Yesterday, as I was anticipating tonight’s longest night of the year, I thought about our deep-seated human need for light and warmth. Scarcity drives demand, and the short, dark, cold days of winter require us to feed the need through creative means. We devise inventive ways to kindle the fire indoors, to bring the comfort of light and heat into our homes. And possibly, we hope, into our hearts.
For some reason, I stepped outside. I saw the moon. And it was spectacular. Against a dark blue backdrop dotted with small white puffy clouds, the bright half-moon was encircled by a halo of iridescent rings. It looked rather like a glowing opal hovering in the sky. Late last month, during a chilly night walk, my daughter and I marveled at a wide pearly circle around the moon. It was lovely, but it lacked the dazzling colors that I witnessed last night.
What causes a ring around the moon? I’ve often wondered, but never sought out the answer. Now I know. To put it very simply, in terms I can comprehend, it’s produced by light shining through ice crystals high up in the atmosphere, and therefore more likely to occur in colder months.
I almost didn’t attempt a photo. I knew it wouldn’t come close to capturing the beauty I saw firsthand. But I gave it a try, and the resulting images were better than I had expected.
As winter descends and night falls way too early, I’m grateful that many rooms in our old farmhouse will soon be glowing softly with strands of miniature white lights. The day has become cloudy; the sky looks like a white sheet. It’s doubtful that a magical, rainbow-ringed moon will be visible tonight, on this longest night. But, as the old year ends and a new one begins, the vision of that strikingly haloed moon will remind me to look up and out on clear nights. It will prompt me to be ever thankful for a message I treasure always, but especially during these short, cold days. It’s the hope and promise of Christmas:
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can not overcome it.
After a mild day of rain, Northern Virginians awoke this morning to a sight not seen in over a year: snow! There wasn’t much, just enough to coat grassy areas, branches and foliage. But it’s more than we received during all of last winter.
The slushy layer of ice on stone and pavement made me appreciate not having a dog to walk.
The abundant fallen black walnuts in our yard were topped with little snow domes.
By now it’s been two weeks since we began decorating for Christmas. As usual, it doesn’t seem like the holidays should be almost upon us. But the snow provided an undeniable note of seasonal authenticity.
Against the snowy backdrop, in the gray dimness of early morning, the sparkling lights of the small tree on our back porch seemed to declare: It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!
I knew I needn’t worry that Slim would sleep through Halloween. When he awoke a short while later, he was refreshed from his attic nap and eager to make the final preparations for the evening. This year marked a return to long-established pre-covid traditions; our neighborhood trick-or-treaters would once again be ringing doorbells.
Slim was not about to forego one of his favorite annual customs: the celebratory Halloween joyride. This event had been much beloved by Kiko, even though he typically spent most of the ride in a deep snooze. Slim maintained, as he had last year, that it was a requisite to honoring his furry buddy’s memory.
And an excuse to buy more candy. Slim’s mantra in this respect echoes the Meatloaf song: “Too much is never enough!”
Plus, ever since his first time behind the wheel of his dad’s Model T, Slim has loved to drive.
Slim and the pack were back in plenty of time to tweak the orange and green house lighting and take their places. “The spooky hour approaches, gang,” he cried, “as do little feet.”
With a successful big night behind them, the friends are kicking back. Chilling for a bit, as Slim ponders the direction his artistic pursuits will lead him. I expect to have skeletons in the attic for the foreseeable future. We should all be so lucky.
When Slim desired an indoor spot to rest and ruminate, he sought out a window seat in our recently finished third level. He was surprised to see that our attic project had, in fact, been completed. This time last year, the initial demo and removal process had barely begun. He knows us. He’s aware of our inclination to put off and procrastinate. And he knew how much there was in the attic to be removed and/or re-situated: the enormous whole-house fan in the floor, bulky HVAC ducts, chimney supports, the cedar closet (the only semi-finished space), and loads and loads of old insulation. Not to mention the diverse accumulation of stuff the attic had housed.
“You astound me! I thought you’d still be waffling over first steps!,” Slim exclaimed. I noticed that he subtly directed these comments more to my husband than to me.
He and the pack quickly made their way to the front dormer. “The ideal look-out! From up here, we can keep watch on the property and the road. And how nice to have a floor that goes all the way to the window!”
