Is It Christmastime?

It didn't feel like Christmas to me this year.  The sense of wonder was missing.  Was it because this is our first Christmas away from Maine in 14 years and I'm missing the people and the snow?  Was it because I am no longer a pastor's wife and therefore not very involved in the church's Christmas activities?  Is it because we don't have a house and so, even though my parents' home is beautifully decorated, none of "our" Christmas decorations are out?  I sat and wondered about it yesterday.  Why did I feel so ho-hum this year?

As I worked at the dining room table yesterday, I glanced over at my parents' beautiful nativity scene.  That scene startled unconscious thoughts to the forefront of my mind, and I suddenly realized the problem.  I was missing the advent wreath and my personal Christmas devotions.  For many years now, I have used the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas to focus my morning quiet times in the many passages that relate to Jesus' birth and to enjoy the amazing grace and love of God that sent His Son to earth.

Several years ago, my husband bought me a beautiful advent wreath for my birthday.  Today it is safely nestled in a plastic bin in a storage locker in Maine.  Since I knew it would be absent from this year's celebration, I decided to continue reading through my regular passages in the Old Testament.  But now, twelve days before Christmas, that needed to change.  I need the morning quiet time focus on the amazing miracle of God's becoming man.  I need a morning worship time that keeps me from being overwhelmed and discouraged by the embellishments that have shoved the center story off stage.  I need to celebrate the "I Am" in this most joyous season of the year.

So last night I headed to the store.  I needed to do this as inexpensively as possible.  I chose the most inexpensive remedy I could find and brought it home:  five candles. 

Today I lit three candles, read a Christmas Bible passage, and basked in the wonder of God becoming flesh.  Ah!  The wonder began to return. 

Advent wreaths and candles aren't necessary.  I didn't even know about them until I was an adult.  They can become part of the embellishments that detract from our worship.  So even though I know that this little remedy is far from necessary, it helped me this morning to shine a spotlight on Christmas' main event. 

Most likely, our future holds Christmases without the possibility of lighting candles while I read my Bible.  When that time comes, I am now equipped to deal with it.  I don't need the candles.  I don't need the decorations.  I don't need snow or Christmas trees.  I don't need gifts or concerts.  I don't even need Christmas Eve services (as dear as those are to me).  What I do need is this:  spending time alone each day during the season worshiping the Great "I Am" and reminding myself again and again through the reading of Scripture the daring, caring rescue story of the human race.  For me, that's what makes Christmas.

Flowers for Mom

The Dutch have a tradition: buy flowers for your mother on your birthday.  After all, she is the one who did all the work the day I was born.  She is the one who deserves my honor, especially today. 

Since we are not Dutch, I have never done this before, but this year it seemed like a good idea.  We are currently living with my parents, so it was easy to get them to her and a treat to be able to enjoy them with her.

I like flowers as a symbols of my love and affection for my mother.  Their beauty tells me that she is the most beautiful of women to me. 

Like a rose, my mom has a sweet fragrance about her - the fragrance of Christ.  To those that know and love Christ, it is a sweet smell and a reminder of even better things to come. 

These beautiful roses will only last a few days, and then they will be gone.  My parents are in their eighties now.  Life is short, so I will enjoy them while I can.

Their petals are soft, fragile, and easily bruised.  My mom, the woman who was a tower of strength to me throughout my growing years, is also soft, fragile, and easily bruised. 

Beauty.  Flowers.  Mom.  They go together.  And today, I celebrate my mom.

For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ, in them that are saved, and in them that perish.  II Cor. 2:15

The Soldier's Half-Marathon

On Saturday morning at 5:00 a.m., the alarm sounded, reminding me why I don’t really like early morning runs.  We got up, ate an apple, yogurt, and cheese, and drank some juice.  My groggy stomach insisted that it was not ready for food at that hour, so I ate only a little.  After breakfast, I settled down with my Bible for a while to read and pray.  Then I dressed in a pair of wind pants and a sleeveless running shirt under a turtleneck.   Just before 6:00, Charlie ducked out of our hotel room to start the car and scrape the ice off the windshield. When I joined him a few minutes later, we headed toward Fort Benning.

At the Infantry Museum, the dark, cloudless sky slowly began brightening, assuring the frozen runners that the sun’s warm rays were just below the horizon.  Under the lights of the street lamps and a full white moon that floated slowly toward earth, couples hugged each other, receiving warmth from one another’s bodies.  People bounced up and down and stretched out eager limbs as they waited for the crowd to gather.  Soldiers in uniform lined the walkway where the race would begin.

Then the wait was over.  The cannon’s burst caught me by surprise, and we were off.  Well, sort of.  The people at the front of the line, elite runners and those qualifying for the Boston Marathon, were off.  The rest of us began shuffling toward the starting line as row upon row of runners cleared the starting line and headed down the street.

