The Christmas season always speeds by, but with every year, it zips past at a faster pace. This year especially, it’s a blur. Is it the lack of that extra week, due to Thanksgiving’s later date? That our daughter wasn’t with us for quite as long? Is it my advancing age? It certainly does seem that time moves more and more quickly the older I get.
My husband, who is younger, agrees. We find ourselves looking at the Christmas tree after dinner and marveling at the fact that December 25 and its accompanying festivities are all in the rear view mirror. We did the usual decorative preparations–the indoor/outdoor lighting, the wreaths, a small forest of Christmas trees at our house and my mother’s. We shopped for our family and and others, we wrapped gifts. We enjoyed a celebratory pre-Christmas dinner out with our daughter and her fiance. Post-Christmas, our two families walked and talked through an extensive light show at a local garden park. Of course, there was the not-to-be missed Live Nativity and Christmas Eve worship service. We opened gifts and shared Christmas dinner with my mother. No crucial elements were missing. Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention? Not living in the moment? Looking back, it seems as though I was too busy to be mindful.
And then, yesterday, on the final day of Christmas, it snowed. A big, beautiful, drifting snow. Now it really looks like Christmas. And it just so happens that I have time to breathe in and out fully, and to enjoy that Christmas feeling. No appointments, no projects that must be tackled immediately. Now, I can be present.
So, at a point at which most people are taking down their Christmas decorations, or have boxed them up days ago, I will be savoring them.
My husband is typically not one for issuing decrees. He’s never played the bossy guy with me, as he knows it would do him no good. But he has decreed that January 6th must be the final evening for the outdoor spotlights and interior window candles. This is a stretch for him. Growing up, his family took down the tree down sometimes even before they ushered in the new year. Although a church-goer all his life, he wasn’t aware, until I informed him, of the tradition of leaving the decorations up until Epiphany. We can’t turn the lights out until the Magi arrive! How will they find the baby Jesus without simulated stars to guide them?
My husband fears that without his guidance, I’d leave the decorations up until Easter. But I wouldn’t. They’d be out before Valentine’s Day. I may attempt to negotiate a few extra days with the exterior lights and the candles. Because with the snow, the illuminated house looks extra pretty. I could say that. Or because it’s the middle of the week, when his days are spent at the office. He’d probably rather not spend an evening packing up the candles, right? (He puts them up, and he takes them down.)
I’ll probably let him get his way with the lights that are in his charge. But all the other interior lights and decorations–those are in my purview. With those, I’ll take my time. I’ll relish this white Christmas in the post-Christmas season.
The Christmas Eve live nativity is one of our church’s most beloved traditions, very popular with the local community. For several hours on the afternoon of December 24, the painted nativity figures arranged in the creche are joined by a group of living, breathing beasties. My daughter and I haven’t missed the event yet.
The sweet, sturdy little burro was back. I love his floppy, velvety ears and thick, buff-colored coat. He’s the furry embodiment of patient, calm endurance. How appropriate that his long-ago forbear carried Mary and her unborn child across the rugged paths from Nazareth to Bethlehem.
The donkey’s partner was not the gray hump-backed ox of previous years, but a petite black cow. The two seemed perfectly content to munch hay and be admired by a continuing parade of humans.
A goat and a sheep hunkered down in the hay, apparently intent on sleep, but repeatedly awakened by small, curious, caressing hands.
The camel this year was Moses, a determined snuggler. As if on cue, he rested his heavy head on the shoulder of any person who stepped up next to him for a photo op.
These two kids were unsure about being in immediate proximity to Moses’s enormous face, so their dad held them at a slight distance. Moses, always easy-going, nestled his head on his trainer’s shoulder, instead.
During the hours that Moses the camel and his hirsute entourage are holding court, the inanimate nativity figures recede into the background. But once Moses and the other animals have been led back to their trailer (and are likely on on their way to their next gig in Northern Virginia), the painted figures remain in their places in the simple wooden creche. But on Christmas Eve there is an essential addition. The empty spot between Mary and Joseph is filled. A homemade manger holds a swaddled doll. The other figures have a focal point toward which to direct their reverent gazes.
