Death is swallowed up in victory.
O death, where is your victory?
O death, where is your sting?
—I Corinthians 15: 54b-55
“The worst thing is never the last thing.”
–Frederich Buechner
Happy Easter 2025!
Category Archives: Faith and Spirituality
On Good Friday: It is Finished!
“It is finished!” And he bowed his head and released his spirit.
The Gospel of John (19: 30) records these final dying words of Jesus, spoken from the cross. A quick reading might prompt one to hear this utterance as the sad lament of defeated man. Not so fast, though. The Gospel writers Matthew (27:50) and Mark (15:37) don’t report Jesus’s last words. They tell us only that he “shouted out again” or “cried out again in a loud voice” before breathing his last. If we use all three accounts as evidence, what the Son of God likely said was a single word evoking not loss, but satisfactory completion. He spoke in Aramaic, but the original Greek of John’s gospel translates it as “tetelestai.”
This word would have been familiar in several contexts to the people of first-century Palestine. Having completed the last task of the day, a worker might tell his boss, “Tetelestai.” An artist, putting the final touch on a painting, might use the same word. A debt paid in full would be stamped “Tetelestai.” For Jews, the word would have been the Greek equivalent of a familiar Hebrew phrase announced by the High Priest each year on the Day of Atonement. After offering the proper sacrificial animals at the altar of the Holy of Holies at the Temple in Jerusalem, the priest emerged to tell the assembled crowd that God had accepted the sacrifice of the people.*
Jesus’s final cry before dying was therefore no whimper of pained surrender. Instead it was an exclamation of triumph.** The various frames of reference for “tetelestai” mentioned above are all helpful in understanding Jesus’s use of the word and what his death means for us. His earthly work is done, the masterpiece completed, the debt paid, the perfect sacrifice offered and accepted. In other words, “Mission Accomplished!”
Three of the Gospels include an often overlooked, but immensely significant detail that stands as proof of the change ushered in by Christ’s death. According to Mark 15: 38: “And the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” This was the curtain in the Temple of Jerusalem which separated the Holy Place from the Most Holy Place. This sacred space housed the Ark of the Covenant, considered by the Jewish people to be the very throne of God. Only priests could enter the Holy place. The High Priest alone entered into that sanctified inner realm, the Holy of Holies, and then, only once a year, on that holiest of all days, The Day of Atonement, or Yom Kippur.
Although sometimes referred to as a veil, the Temple curtain was no delicate, gauzy thing that might have ripped easily in a gusty wind. It was a heavy, brocaded cloth, woven with images of protective angels. Only an intentional act of great force could have caused the Temple curtain to be torn fully asunder. Both Matthew and Mark tell us that it was divided from top to bottom, as though from on high. Human hands had no part in this. This was God’s work.
Having destroyed the barrier to the Holy of Holies, God invites his people to approach him directly. Middlemen are no longer needed. The ultimate gift of atonement invites us to be “at one” with God. Having willingly offered his own life for our sins, Jesus and his father tell us that animal sacrifices are a thing of the past. The perfect Lamb of God has paid our debt in full. We are redeemed. Tetelestai!
This is what Jesus referred to earlier at the Last Supper, when he took the cup and told his disciples, “This is my blood of the new covenant, poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. “(Matthew 26:28) We, and all generations before and after us, are among the many. It was on this same night that Jesus reduced the entirety of his message to this one essential commandment: “Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other.” (John 13: 34) See yesterday’s Maundy Thursday post.
So, what then is required of us in these days of the New Covenant? It’s not a matter of mastering complicated theological concepts and demanding the same of others. Instead, we’re invited to accept the gift given to us in love by our brother and savior Jesus. To admit our shortcomings and try to do better. To focus less on ourselves and more on others. To get back to basics: “Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8) Think about that. We have a God who truly desires to walk with us. He wants to walk the road with us, to share in our sufferings as well as in our joys. And if we’re willing to walk with God day by day, in good times and in bad, loving him, loving our neighbors, we usher in his kingdom here on earth, as it is in heaven.
The Temple curtain has been torn. No barrier remains between us and our loving, faithful God. Tetelestai!
