If you aren’t homebound today by snow, ice or frigid temperatures, you may come across folks with messy gray smudges on their foreheads. If you’re planning to get smudged yourself, you know it’s Ash Wednesday. Our church’s service was canceled due to extreme cold and expected snow showers on top of existing snow and ice. So I won’t be receiving the ashes tonight.
But I’ll be thinking about what it means. For Christians, Ash Wednesday is a day for confronting our mortality and unworthiness. It’s a time to thank God for loving us despite our unworthiness. He could have left us in the ash pile, but instead, he invites us with Him to a realm of light and glory.
This Christmas Eve here in Virginia dawned gray and rainy, as it did along most of the east coast. According to the weather forecast, the day will remain gray and rainy. The heaviest rain is likely to coincide with our church’s live outdoor nativity. There may be thunderstorms.
At last year’s nativity, for the first time, our human participants, that motley, multi-aged crew of holy family, shepherds and kings, were joined by several four-legged friends. These included a burro, a sheep and a goat. Kiko found the burro quite fascinating. The burro ignored Kiko.
But best of all, there was Samson the camel. Samson surveyed the scene with a majestic air of intelligence and calm. He seemed to enjoy nuzzling his many appreciative fans. He and his mate Delilah, who had another engagement, live on a farm in rural Virginia. Samson’s handler appears with him in appropriately Biblical costume and beard.
We all hope bad weather won’t keep Samson away. I doubt it will; he’s a sturdy sort. Last year, he was unperturbed in the face of a frigid, persistent wind.
We know with absolute certainly that nothing can extinguish the true light of Christ that dawns in our dark world. It’s the flame that glows within us, if we let it, all our lives, illuminating our paths and those of others with whom we share the road.
I wrote about that light in the darkness several years ago in a Christmas Eve post. It continues to express my thoughts for the day, and it can be found here.
This Christmas Eve, may we feel the warmth of the miraculous light, and may we keep it burning.
Can we bring home the tree without first decorating the dog?
In years past, ideas for Christmas-themed posts flowed from me in abundance. I love the season, and I found so much to write about. This year, the fountain dried up. Seemed I’d exhausted all possibilities. I’d written about the annual ornament-making marathons Mama and I undertook during my childhood, about how my daughter and I continued the tradition. Wrote about my long-lived gingerbread village, the little lights, the decorative oddities (that Devil Doll). Wrote about why we chose such ugly Christmas trees when I was very young. Wrote about decorating the dog, the tree stump. What else was there to say?
I thought inspiration would hit me as we decorated the house, a process that begins during the week of Thanksgiving. The idea is that we get everything looking beautiful and will then have a chance to enjoy it: the house aglow in the winter night, the festive greenery, red berries, all the reassuringly familiar trappings that make the season special. It shouldn’t be a bad thing to get an early start on Christmas. We do it in church, after all. Our “Hanging of the Greens” takes place on the fourth Sunday before Christmas. It begins the Advent season of the church year, when we are to prepare for the coming of Christ. While it’s a time to remember and honor Jesus’s historical birth, Christians are also to prepare for the ever-present possibility that He will come again in final glory.
But at our house, decorating early also means decorating longer, and it encourages excess. The five small artificial trees are up by early December. At mid-month, we buy our tall live tree. The table-top living room tree is moved into the family room. Work then begins on the new tree. Decorating it takes several days. We have many ornaments, and my daughter and I are sentimentally and/or compulsively attached to every single one, even those falling to pieces or unattractive. Those will go toward the back. We tend to make only minimal changes in our overall decorating scheme from year to year, because the atmosphere wouldn’t be as cozily homey if we did. That means there’s very little that’s worthy of comment.
This year, more than most, it seemed to me that in our preoccupation with readying our home ready for Christmas, we were getting off-track, missing the point completely. Are we preparing the house but neglecting our souls? That true light of Christ on earth, the light that shines in the darkness–is it at risk of suffocation with all the bright shiny synthetic stuff we heap around it? If Jesus were to appear today, would he cast an appreciative glance at our trio of alpine trees, or comment approvingly on our decision to use colored lights, instead of white, in the playroom? Would he be touched by our thoughtful arrangement of handmade mice around a sleigh full of miniature wrapped packages? Would he say, Well done, good and faithful servants! These beautifully stitched and whimsically arranged Christmas mice are a worthy commemoration of my birth! You have prepared well, and now I am here to take you home. I doubt it.