When I first brought the fiberglass nativity forms up to the church, after finishing the work of repainting, I was struck by the bare starkness of the shelter that encloses them. Did it need some swags of greenery, perhaps? Certainly no red bows or shiny ornaments, but branches of fir, pine, or spruce? Sprigs of holly and berries?
But no. Even such natural decorations are part of the trappings of our commercial, cozy, secular “Merry Christmas.” The humbleness of the scene is the point. The nativity grouping speaks to a timeless, sacred truth. While that great truth inspires, to some degree, at least, the jolly festiveness of the season, it needs no dressing up. It’s fitting that hay is the only adornment. As the Grinch discovers, Christmas “came without ribbons, it came without tags, it came without packages, boxes or bags.”
The gift of God’s grace came on Christmas in the form of a baby, unfathomably both human and divine. That baby grew up and served as a role model for us, his fellow brothers and sisters. During his earthly life, Jesus personified kindness, compassion, mercy and forgiveness. In his words and in his actions, he taught that our life’s goal should be to follow his example.
The awesomeness of the gift of salvation offered to us through Christ’s sacrificial death can never be overstated. But Christmas reminds us to look to our brother Jesus to guide us in living every day, here in our present world. This world needs all the love we can give.
At the end of September, a friend asked if I could give our church’s well-worn nativity figures “a coat of paint.” These fiberglass forms are set up every Advent in front of the church under the shelter of a wooden creche. They likely date to the early 1960s. The human figures vary from about three to four feet in height. Hollow, they’re filled with sand to weigh them down. I hadn’t given them a very close viewing, ever. I only remember thinking that they could look better.
My friend had noticed that many of the forms were chipped, with patches of peeling paint. When he asked me to repaint them, I think he was envisioning a quick coating to cover the bare spots and reseal the fiberglass.
But I couldn’t do only that. The colorless faces called out for definition, for enlivening touches. The eyes, in particular, were empty and blank. The clothing could benefit from gradations in hue and shadow. The faces and bodies needed nuance.
As I mentioned in an October post, the task of improving the animals struck me as less daunting, so I started with them. I’m generally not a painter of people, and the human forms, I knew, would be challenging. I began with Mary. It was an easy decision to replace her golden hair with dark brown, but her smooth, oval face proved especially troublesome. I kept returning to her as I worked on the others. Gradually, she gained a bit of character. Once I darkened Joseph’s eyes and eyebrows, he was revealed to be quite handsome.
I brightened up the angel’s ghostly pallor in her face and wings. She’s one of the few figures to have ears. I tried to reduce somewhat the size of her right ear, which was particularly prominent. She still has a rather elfin look, which I find charming.
The shepherd’s expression, before, was a grumpy, curmudgeonly squint. I tried to give him a more benign, dignified demeanor. I also changed his purple cloak to one of brown. Purple dye, during ancient times, was exorbitantly expensive, since it was painstakingly produced from the glands of huge numbers of small sea snails. It was a color for kings, not for humble shepherds.
The sole Biblical source for the three Magi is the Gospel of Matthew (2:1 – 12) which refers to “wise men from the East,” likely not kings at all, but astrologers, as they were led by a star to Bethlehem and the home of the holy family. Their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh attest to their substantial wealth. Because of their Eastern origins, they were probably not Jews. Some sources suggest that they could have been priests of the Zoroastrian religion, widely practiced throughout Persia. Their inclusion in the nativity story serves to demonstrate a crucial point: the baby Jesus was sent by God to be a savior not only for the Hebrew people, but for all nations. It was in early medieval times that the wise men began to be identified as kings, each hailing from one of the three known continents of Europe, Asia and Africa. The message in this identification is clear: the baby in the manger offers salvation to everyone, the world over.
The faces of the three kings were already nicely differentiated from each other. Because of their distinctive features, they required the least of my efforts. A more subtle application of paint brought out their personalities and enlivened them.