For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8: 38-39)
*Michael Maynard discusses the various meanings of “tetelestai” here: It is Finished. . .The Last Words of Jesus, June 25, 2017.
** See Final Words from the Cross, by Adam Hamilton, pp. 103-104.
On Maundy Thursday, Why Not Choose Love?
Today is Maundy Thursday, the day in the Christian calendar that commemorates Jesus’s Last Supper. The unusual word “maundy” (not Maunday) comes from mandatum, the Latin for command, because we remember the new commandment that Jesus gave his disciples on his final night with them. I wrote a version of this post four years ago, but it’s perhaps even more relevant today, when it appears that meanness, it all its many extravagant forms, is glorified. If those of us who call ourselves Christians were to take the message of Jesus to heart and actively try to follow his example, rather than that of the religious leaders who condemned him, wouldn’t the world be a far better place?
On the night of his betrayal and arrest, Jesus gathered with his disciples for one last Passover meal together. He knew his life on earth was drawing to a close. He had tried to explain to his dearest friends that he would soon be facing death, and doing so willingly. But the disciples, understandably, didn’t understand. Probably some of them were expecting to witness a magnificent earthly triumph. Judas, the betrayer, may have been counting on such a victory. None of the disciples, it seems, were expecting their friend, teacher and Messiah to die an ordinary criminal’s death on the cross.
The group must have been fearful and confused. They were back in crowded, dangerous Jerusalem, where Jesus’s life had been threatened multiple times during clashes with the Jewish religious leaders. And so, on that fateful final night, Jesus had the full and rapt attention of his disciples. He chose his words, and his actions, with care.
According to the Gospel of John (13:1 – 17), after the meal, he did something completely unexpected: he got up from the table and began to wash the feet of his friends. In those days, traveling, for people of ordinary means, meant walking, in sandals, or even barefoot, along dusty, dirty roads, through fields and stretches of sandy wilderness. A servant typically washed the feet of guests as they entered a home. If there were no servants, guests usually washed their own feet from a basin near the door. John the Baptist refers to this practice when asked by Jewish leaders if he is the Messiah. According to John 1:27, he replies, “I baptize with water. Someone greater stands among you, whom you don’t recognize. He comes after me, but I’m not worthy to untie his sandal straps.” The disciples were clearly uncomfortable with their leader and teacher washing their dirty feet. Had foot washing been done upon entering the upper room that night? It’s uncertain. Maybe there had been no basin set up for the purpose until Jesus poured water into one, as mentioned in John 13:5. The Pharisees had criticized Jesus when they noticed that some of his disciples failed to wash their hands before eating (Mark 7: 1-5). Certainly, Jesus’s focus was not on Jewish rituals of purity. External, physical cleanliness was evidently not one of his primary concerns. He may not have been a stickler for foot-washing prior to that last gathering.
The disciple Peter’s reaction supports this (John 13: 6-11). Peter was fiery, passionate and impulsive. Like many of us, he was often a bit dense. He couldn’t stand the idea of Jesus abasing himself to wash his feet. Foot washing was the job of an underling, a slave. Peter jumped up and exclaimed, “You’ll never wash my feet!” When Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me,” Peter was all in. “Then wash my hands and head as well, Lord, not just my feet!”
Jesus went on to explain his puzzling behavior. “Do you understand what I was doing? You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and you are right, because that’s what I am. And since I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other’s feet. I have given you an example to follow. . .Now that you know these things, God will bless you for doing them.” (13:12-15, 17).
Jesus wanted his disciples to understand that he had in mind much more than literal foot washing. Following his example is to mean humbling oneself in order to serve and help others. To further drive home his point, he continued: “So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples” (13:34-35).
Jesus had spent three years traveling with this rag-tag group. They’d heard him teach and preach, seen him heal the sick and cast out demons. On three separate occasions, he’d even restored the dead to life. The disciples had been with him as he confronted the Jewish authorities and challenged their interpretation of the Law. Sometimes his words and actions had been difficult to comprehend. But on the night before his death, Jesus summed up the essence of his ministry in the simplest of terms: Serve others. Love others. Just as I have served and loved you, so you should love others.