I also doubt He’d condemn us solely for going overboard on our decorating. The Jesus I’ve come to know has no interest in turning us into puritanical, humorless scolds. (Recall how hard he was on those self-righteous Pharisees.) He knows we’re fairly dim creatures who tend to lose their way. He remembers how his closest friends needed repeated explanations and still never quite understood. He’s patient with our foolishness. But we can’t fool him. He’s knows when we’re blocking out his holy light. Last Sunday our minister preached about how easy it is to crowd Christ right out of our Christmas. There was no room for the holy family in the inn so long ago. In much the same way, in all our holiday bustle and busyness we may leave no room for God’s love in our hearts. Even the best of us occasionally allow the secular to tarnish and threaten to overwhelm the sacred.
So what do we do? How do we make sure we’re not complicit in the darkness that threatens to overcome the light (but cannot, despite our ill will and sloth)? It’s hard to find better advice than this famous verse from Micah:
Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God. (6:8b)
For me, this means not getting too comfortable in our world of materialism and easy excess. Have I been going overboard on gifts for those who already have way too much stuff? Am I neglecting those who have very little? Is there something I can do for a friend, a neighbor, or a stranger that might make a big difference? I need to give where it matters, volunteer where I’m needed. Every day there are chances to show love and compassion. Am I ignoring those opportunities? If I follow through, I’ll do my part to keep the pure light of Christ alive and shining in the world. I’ll try. I’ll drift off the path sometimes, but with God’s help, I won’t wander too far away.
Thine be the glory, risen, conquering Son, endless is the victory thou o’er death hast won.
Angels in bright raiment rolled the stone away,
kept the folded grave clothes where the body lay.
Thine be the glory, risen, conquering Son, endless is the victory thou o’er death hast won.
Lo! Jesus meets thee, risen from the tomb; lovingly he greets thee, scatters fear and gloom. Let the church with gladness hymns of triumph sing, for our Lord now liveth; death hath lost its sting.
Thine be the glory, risen, conquering Son, endless is the victory thou o’er death hast won.
No more we doubt thee, glorious Prince of life! Life is naught without thee; aid us in our strife. Make us more than conquerors, through thy deathless love; bring us safe through Jordan to thy home above.
Thine be the glory, risen, conquering Son, endless is the victory thou o’er death hast won.
—Thine be the Glory words: Edmond Budry, 1904; trans by R. Birch Hoyle, 1923 music: Harmonia Sacra, ca 1753; arr. from Handel, 1747
This December, we hung a big wreath on the craggy maple stump in front of our house. It seemed like an interesting, if unexpected, spot for a wreath. And by decorating the tree, we could send a message to those who might see it as a business opportunity, as well as to those who think the stump is unsightly and wonder why we leave it standing. The wreath says, We love this old tree trunk, and we’re letting nature take its course.
Then I thought a little more about it, and the pairing struck me as even more appropriate in its juxtaposition of life and death. The stump is the opposite of the traditional evergreen Christmas tree. Firs and spruces, retaining the appearance of vitality through the winter, get the privilege of being cut down, hauled into our homes, strung with lights and ornaments, and left to wither and die. It’s tough work, being a symbol. Our maple, though, would be in no such danger. If intact, it would be gray-brown and leafless by now, like its neighbors in our yard. But of course, it’s a stump, a snag, and already dead. Yet it harbors vast, unseen colonies of creatures that go about the business of breaking down lifeless material. It won’t be long before nature’s course is run. The stump may not be here next year; its center is soft. All the more reason to decorate it this year.
My husband and daughter hung the wreath one weekend afternoon, as I was napping, trying to get over a persistent cold. When I trudged out to the road to see their handiwork, a new insight hit me.
I like to think that God works with us for good, despite ourselves, despite our selfish intentions and our vanity. I initially wanted to decorate the tree because I thought it would look pretty, if a bit odd. In truth, it was a way of declaring a certain pride in being different, in having the ability to see beauty where others see ugliness.