Slim appreciated the exposed-beam aesthetic. “Looks like one of those medieval half-timbered manor house rooms you like so much. I didn’t realize this was what you had in mind!” This remark he directed squarely at me. As I said, he knows us.
I didn’t have that concept in mind. But fortuitously, and thanks to the patience, talent, and vision of our contractor, who happens to be a master craftsman, it turned out that way.
Slim loved the built-in art table that extends from a wall of vintage wood, both of which were conceived and created by that expert craftsman. I’d wanted an expansive work surface, suitable for painting and building my miniature houses. Because the large central duct would be difficult to relocate, our contractor suggested encasing it in wood and positioning the table above. He’d carefully saved the old planks that covered the attic’s limited floor space. He planed down each piece, preserving the original saw marks, and reassembled them, quilt-like, to make a support wall. Another of his clever ideas was a roomy pull-out storage compartment located at each end of the wall.
“I’m getting inspired, just sitting here!, ” Slim proclaimed, leafing through a book of paintings by John Constable. “In all my decades kicking around this big wide world, I haven’t tried my hand at art. Never too late, right?”
Slim’s thoughts continued. “Maybe I’ll do some painting. Or take up wood-working. I do love architecture, and I’ve sure seen most styles and epochs first-hand. ” Eyeing my dollhouses, he offered, “This room calls out for a miniature medieval manor house, doesn’t it?”
He’s right, of course. Looks like I’ve found a partner in craft.
“But first, a little reading,” pronounced Slim, as he headed toward the cane-backed sofa. “And perhaps just the slightest bit of restorative shut-eye. We creative types need our rest.”
May you, too, get some rest before a very happy Halloween!
Our dear family friend Slim awakened earlier this month, as is his habit, from his annual semi-hibernation. An ardent nature lover, he was delighted to greet the brilliant colors and balmy breezes of this alluring October. He spent his first few days wandering the garden and grounds, enjoying the unique botanical mix of summer and fall that has defined these recent days.
He and his pack of loyal pups lazed by the fountain on pleasantly mild afternoons, glorying in pumpkins, bumpy gourds, bright impatiens and fall foliage.
He congratulated my husband on his near-complete triumph over the stiltgrass in the lawn of the back courtyard.
He marveled at this fall’s striking abundance of black walnuts and acorns. While walking across our yard toward our neighbor’s house, Slim remarked that he was reminded of the ball pit at Chucky Cheese.
After soaking up such a bounty of October sunshine, he was grateful for the shade of the screened porch.
Slim accompanied me to our church’s Trunk or Treat, as he has for the past several years. Never at a loss for the encouraging word, he bantered wittily with every small superhero and Barbie who came along for candy.
Slim brushed away a tear as he spoke of expecting his good buddy Kiko to emerge from a playroom nap in his leisurely, sedate manner. “I sure do miss the old boy!,” he declared. “He wasn’t a big talker, but he had a quiet integrity that I so admired.”
As usual, Slim, with his discerning eye for character, hit the nail on the head.
May the promise of Easter give you strength and courage to face the trials of this world. May it bring you inner assurance even during difficult times. May it inspire you to treat your neighbors (even the difficult ones) with kindness and love. May it guide you to find glimmers of light in the darkness, and beauty in the everyday. And may it give you a deep and abiding hope for the life to come, when trials, difficulties and darkness will be no more.
Happy Easter!
Christ is risen, Christ is living, dry your tears, be unafraid!
Death and darkness could not hold him, nor the tomb in which he lay.
Do not look among the dead for one who lives for evermore;
tell the world that Christ is risen, make it known he goes before.
If the Lord had never risen, we’d have nothing to believe;
but his promise can be trusted: “You will live, because I live.”
As we share the death of Adam, so in Christ we live again;
death has lost its sting and terror, Christ the Lord has come to reign.
Death has lost its old dominion, let the world rejoice and shout!
Christ, the firstborn of the living, gives us life and leads us out.
Let us thank our God, who causes hope to spring up from the ground.
Christ is risen, Christ is giving life eternal, life profound.
Words: Nicolas Martinez, 1960; trans. by Fred Kaan, 1972
Over the past decade, I’ve been sending out the family Christmas cards later and later. A few years ago, in an effort to remove one item from my very full December “to do” list, they officially became New Year’s cards.