Of all the forms, the camel was probably the least in need of a makeover. I lightened his coat and touched up his face. His regally fringed saddle and harness needed only some shading and glints of deep red.
Finally, when the last coat of polyurethane had been applied (some eighty hours of work having passed since I dipped a brush into primer to start on the little lamb) it was time for the group to leave my mother’s house. Mama and I were sort of sad to see them go, as they’d appeared very much at home in her living room. I couldn’t squeeze the entire group into my little car at once, so I made two trips. They were pleasant passengers.
Now the nativity figures are outside our church, in their usual positions in the creche. There is a notably empty space at the center, between Mary and Joseph. That blank spot speaks to the essence of Christmas. No amount of elaborate decorating, or frenzied holiday partying, or masses of material gifts, can satisfy that hollow place in our souls. But if we let it, God’s love can fill us to overflowing, so that we may be bearers of kindness and compassion to those who need it most. Our world is often dark. But with the true gift of Christmas, we can bring the light.
Let’s all bring a little light, this holiday season!
On this Thanksgiving day, a chilly drizzle dims, but cannot mask, the beauty of fall’s spectacular finale here in Northern Virginia.
Late-blooming roses and a few determined petunias share space with brilliant red maple leaves, soon to fly away. As I give thanks for nature’s many gifts, the words of this familiar old hymn, a comforting presence, abide with me today.
For the beauty of the earth,
for the glory of the skies,
for the love which from our birth, over and around us lies.
Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.
For the beauty of each hour, of the day and of the night,
hill and vale and tree and flower, sun and moon, and stars of light;
Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.
For the joy of ear and eye, for the heart and mind’s delight,
for the mystic harmony linking sense to sound and sight;
Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.
Wishing you and your loved ones a Thanksgiving filled with many blessings!
I shut myself off from the election results as they trickled in on the evening of November 5. I kept away from all sources of outside information. I didn’t want to experience in real time the constant minuscule ups and downs as votes were reported. I was reading a captivating book. Its protagonist was a person who committed many terrible acts, yet managed to escape any serious consequences.
I’d been hopeful about the election, and I maintained that sense of optimism throughout the night. I know I dozed off at times, because I recalled some vivid, disturbing dreams, but I was awake most of the night, reading.
As light was breaking, around 6:30 AM, I checked my phone. My heart sank. “Trump, Again.” Really? No! No! No! Wow!
We’d been told, over and over, that it would be a very close election. I believed this. I knew that a Harris loss was very possible. And I’d prepared myself for inconclusive initial results. But I had expected so much more from my fellow citizens. Wow. Just wow. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Or maybe I’m still reading.
One of my primary reasons for optimism was the many conversations I’d had with Georgia voters during the two weeks prior to the election. I volunteered to do something I’ve never done before: to make campaign phone calls. I chose Georgia because the results were likely to be closer there than here in Virginia. I grew up in Atlanta. I have known my share of Georgians.
I never answer my phone to a number I don’t recognize; I resent such intrusions. But I felt a pressing need to do something other than donate, and I didn’t want to knock on doors. In this age of Zoom, the task is easier than ever. I sat at my computer and waited to be connected to voters. When someone answered, their first name would appear on my screen. I learned to make my case quickly and succinctly.
I made nearly two hundred calls. Judging from names and accents, Georgians are a multi-cultural bunch. This didn’t surprise me. My Atlanta high school, Henry Grady, now Midtown High, had been a melting pot since the 1950s. I couldn’t believe the number of people who willingly spoke to me. I got many hang-ups, naturally. I got a few gruff answers. One man loudly demanded to be removed from this “KaMAla bullsh*t.” But most people, even those who were not supporting the Democrats, were incredibly polite. Many peppered their answers with “Yes, ma’am,” and “No ma’am.”