But once up, the wreath reminded me of a greater truth, of the essence of my Christian faith. Out of death comes new, transformed life. How better to say it than in the words of John 3: 16:
For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.
And then the snow settled beautifully on the wreath and the tree, on the green and the gray, on the quick and the dead, like a blessing from above.
Just this one last tree post for the season, I promise.
A few days ago, as I was standing absent-mindedly looking out a front window, I realized, with surprise, that I was gazing at a vision of shimmering gold. At first I thought it was my imagination, or a shift in my attitude. Maybe a trick of the bright light? But it’s not. Even when my mind-set is less than sunny, and the day is, as well, it’s apparent that the leaves of our craggy silver maples have clearly turned yellow-gold. Until now, every fall in the thirteen years we’ve lived in our house, I’ve been a little disappointed in our maples’ lack of leaf color. I’ve always said that they don’t really change color; their silvery green fades a bit and they fall. Once on the ground, they crinkle up and turn light brown. That’s the way I remember it, at least.
It makes me wonder. Is this autumn really so different? It does seem that the colors have been especially vibrant. As a friend from church put it, “God has used a gloriously bright paintbrush this year.” She has seen many a change of season; she’s ninety-nine, and still going strong.
Or was there a golden transformation, right in my front yard, in some years past, and I completely missed it? Because I didn’t expect it, I didn’t notice when it appeared? Is it akin to overlooking a new hair style or recently grown beard of an old friend because we’re so familiar with a face that we stop seeing it? I don’t know. I hope I haven’t missed this golden spectacle before. But one thing is certain: I will appreciate it now, while it lasts, and I won’t forget to look for it this time next year.
My friend is right: God’s skills as a painter have been everywhere in evidence this fall.
May this Veterans’ Day be a reminder to thank, honor and remember the heroes who fought for our country, for our freedom, and for our strength. Help us to be grateful, every day, for all that they have done, for all that they have given. May we find meaningful ways to show our appreciation. Help us to treat our returning veterans with the respect, care and generosity they deserve, so that their wounds might heal. May God bless these brave men and women and their families. May God bless the U.S.A.
Yesterday, my daughter called my attention to an elaborate lichen formation on one of the decaying tree stumps in our front yard. Although I walk past it nearly every day with Kiko, I hadn’t noticed it. Amazing, the strange beauty we can so easily overlook. Our lawn repeatedly offers such spectacles. Yet I still forget. Oblivious, I walk right by.
I’ve written about the attachment our family feels toward our old trees. (See The Silver Maples Say Welcome Home, April 2012, and Barred Owl Update, June 2013.) The two immense maples that survive from the original six, planted the year our house was built, are ninety-three years old. Broad stumps serve as place markers, memorials for the trees that had to be removed. The life, so strikingly peculiar, that emerges from these dead stumps is further justification for our not having them ground down.
Lichen is one of earth’s oldest life forms. Very slowly, but with exceptional persistence, it emerges in unlikely, inhospitable spots, nearly impervious to extreme conditions and temperatures. In the crowded busyness of our twenty-first century world, it keeps a low profile and may go unnoticed. Lichen is not a single organism, but a complex partnership between fungi and algae. Lichen may grow from bare rock or wood. As it grows, it breaks down the substance from which it emerges, helping to create soil.
The lichen on our tree stump is a cascade of flower-like growths. Depending on your point of view, it resembles part of an exuberantly ruffled blouse, rippling water flowing over rocks, the feathered plumage of a giant bird, the petals of cabbage roses deconstructed and rearranged, or even the scales of a fantastic crocodilian creature.
I’m so glad we let nature take its course. Had we not said “no,” over and over, to unbeatable stump grinding prices (offered eagerly by every tree company that drives past the house), we would have no stage for this riot of oddly lovely new life. How satisfying, how hope-inspiring, it is that from the last vestiges of this maple tree springs an ancient vitality. Decay and growth, hand in hand, rather like the lichen partnership itself. The circle of life, circling on and on, underfoot. While the tree stump remains, we’ll be observers at the quietly fabulous end-time celebration it’s hosting.
I retired from Crafts and led Bible Adventures for the next two summers. The following year, when previous VBS directors had had enough, I agreed to lead the entire program. I’ve done so for nine years now. I may be starting to get the hang of it. At least I’ve learned some valuable lessons.