Simple words, but tricky to put into practice. Why not at least give it a go? Vindictiveness offers a brief jolt of satisfaction, but doesn’t it leave a bad taste? In forgiving, we refuse to be destroyed by bitterness and anger. The wise counsel of our dear brother Jesus is food that strengthens and sustains us, for the long term. He urges us to be kind and compassionate, to all our neighbors, whether we like them or not, whether they are like us, or not. Of course, we won’t always succeed. Sometimes we’ll backslide and act in ways that are selfish and petty. But if we persevere, we can change the world, little by little, through service and love. That’s what Jesus meant when he talked about building God’s Kingdom here on earth. He wasn’t referring to a kingdom that can be built through military might or governmental power. Attempts to do so only backfire. The true kingdom is more like a community garden. When we plant seeds of love, and when we nurture seedlings that others have sown, we can rejoice in the certainty that the garden is growing. Its roots, we can be sure, are deep and wide-reaching. Let’s try to do our part, in the time that we have, to tend this beautiful garden so that it may flourish and bring forth good fruit.
Palm Sunday 2025
Palm Sunday begs to be distinguished from just any other first day of the week. It launches the period known by Christians the world over as Holy Week. Palm Sunday sets an expectant, celebratory tone, one that contrasts, shockingly and painfully, with the shattering disappointment of the terrible day we call Good Friday. In between falls the oddness of Maundy Thursday. So much is packed into the events of these seven days, which lead up to the triumphant culmination of Easter. Indeed, without Easter, the story of new life, hope and possibility would have been one of failure, death and despair. I’ve written about the days of Holy Week several times before. Below is my Palm Sunday post from April 1, 2012.
Palm Sunday: Everyone Loves a Winner
On the day that we’ve come to think of as Palm Sunday, Jesus was hailed as a celebrity, a military and political hero-to-be. As he and his disciples entered the city of Jerusalem, cheering crowds greeted him with cries of “Hosanna,” which means “Save us.” The news was out: at long last, the King of Israel was here. He was the chosen one sent by God to restore power to the Jewish nation. He rode on a donkey to fulfill the prophecy in Zechariah 9:9: See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey.
It was a brief time of great rejoicing for the people of Israel. A new day of freedom and empowerment was dawning, thanks to the advent of the conquering Messiah. The palm branches they waved were emblems of Israeli nationalism.
In just a few days, though, the tide would turn. Jesus’s being hailed as the much-awaited Messiah would set in motion the events that would lead to his death. The admiring throngs would scatter when it became clear that he was not the kind of king they had desired and expected. Even his dearest friends would desert him. He would be betrayed by one of his own, turned over to the Roman authorities and crucified. On Good Friday, it would appear that this man was no winner.
Good Friday, however, is not the end of the story.
Remembering Grandma (As My Perfect Mother-in-Law)
In memory of my mother-in-law Doretta, who passed away at the beginning of March, I reprint this post from October 2012. See previous post for more about my husband’s lovely mother.
I have the perfect mother-in-law. The only down side to this is that I’m unable to participate in the swapping of mother-in-law horror stories. I’ve heard many such accounts, and other than gasps of incredulity, I have nothing to add. I’ve listened in amazement to tales of the mother-in-law who “helps” with the new baby by bellowing orders, complaints, and increasingly outlandish requests from a command center on the family room sofa. I’ve heard about the M.I.L. who, determined to ensure that her son’s house run on her rules or not at all, regards each visit as an opportunity for a hostile takeover. I’ve listened to anecdotes about the M.I.L. whose sensitive temperament is constantly wounded by imagined slights tossed off by a cruel daughter-in-law. And I’ve heard everything in between.
With my mother in law, there is no drama. She is sweet, good, and uncomplicated. She is kind, thoughtful and intelligent. During visits to our home, she asks how she may help. She is not overbearing. She does not insist, but she never offers out of empty politesse. It has taken me a while, but I’ve learned to accept her assistance. I come from what may be a predominately Southern tradition of automatically refusing the first few offers of guests’ help, thereby forcing them to insist or be considered rude. Now, when Grandma* asks if I need help with dinner, I tend to say Yes, please! She is a calm, easy presence, and it’s a pleasure to share the house, and the chores, with her.