I spoke to several people who weren’t planning to vote, and others who couldn’t. Two felt strongly that neither candidate took the interests of the average citizen to heart. One Latina woman had missed the registration deadline. Another told me that she couldn’t vote; she wasn’t a citizen. She spoke quickly and nervously, as if she suspected I might be the voting police. But her daughter was definitely voting for Harris, she said. One soft-spoken young man said he couldn’t vote, because he was a felon. (Interesting, isn’t it, that another felon is now the president-elect?) I talked to several White women who were all in for Trump. There were a few men who were vociferously anti-Harris, and wanted to discuss. One man, who described himself as fifty-something and Black, was convinced that Harris was an evil gang leader, who cared nothing for other Black people except to garner their votes. Despite our rather extended conversation, I never found out where he got his information. One young White man, speaking courteously, was enamored of Trump because he said “anything that was on his mind.”
But far and away, most of those I spoke with were eager and enthusiastic supporters of the Democratic party. Our conversations were like those among old friends; we were working together for what we hoped would be the best outcome for the country that we loved. I talked to many Black women who were Harris supporters for lots of reasons, but often with the well-being of their daughters and granddaughters prominently in mind. There were a number of Black men who backed Harris wholeheartedly. I talked with a White woman who had that genteel, Old Atlanta accent that has largely disappeared. She was as flabbergasted as I was that Trump was the Republican candidate, again. When one young man with a prominent South Georgia drawl answered and said he’d get his dad, for whom I was asking, I prepared myself for an earful of disagreement. Instead, his father, with just as pronounced an accent, told me that he’d been actively campaigning for Harris and felt betrayed by fellow Georgians who were supporting “that other guy.” A man of Asian descent related how his entire extended family had assembled together for early voting, for Harris. One older man started off slowly: “It’s a hard decision. Do I support the candidate who incited an insurrection and got police officers killed on January 6th? Or do I vote for the woman who is qualified to be president?” Another elderly man said he’d been a child during the 1930s, and he felt, with much regret, like we’d gone back in time.
I was reassured in discovering that the majority of Georgia voters on my call list were supporting Harris. It was, as expected, a pleasure to speak with kindred spirits. But what surprised me greatly was that I enjoyed talking even with those who thought differently from me. I never felt personally attacked. There was often humor in our exchanges. In nearly every conversation, our shared humanity was tacitly acknowledged. We were Americans who disagreed. It reminded me of past eras, when we could support different parties without questioning one another’s patriotism or hurling insults. Maybe it’s just that most Georgians are so polite?
Whatever the case, the calls left me more hopeful than I had been before. They give me hope even now. I was reminded that I feel better when I engage with others, especially with those I don’t know well. Not long ago, my daughter remarked that one of the things she had missed most during the Covid years was the opportunity to talk regularly with strangers. I agree. If we’re ever to break through the barriers of extreme polarization, we’re going to have to talk, and listen, to one another. And give each other grace. Thank you, Georgia voters, of all political persuasions, for bringing this point home to me.
Incidentally and aptly, the title of the book that held my attention all during the long night of November 5, was this: The Sequel.
In my last post, I wrote about how the current Republican presidential candidate relies on a childish strategy to deflect and redirect attention from his own misdeeds. The “I didn’t do it! You did it!” strategy has served him well.
There’s another infantile tactic that he regularly employs, and that’s the claim of “No fair!”. You know this maneuver. You grew up with it, and chances are, if you ever used it, you grew out of it.
Remember playing childhood games in the neighborhood as a kid, and there was someone who yelled “NO FAIR!” at every loss? Usually there was at least one child who absolutely couldn’t abide losing. Not at High-Ho Cheerio, or Candy Land, or Freeze Tag, or Kickball. Not even Tic Tac Toe. No game was too trivial not to be contested. I recall gently asking one such wailing young acquaintance, “Do you really think it’s only fair if you win every single time? It wouldn’t be fair, see, if I won every single time, would it? ” My reasoning fell on deaf ears. The kid continued howling NO FAIR through the tears. Apparently the concept of fairness was created only for him; it did not extend to others.