My first few years as VBS director were rough. I was reluctant to ask for help. I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, so I tried to do too much. I was hesitant to schedule planning meetings, knowing that every church volunteer has too many such events already glaring out from their calendars. I often awoke around 4 AM, worried that I couldn’t get it all done, uncertain what “it” was. I got angry and tired because I didn’t have the help I needed. It was a vicious circle, and it wasn’t doing anything for my spiritual well-being, or for anyone else’s.
I was anxious over every bump in the road. And there were, are, and always will be bumps. What if I can’t find a preschool leader? What if I can’t get enough volunteers to provide meals? (Our VBS is held in the evenings, and we begin with a light supper each night.) When would I find time to buy all the necessary items for Crafts? Where are the robes we’ll need for Bible Adventures? Will I be able to locate the place where I can pick up dry ice? (VBS typically requires many odd props.) What if very few children participate? Or what if there are way too many, far more than we can handle?
I fretted about the task of organizing the children into the crews in which they rotate from one activity to the next. There are many subtleties to consider: these two siblings must be together; these cannot be together; this child doesn’t get along with that one; these two get along too well and will conspire to create chaos; these four cousins want to be in the same crew; this kid wants to be in a group led by his older sister, but the sister needs a break from her brother, etc. Then there are those difficult children whose strong personalities overshadow those of their peers. And each year there are some children I’ve never met. Are they painfully meek, or boisterously gregarious? On the afternoon that VBS begins, I have devised neat lists of kids, organized into apparently cohesive groups. An hour later, with the walk-ins and the no-shows, my carefully considered groupings are shuffled unrecognizably, turned upside down. This problem will always be with us. It’s not improved by my worrying about it.
Gradually, I began to let go of more worries. Every year in VBS, we tell the kids about the power of prayer: Don’t worry about anything. Instead, pray about everything (Philippians 4:6). The message finally got through to me, too. I started turning my worries into prayers. Before long, I was hearing an answer: ask for help. Evidently I had somehow managed to give the impression that I had everything well under control. Once word got out that this was completely false, offers came rolling in. Some were from people who had no desire to be surrounded by a mob of children; they realized they could contribute in other valuable ways. One volunteer, who has a gift for composing, editing and polishing text, had the idea to publish a Wish List in the church bulletin and newsletter that spelled out our needs, both supplies and personnel. The Wish List, and the gracious generosity of our church family, allow me to go on vacation immediately before VBS and know that progress is ongoing; my vigilant and efficient friend is minding the store. I found that, if asked, a surprising number of people are glad to be of assistance. It helps immensely that our current minister, who knows how to rally the congregation, is our VBS head cheerleader. Each year, more people get involved, resulting in less work and greater camaraderie for all.
D and a friend, after the VBS finale, 2003.
For the past several years, we’ve been fortunate to have the right volunteers for every job. Our music leader, a talented singer-songwriter and versatile instrumentalist, is enthusiastic and easy-going. He has helped me realize that we shouldn’t expect perfection, from ourselves or from the children. He reminds me that when something goes wrong, as long as no one is injured, it’s usually not a big deal. In Crafts, thankfully, we have creative leaders who take the messiness in stride and manage to enjoy the kids. Heading up Games is a dynamic young woman I watched grow up in the church. She possesses boundless energy and a formidable sense of dedication. Leading the video-discussion segment is a husband and wife team skilled in engaging the kids without condescension. My daughter recruits a few buddies, and they handle Bible Adventures with imagination and a sense of fun. D shoulders more responsibility every year; she has become my assistant director. She excels at the tasks I find most difficult, and she knows the ropes, having lived and breathed VBS every August for as long as she can remember. Our preschool leaders are caring, calm and unflappable; serenity reigns in their classroom. I no longer have to worry about arranging meals; this burden is shouldered reassuringly by a well-organized friend. We couldn’t pull off VBS without our youth; they bring their friends and shepherd the kids from one rotation to the next. Due to all these many considerate and capable volunteers, my job has become pleasant, even rewarding.