Like everyone in H’s family, his mother welcomed me warmly at our first meeting, now over twenty years ago. She has never implied (as some mothers of sons are known to do), that no living woman could be a worthy companion of the god-like boy-child she birthed. She has a deservedly high opinion of H, and she has always treated me as his equal.
H’s mother is a loving grandmother to our daughter and to her other four grandchildren. Gentle and fun, she laughs easily, and she remembers what it was like to be a child. I’ve heard about grandparents who cannot be trusted with their own grandchildren. This was never an issue with either set of my daughter’s grandparents, thankfully. When D was nearly three, my husband and I, along with my parents, took a trip to France, leaving our daughter in the care of Grandma and Grandpa. We missed our baby girl, but we had no worries about her welfare, either emotional or physical, during those ten days. We knew she was in devoted and capable hands.
Grandma’s attitude is generally one of meekness, and some might take her for a pushover. This, however, is not the case. When she feels strongly that righteousness is on her side, she is tough, patient and determined to persevere. One year, when H’s windsurfing board went missing in Cape Cod, she summoned Grandpa to accompany her on a walk. With slow, thorough deliberation, she surveyed the property carefully, until she discovered H’s board leaning up against the wall of another cottage way across the green. Thanks to her gracious yet firm intervention, H’s board was soon being carried back to its rightful place by those who, no doubt, had removed it.
The photo above shows our daughter with Grandma at Cape Cod. In D’s younger years, she always urged H and me to go out for date night during our vacation, so she could enjoy a full evening of food and fun with Grandma and Grandpa.
Grandma is always ready for a game with a grandchild, whether it’s air hockey, Chinese Checkers, Candyland or Chutes & Ladders.
Grandpa is a lucky man, and he knows it. He has Grandma by his side, no matter what. During their long marriage they’ve had their share of hell and high water, in addition to many joys. They are a formidable team, and together, with their strong faith in God’s love and grace, they know they can weather any storm. Grandma has a gift for finding and sharing that kernel of sweetness within the tough husk of the bad.
Thank you, Grandma, for enriching the lives of all those you touch. Happy Birthday, and many more to follow!
*When I speak to my mother-in-law, I call her by her first name, which is an unusual, pretty name. But here, I will refer to her as Grandma. When I wrote about H’s father, her husband, I referred to him as Grandpa (June 2012), so I’ll be consistent.
Goodbye, to Grandma
My dear mother-in-law Doretta passed away in the early hours of March 4th. Since her beloved husband Jim left this world in October of 2022, she’d been lonely. She didn’t complain. But when asked, or when his name was mentioned, she’d always say, “I just miss him so much.” She carried on, despite her sadness and the growing physical challenges of Parkinsons’ and Addison’s Disease.
I had the pleasure of seeing her most Wednesday nights for the past several years. During the height of the pandemic, she joined my mother and me and other friends for an online Bible study through our church here in Virginia. As her mobility decreased, attending her local Rochester church, and getting out at all, became increasingly difficult. Our mid-week virtual gathering had become one of her few fellowship opportunities, and she appreciated the warm welcome our group extended to her. With my husband’s and his sister’s help, she learned to use Zoom on her iPad in order to join us. This was quite the feat, considering Jim had always been the one to deal with any and all tech matters. During the sessions we’d often hear Barney the cockatiel chirping away happily in the background. Barney, like Doretta, had been bereft after Jim’s passing. An odd, cantankerous bird, he was prone to hissing with apparent vehemence at everyone who was not his best pal Jim. Over the past two years, he warmed up to Doretta, and the two became good company. It was her nightly ritual to sit with him in the family room, watching TV or reading. She found that he got particularly chirpy during the musical performances on old Lawrence Welk re-runs.