The former president clearly continues to see the world this way. Things are only fair if he wins. When he lost the election in 2020, he cried NO FAIR.
He appealed to his followers. He repeated the claim, loudly and forcefully. Various media outlets amplified it. His base wanted to believe the lie, so they were hoodwinked. On January 6, 2021, they assembled at our Capitol in order to undo an election they had been told was illegitimate. Because Trump declared NO FAIR, some brought weapons, zip ties, and wore body armor. They broke through barricades, windows and doors. Most of them had been strident supporters of “law and order,” yet they viciously attacked the police who were there to defend our democratic systems. They roamed the hallways of the Capitol, chanting violent threats against duly elected representatives of both parties. They did it because their leader, their hero, had told them, and continued to tell them, over and over, that it was NO FAIR. They threatened to hang Mike Pence, their candidate’s own Vice President. What terrible vengeance would have taken place if our lawmakers had not been whisked to safety, with only a very few moments to spare?
Trump has never ceased claiming NO FAIR. His “unfair” election loss in 2020 has now morphed into his predicted “unfairness” of the 2024 election. In recent rallies, he’s heavily seeding the ground, telling his followers that if he doesn’t win by a landslide, it’s because of rampant “cheating” by Democrats. Yet again, the election is likely to be stolen from him, he maintains. And yet again, ominously, he’s suggesting that bad things may happen if he doesn’t win.
Why vote for an elderly version of that whiny kid who can’t stand to lose? Ironically a vote for that candidate is a vote for unfairness.
I urge you: vote for fairness for all. Vote for Kamala Harris.
*The Trump campaign filed over sixty lawsuits claiming election fraud in the 2020 election. According to the Campaign Legal Center, a nonpartisan legal organization founded by a Republican former Commissioner of the Federal Election Commission, “The various claims of evidence alleging a stolen 2020 election have been exhaustively investigated and litigated. Judges heard claims of illegal voting and found they were without merit.”
Around this time four years ago, I made an appeal for voters not to re-elect then-President Trump. I remain astounded that it’s necessary to make the same plea again, as we face, unbelievably, a third election featuring this most unworthy candidate.
There were soooooooooo many reasons not to vote for this man in 2020. Of course, there were plenty in 2016, including the Access Hollywood tape that should have ended his campaign and political career. There are far more reasons now. The list is absolutely exhaustive. It includes, of course, his crucial role in the events of January 6, 2021. Another worth recalling is that he is now a convicted felon, found guilty by a jury of our peers. In most states he would be unable even to vote.
And then there are many reasons that can be wrapped up in his character, or lack thereof: he is childish in all the bad ways, and none of the good.
Like a spoiled, angry child, when faced with potential conflict, he follows a well-worn playbook. He declares, loudly and with vehemence: I didn’t do it! You did it! or I’m not! You are!
Most of us can remember at least one or two childhood acquaintances who made regular use of this old familiar taunt. It was, almost always, a blatant lie. I didn’t kick the dog! You did! I’m not a cheater! You are!
And for most of us, the absurdity of the tactic was always readily apparent. We knew, even as children, that we’d be called out immediately as a liar and a fraud. Many of those who relied on it in their youth have likely outgrown it with age.
But for bullies, who wield power through fear, and never, never, back down from the lie, it can be highly effective.
We watched as the former president brandished the strategy like a light saber, time and time again. Others remarked on it, referring to the practice as “projection,” a psychological coping mechanism in which one’s own shameful or unwelcome thoughts or hostile actions are projected onto another.
Whatever one calls it–whether projection or the I’m not, you are tactic, it’s one of his signature moves.
Remember when Hillary Clinton accused him, during a debate, of being Putin’s puppet? His reply: “I’m not a puppet. You’re the puppet.”
Take note of his repeated references to the “Biden crime family.”
Three generals who worked for the former president–his Joint Chiefs Chairman Mark Milley, his Defense Secretary James Mattis, and his former Chief of Staff, John Kelly, have all declared Trump to be unfit for office, a threat to the Constitution and to the institution of our military. What does Trump say? A Harris administration will be a threat to our democracy.
