Vienna (Vi(long i)enna) for lunch at Marise’s Down Home Cooking. It is well off the interstate and you have to know where you are going to find it. On the outskirts of town, a modest rectangular concrete block building had a parking lot that was filling up at Sunday noon. The Methodists and Presbyterians had just gotten out of church and were forming a line. We beat the Baptists so the line was still short. The AME and Bethel Pentecostal Church of God would follow the Baptists.
Little Will was playing with Mr. Lee in front of us. We could tell they were friends from church. Will, like all the other boys there, was dressed in khakis, an oxford cloth shirt neatly pressed and a tie. A little girl, like all the other little girls, was dressed in her Sunday best with lace on her socks and a bow in her hair. All the grown-ups were greeting each other with small town familiarity, comfortable in their knowledge of one another, dressed for worship in their Sunday best, too.
Marise, along with her family members was serving dinner. Ham, fried or baked chicken, greens, pole beans, macaroni and cheese, dressing, mashed potatoes, potato salad, cranberry sauce, pickles, tomatoes, onions, cornbread or biscuit cooked like mama and grandma used to cook... meat and three sides with a drink for $6.95, dessert extra. Black and white folks mingled in the line waiting to be served, talking and calling each other by name. Comfort food... the food that feeds the community... the soul food that comes with remembering. These folks sitting in the dining room at Marise’s, members of that small town community, bowing their heads to say grace, laughing and joshing with one another taught me a lesson at Sunday dinner.
Show up for worship and for dinner. Wear your best and behave your best at least once a week. Listen to the preacher and your mama when they tell you the stories about your people and who you belong to. Remember my name. Remember who I was and where I came from. Remember me in my time of trial. Remember me in my youth and in my old age. Remember me when I am dead and gone.
Feed my sheep, Jesus said. I wonder if he meant for us to feed our souls with remembers? Do this in remembrance of me... Share a meal. Call each other by name because you know each other’s souls. Call my name and remember me. I remember, Lord, I remember. In my remembering, I will tell the old, old stories that live on in my heart of Jesus and his love. And I will remember, mama, where I come from and the stories you have told me.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
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.
.
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.
.
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