Doretta was determined not to relocate from her house, which she and Jim had built as newlyweds in 1965. Thanks to the help of my sister-in-law Julie, who lives locally, several regular care-givers, many walkers and two stair lifts, one to the basement and another to the second floor, she had been able to remain in the home she loved so much. When my husband returned there the morning after his mom’s passing, on the table beside her favorite chair, he found her Bible, some recent books from our Zoom studies, and a manual on coping with Parkinsons’. He saw them as a testament to her quiet, patient perseverance. Throughout adversity, her faith was strong. Life tossed many hardships her way, but she pushed through, with a kind, encouraging word for others. She was a light bearer in our often dark world. It feels odd not seeing Doretta’s Zoom square on Wednesday nights, not to see her sweet smiling face, not to hear Barney’s tweets. I like to think of her in that heavenly cloud of witnesses, reunited joyfully with her darling Jim.
Maple Sugaring in Virginia
As my husband made plans for maple sugaring, he learned to keep a close eye on the weather, and to be prepared to act. We’d always thought of February as the prime maple sugar month. But H learned last year that it’s the temperature, not the specific time of year, that determines the best sugaring conditions. The perfect fluctuation of temperatures, in fact, is necessary. Cold nights, when the thermometer dips below freezing, and warming, sunny days, are what gets the sap really flowing. During the second week of January, when temperatures ranged from the twenties to the forties, H tapped several sugar maples in my mother’s yard. Soon, the white pails were filling with sap. He checked them each night, emptying the liquid into a larger bucket for storage in our basement fridge.
He began the long boiling process on a weekend when he had few other projects. Every gallon of sap requires about an hour of boiling time. He’d collected about twelve gallons, and he boiled six gallons at a time. To avoid turning our kitchen into an ultra-high-humidity zone during six hours of boiling, H began the process outside on the grill. Once the amount of liquid had been reduced by about 80%, he finished the process inside. The longer the liquid is boiled, the more viscous it becomes. During this final phase, our house was filled with the heavenly scent of sugar-rich steam.
The reason that most maple sugar comes from northern locales is that the sugar content of maples is higher there. Sugar maples in northern states and Canada typically have a sap to syrup ratio of about 40-1, so that forty gallons of sap yields one gallon of syrup. Farther south, as here in Virginia, that ratio is about 70 – 1.
After the boiling process is finished, the syrup is filtered to remove any impurities.
My husband found that the sap from the earliest part of the season produced syrup that was light in color. Longer boiling does not affect the color, (unless reduced to the point of burning, of course). In taste, this early harvest was subtle. It was sugary, with only slight hints of maple flavor.
The late-season sap resulted in syrup that was a dark mahogany color. The flavor was bright and robust. It was pure maple essence. It takes more sap, and more boiling time for maple sugaring here in Virginia than in western New York, but the end result, we know now, is equally tasty. Mid-Atlantic maples can produce a liquid gold as fine as their Yankee cousins.
Hours spent around the big pot of bubbling sap, inhaling the sweetness of the steam, are apt to inspire contemplation. “Amazing, isn’t it, that we can extract this liquid from trees in our own yard and turn it into this great-tasting stuff,” my husband remarked. “And it’s even more amazing that the sap is there in the first place. There’s enough to nourish the tree, and plenty left over for us. If God were to boast about his wonders, this should be included.”
I agreed, and the biblical conversation between God and Job immediately came to mind:
Who created a channel for the torrents of rain? Who laid out the path for the lightning?
Who makes the rain fall on barren land, in a desert where no one lives?
Who sends rain to satisfy the parched ground and make the tender grass spring up?
Does the rain have a father? Who gives birth to the dew?
Who is the mother of the ice? Who gives birth to the frost from the heavens? (Job 38: 25- 29, New Living Translation)
God directs Job’s attention to his supreme authority over the skies, the seas, over light and darkness, and to the unique characteristics of his many, fantastically varied creatures, including lions and goats, the wild donkey, the ox, the horse and the eagle. The miracle of maple syrup could well be included among these marvels, it seems to me. Perhaps in words like these:
Who commands and compels the life-blood of the trees of the forest? Who sets the sweet sap rising and flowing in the maples? Who sends it forth to nurture and bless the woodpecker and the shepherd?