After all these years, it’s begun to make sense to me: an important aspect of VBS is building community. There is no glory in going it alone, beaten down by worry. It’s about working together, guided by prayer, in a spirit of optimism and generosity. When we combine our unique talents and pool our resources, that crucial VBS message resounds further and remains resonant far longer: Jesus loves you so much!
Two weeks ago, our church held Vacation Bible School. This is an annual event, and my daughter and I don’t miss it. Each August, as soon as we return from Cape Cod, we jump into Vacation Bible School. This year was no different. We were there, trying to do our part. Barring the unforeseen, we will be there next year. I’m not going to sugarcoat the experience, which, like life, has its ups and downs. There are times when I dread it. Just before it starts, I wish it were already over. But I can say, and with complete conviction, that it’s worth all the trouble.
My earliest church memory may be of Vacation Bible School. It’s a vague, but agreeable recollection: I’m about three years old, sitting with several other children in miniature wooden Sunday School chairs. A sweet-faced elderly lady tells Bible stories. We have juice and cookies. There’s an old piano, and we learn the Zaccheus song: Jesus said, Zaccheus you come down, for I’m going to your house today. We finish with “Jesus Loves Me.” As I recall, I was content to be there in the little stone Methodist church in the Kentucky town where my grandparents lived.
Back then, it was just Bible School, not yet routinely prefaced by “Vacation,” not yet shortened to VBS. It wasn’t slickly packaged or corporate. But the essential message, then and now, is the same: Jesus does, indeed love you.
This is a message I wanted my daughter to hear from others besides me and her immediate family. I wanted Vacation Bible School to be woven into the fabric of her early life, just as it had been for me. She first attended when she was two and a half. We had found our church home, and she would be starting preschool there in the fall. VBS was her first taste of being away from me, in a group of her peers, for a short time.
My daughter and I have both come a long way since then. D, of course, has grown from toddler to teen, from plump baby to willowy young woman. During her initial VBS, she was a somewhat reluctant participant in the preschool group, one who would rather not leave her Mama. Now she and her friends lead Bible Adventures. As for me, back then I helped lead Crafts, and I was youngish. Now, as the mother of a high schooler, I’m closing in on oldish. I have, however, become somewhat wiser. I’ve learned a few things from all my years of VBS.
First, I learned that I don’t like leading Crafts. It took me two years to realize that this was not my niche. One night I was standing by, trying to assist, as a child locked a bottle of white school glue in a death grip. Glue puddled on the construction paper, on the table, on the boy’s hands. Still he kept squeezing, resisting my helpful advice: That’s enough glue! Once the bottle was nearly empty, and as though in utter surprise, he began to wail, “Too much glue!” Yeah. No kidding.
I hate leading crafts, I thought. I hate the excesses of glue and glitter. I hate trying to organize the multi-piece, pre-cut foam assemblages, each small segment (moon-faced child, smiling sun) individually wrapped in cellophane. Certain pieces tended to vanish, causing great distress among the kids: I need a red bird! Where’s my purple dress? Did you take it? The Crafts experience, under my leadership, didn’t seem to be furthering the “Jesus loves you” message. At the end of each sticky, messy, frustrating evening, I wanted to run away and never return. I wanted to be far from any church, far from all children, far from everyone.
D, during her first VBS in 2001. She appears, at best, somewhat ambivalent.
But on the final night, I remembered why we were there. H and I got to see our tiny girl standing at the front of the sanctuary with all the other children, singing the songs they learned during the week. Even before I became a mother, I’ve been a sucker for kids singing in church. Watching our daughter participating with the group made it magical. She looked like an angel. It was for moments like this that I had always wanted to be a parent.
Then a minor tragedy occurred. In Crafts (and under my purview), the kids had made shakers for use during the final musical program. We had filled paper plates with small pieces of gravel and stapled them together. D was brandishing her shaker enthusiastically when a staple or two gave way. Chunks of gravel and a cloud of dust exploded all over the choir loft. D burst into tears and bolted, screaming, searching frantically for me in the pews.
Another thing I learned that year was this: don’t use gravel to make shakers. The instructions in the Crafts leader guide need not (and should not, in certain cases), be followed to the letter. I would give this advice to a future Crafts leader. Next year, I would find a better fit, and I would go on to learn more important lessons.
D in 2004, next to the sandwich board sign my husband and I were recruited to build and paint.
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.