At the first hill, I heard them before I saw them.  One drill sergeant shouted words of encouragement from the left sidewalk.  “Good work, ma’am.  Keep going.  You’re going to make it.”  On the other side, another drill sergeant used negative reinforcement.  “Why are you walking up this hill?  This hill is nothing!  You call that a five-hour marathon pace?  At that rate, you won’t make it.  You might as well give up now.”  I smiled, trying to discern which one was motivating me to pick up my pace.  Perhaps it was just the humor of it all.

At every bend in the course, soldiers in uniform stood to keep the runners on the path.  At the top of another hill, they shouted, “It’s all downhill from here.”  Well, it was, for a while. 

Mile after mile crept by.  I noticed a young woman in green.  She passed me.  Then I passed her.  She passed me.  I realized that she would be a good pace keeper for me.  I kept my eye on her, not letting her get too far ahead of me.  Then I noticed a black glove fall from her side.  She didn’t notice.  I stopped to pick it up and ran after her, but her pace was fast enough that I didn’t think I would ever catch her again.  When she slowed to a fast walk, I caught up and handed her the glove.  We exchanged names and found out about each other’s fallen heroes for whom we were running.  Then she was off again, and I was once again following.

At mile 12, two full-marathon runners sped by me, headed for their mile 25.  I wasn’t even to the half-marathon mark, and here they were about to finish their full marathon!

When I finally crossed the line, I melted into Charlie’s arms.  It was so good to be done.  I felt like I had accomplished something, even though I knew it was just a race that won’t matter much one hundred years from now.  So I looked for the woman in green.

“Thank you for being an encouragement to me today,” I said when I found her.  I went on, “Since you were ahead of me most of the way, I was praying for you.  Is there anything special you would like prayer for?”  She mentioned a couple generic things.  We hugged and parted. 

It was a good day.  It taught me things I hope I don’t forget:

• There is joy in the journey.  
• It’s easy to get lost if you don’t follow instructions.  
• I am not a marathon runner.   
• Running is a blessing many people don’t have, so I’m grateful for legs and health and time that has allowed me to do this in this season of my life.  
• Running has benefits, the most important for me is that it bonds me to my running-loving husband. 
• I can bless others with my prayers when I run.  
• But most important of all, God runs with me.  His voice and companionship during a run are the best part of it all.

Homecoming

The airplane starts its descent and for the first time I see "dirt in the water". The first sight of land in over two hours. As we descend, the distant landscape draws closer and I see the trees, hills, and farmland of the Dominican Republic. They are different from the trees, hills, and farmland of Maine where I have lived for over 13 years. They are different from the trees, hills, and farmland of any other place I have called home. They are exotic; palms, tropical jungle, sugar cane, and then the south coast comes into view, the water different from any in the northern seas. Yet with all this difference, my heart says I am home! It is not because now that we do not own a fixed residence "Home is where my wife is". I did not feel at home in NY or Miami, even though we were together. No, coming to the Dominican Republic felt like a homecoming because I knew what we would find there; a reunion with the brothers and sisters of the Dominican church. I knew we would be welcomed with open arms and open hearts. I knew we would start off just like we had been gone only a short time instead of 21 months. All the things you would expect if you were coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Now I realize that "Home is where the Lord leads us!"

Waiting to Return

“I wait for the LORD, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope.  My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.”  Psalm 130:5-6

Spanish swirls around me as I wait for the Miami-bound plane.  I could easily be in a Latin American country, but I’m not there yet.  Instead I’m in the nether land of airport-secure zones while we wait for our delayed plane.  CNN broadcasts its headlines into the room, but the only contact with the real world outside is through the tinted glass looking out on the skyline of New York City.

We all wait.  Some sleep.  Some read.  Some talk.  Some text.  Some work on their computers.  One man listens to music, his fingers keeping time against his temples.  A couple of twenty-something parents try to keep their twin toddlers happy.  Fortunately the little boy just dozed off a few minutes ago, but the girl, pink sneakers kicking the air, desperately wants to be released from her stroller cage.  An orange lollipop pacifies her.
We all wait.  For most the waiting is passive.  We have one assignment.  Get on the plane when it arrives.  There is nothing we can do to make the plane get here sooner.  There is nothing we can do to make our trip more pleasant.  All the preparation work was done before we got here, and we sit here waiting.

It is so unlike the waiting we are called to do when we wait upon the Lord.  That is an active, expectant waiting.  Like the psalmist’s watchman, I have worked the night shift when the first rays of dawn across the sky were happy reminders that my waiting for home and bed were almost over.  I was actively doing my job while I waited, but the streaks of morning light were much more exciting to me than the arrival of a delayed plane.

When it comes to waiting for the Lord and for His return, there is no comparison.  Every day I know His return draws nearer.  Even though I don’t know when it will be, I am sure that every day brings me one day closer to seeing Him, and I happily wait, almost as though on tiptoe.