We should pay close attention to these projections. When he says he won’t do some terrible thing, but the other side will, watch out. A second Trump term will lack the responsible minders who babysat him during his previous term. There will be no one to reign in the whims of the whiny man-child, the elderly bully boy. The consequences could be dire.
But we, the people, we can stop him. Trump’s Republican colleagues didn’t have the guts to do so when they could, during one of his two impeachments, or after he was voted out of office. It’s up to us, the voters, to say, “Enough.” We can vote for the capable, responsible, intelligent candidate who will work for us. We can vote for Kamala Harris, former District Attorney, Attorney General, U.S. Senator and current Vice President. We can vote, not for the criminal, but for the candidate who seeks to uphold the law and make it work for the American people.
Slim revels in the various lead-up events to the big day. His enthusiastic presence heightens the fun at our church’s annual Trunk or Treat. It’s a pleasure having him by my side, revving up the crowd from his usual perch at the back of my car.
It was Slim’s idea that the refurbished nativity animals accompany us to the event. By this time, he and the pups had gotten chummy with the foursome of ox, donkey, lamb and ram. He decided that their debut at Trunk or Treat should function as a preview in preparation for Advent. But they needed some Halloween flair, he insisted. He dug through boxes of fall decorations to find suitable ribbon for bows, which he carefully tied around each faux-furry neck.
We were all happy to see our daughter and her fiancé, who dropped by last weekend between Halloween parties. Slim heartily approved of their regal vampire costumes.
Slim loves a festive centerpiece, and he has an eye for detail. In our dining room, he toyed with the painted gourds, arranging them just so in the punch bowl.
The week before Halloween was warm and sunny here in Northern Virginia. Between decorating projects, Slim could often be found soaking up the October rays and basking in the balmy breezes. While sad to see that the impatiens had succumbed to a recent frost, he appreciated the persistence of our petunias.
He was surprised to discover some out-of-season blooms on our lilacs.
A birder from way back, Slim had for years been encouraging me to join the Feeder Watch program of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Now that I have, I understand. I’ve always appreciated the peace that comes from being immersed in nature, especially at times when the human world is a muddle of confounding conflict. And I’ve found that when I’m counting birds for Feeder Watch, I pay closer attention to each little creature that appears. I’m looking with greater concentration and intentionality, and the experience is more satisfying. Slim spent hours sitting motionless in a chair close to the feeders, gazing at the variety of birds that swooped around him, not troubled at all by his presence. I found some precious moments to settle myself in a chair just beyond, and savor the pleasant ambiance.
Before long, it was time for the annual pre-Halloween joyride. The dogs piled in, and Slim took the wheel. On an afternoon that epitomized convertible weather, they merrily cruised the neighborhood, looking for old friends and admiring the numerous ambitious Halloween displays.
Slim has claimed that he and his wide circle of influencers are largely responsible for the exponential growth of Halloween, from a quick one- day celebration, to a weekend, to its own extensive season. He’s been known to get a bit cocky, so I take his words with a grain of salt. Is it really a good thing, I wondered, for gargantuan blow-up spiders, demons and Disney villains to join us as early as August? I asked him why he and his colleagues, if they wielded such power, couldn’t turn their attention toward easing some of society’s ills. They were trying to do just that, he replied. The thinking was this: If we can unite for weeks over a love of candy, playing dress-up and poking fun at our fears, maybe we can realize that our points of commonality outnumber our differences.
Maybe there’s something to this. Even one day of Halloween is an amazing occasion. People across our country open their doors to hand out generous amounts of candy to children. Most of these are kids we hardly know, or have never met. We greet and give to strangers, simply because they show up, wear a costume, and say “Trick or Treat.” It seems that over the years on October 31, we’ve moved toward a greater emphasis on the treating than the tricking. That’s something to keep in mind and strive for, every day, whether it’s Halloween season, or not.
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.