Now that it’s mid-January, a big stack of cards is ready to be addressed and mailed. As I’ve incorporated my mother’s list of friends into our own, the stack has grown taller.
I enjoy receiving personalized holiday cards. A pastor friend once remarked that he considered only biblical images as appropriate subjects for Christmas cards. I disagree, respectfully. I appreciate a card with an artfully painted starlit manger scene or a medieval Madonna and Child. But I also welcome one that shows a friend’s new baby, the kids, the dog, the recent bride and groom, the whole family. The annual holiday card exchange, as I see it, is a fortuitous way to keep a connection alive with those we care about, yet don’t have opportunities to see frequently. I understand that just because the card’s accompanying message may be one of Christmas cheer, there is no assertion that the family members pictured are endowed with the holiness of the Christ child. That friend is telling me this: Another year has passed, and we continue to think of you. Our shared relationship matters. And here’s what we look like now.
My parents were reluctant photographers. When we had a working camera during my childhood, we often lacked the requisite flash bulbs (something only those of a certain age will understand.) We never went to a photo studio for a posed family picture. We got one of those every few years when the new church directory came out. Of course we didn’t send photo cards at Christmas.
It took parenthood for me to consider the idea. The year our daughter turned one, my mother made an elf costume for her out of soft, fuzzy fleece. That began my custom of the annual Christmas photo session. I’d dress D in a festive outfit sewn by Mama, either expressly for her, or passed down from my childhood. (As I’ve noted before, we’re a family of savers. We keep, we re-use, we re-purpose.) For our Christmas card that year, I bought standard cards and included a photo of D in elf attire. (See “Our Baby Elf,” December 2014.)
The following year, our daughter moved to the front of the card. My early photo card efforts were low-tech. I bought Christmas cards featuring a border that I liked, cut out the central image and pasted a photo behind it. This is clearly visible in the card at the top of the post.
In 2007, our new puppy joined the household and began to be featured with our daughter in the Christmas photo. Above, D, age eight, holds three-month old Kiko. She wears a Nordic style fleece jacket and hat made by my mother. Kiko wears a red fleece vest, also made by Mama. This marked one of the last times that we tried to put our dog in clothes.
As both D and Kiko approached their adolescent years, they became less willing subjects for my photography, no matter the occasion. But we still managed a few sweet pictures.
When I switched to a digital photo printing service, more possibilities opened up. It became easier to include multiple pictures on the annual card, including highlights from throughout the year. The December photo shoot was no longer a necessity. Sometimes my husband, my mother and I even make it onto the card, typically in smaller photos. Our distant friends have proof that we’re still alive, but they don’t have to see our aging faces too closely.
One year all humans were relegated to the back of the card, leaving the front to Kiko surveying a majestic snow.
In recent years, as Kiko moved into his senior phase, our daughter re-embraced the idea of posing with him. Above is the final daughter and dog portrait for our annual card, sent out last year.
Kiko was with us for almost seven months of 2022. He’s on our card this year, in his own photo. I caught him at his happiest, when he was asleep.
And next year? Who knows what life holds? That’s part of its beauty. We don’t know. So, anything, in theory, is possible.
Until today, the homemade clothespin nativity that shelters beneath our little alpine trees in the dining room has included only Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, and one shepherd. (Sparkly arctic critters happen to fit in with the high-tech “white sheet as snow” decor.)
The three wise men from the East, along with their flamboyantly curly-haired camel, have been waiting patiently in the background since Advent began in early December.
And now, on the sixth of January, known in the Christian calendar as Epiphany, the long journey of the Magi is complete. They join the Holy Family and pay their tribute to the infant messiah. Their participation in the Biblical nativity narrative is indicative of this important message: God sent his son to be a savior not only for the Hebrew people, but for all the nations. For all of us. For all God’s children.
So in our house, we don’t take the Christmas decorations down until well after January 6th. To do so, it seems, would represent an attempt to symbolically stifle the powerful message of God’s love for all. (It also happens that I’m never ready at this point to begin the laborious process of un-decorating. And it would be inhospitable to kick the Magi out immediately after their arrival.)
On this last day of Christmas, I’ll continue to enjoy the look and lights of the season. They’ll be no boxing up for a while yet.
May the spirit of Christmas sustain, strengthen and bless us all year long. And may it remind us to treat our brothers and sisters near and far, like the family they are.
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.