So yes, every taste of our homemade maple syrup is yet another reminder of the bounty of God’s gifts. It’s best enjoyed, in our opinion, over buckwheat pancakes made from the Cartwright family recipe. Our syrup may be from Southern trees, but my husband’s sugar-making experience is rooted in the wilds of upstate New York. The seeds were planted long ago during his first family visit to the remote Maple Tree Inn. One of life’s sweet pleasures still flourishes, across the miles and years. Grandpa Stan would be proud.
Witness to a Predation
In recent days, I’ve made a decision to focus consciously on the good. On the beautiful. That verse from Paul’s letter to the Philippians (4:8) has been echoing in my head: “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”
I won’t hide my head in the sand and deny reality, and I’ll try to find ways to be helpful. But I’ll make an effort to look for sunshine amidst the shadows. So my outlook was fairly positive yesterday as I was sitting at my computer, ordering stamps for our New Year’s cards. I added more of the Winter Woodland Animals to my cart. I love these stamps, which feature a stylized fox, buck, rabbit and owl in snowy settings.
Then, bang! There was a sudden thud at the window beside me. A few wispy white feathers floated in the air. On the ground was a dark-eyed junco, one of the many that fly down from Canada to winter here in Virginia. The small, gray and white bird lay on its back, motionless. It looked utterly helpless, its little legs in the air. I watched in dismay as it remained there, still. As I stood at the window, my instinct was to pray over the bird, in words something like this: Dear God, your eye is on the sparrow, so your eye must also be on its cousin, the junco. You made this little miracle creature, so why not heal it? It’s a miracle of flight. It’s a miracle that such a tiny being can thrive in this desperately cold weather. It’s a miracle of elegance and beauty.
I waited. Dear God, let me be a conduit of your love, of your healing power.
The bird remained motionless.
Should I go out? Give it the gentlest of nudges? I decided not to interfere.
And just then, the bird stirred. It popped up, fluffed its feathers. It appeared to be gathering its energy, preparing to fly. It looked fine. It looked like it was going to be OK.
Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, God!
And just then, there was quick flash of dark feathers, and the little bird was gone. In horror, I realized I hadn’t been the only one watching the injured junco. A hawk, hidden from view, had evidently been eyeing its potential prey. It swooped down and disappeared with its catch. It flew away with the mini-miracle that had just seemed to regain its strength.
I opened the window and clapped and screamed. It was too late, of course. But my anger and anguish needed an outlet. I yelled myself hoarse. So much for the sunny side of life.
I’ve observed nature long enough to have seen first-hand evidence of its sharp teeth and claws, of the thorns among the roses. I know that the cute bunny on the Winter Woodland stamps may end up as dinner for the equally charming fox or owl. I regularly see handsome red-shouldered hawks about, silently surveying their surroundings. They gaze at me coolly, poised and superior. I get it that my bird-feeding area can occasionally be a death zone. I see telltale clumps of feathers on the ground. For several years now, I’ve noticed a solitary dove as it appears before and remains after its fellow partnered couples. Call me silly and sentimental, but I’ve prayed for that lonely dove, too.
I considered that the small songbird had been injured more severely than was apparent. Maybe it would have managed to make its way to a hidden spot, only to suffer a long, drawn-out death. Perhaps the hawk merely hastened the end while nourishing itself?
I understand that all creatures, including hawks, need to eat. I’m not a vegetarian. I eat chicken, so technically, like a hawk, I prey on birds. But let the hawks eat elsewhere. Anywhere but in my side yard sanctuary.
I keep replaying the events in my head. The abrupt juxtaposition of hope and despair makes the repeating vision particularly painful. I thought the little bird was a goner, then I thought it had a chance, that it had survived a near miss. That my prayers had been heard, and answered. Then I watched as it fell victim to a terrible fate and certain death.
I can’t help but see the series of incidents as emblematic of life in our times. Seems we’re entering an era, in our nation and in the world, where predators and tyrants are celebrated and granted free reign, while the most vulnerable are targeted, maligned, and persecuted.
In my last post, I mused about what loveliness I might be missing just beyond my windows. Now I wonder what terrible sights I’ve been fortunate to miss. Will I look out onto a happy haven or a killing field? Even on the sunny side, the shadows encroach.
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas. . .
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.
Live Nativity 2024
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.
