The Best Sounds of Christmas

I love Christmas, its tastes, sounds, sights, and touch.  I love the wonder and beauty that accompanies it.  But this year I kept coming back to the sounds that I loved this particular year.

Mail call. Almost every day, cards have arrived from people who remember us. Going through the notes from people, seeing their photos, and putting out the cards made Christmas special.

Children’s laughter.  My brother Joel, a missionary in Japan, is home on furlough this year with his two young children.  For the first time in a long time, the squeals and giggles of children were part of this year's celebration.  


Waves on the beach.  My brother Steven rented a house in Gulf Shores, Alabama, where our family spent Christmas week together.  I was often on the beach, especially at sunset, listening to the rhythm of the waves, the call of the seagulls, and the whisper of the wind. 


Christmas carols.  I have a fairly musical family.  One of the things we most enjoy when we gather is singing.  From "Silent Night" to "Joy to the World" rang out when we gathered together.  On Christmas Eve, with all my brothers and sisters and their spouses present, and some nieces and nephew too, we almost sounded like a choir.  Then, through the modern convenience of Skype, we were able to sing to (with?) my nephew in Cameroon on Christmas afternoon.  

Silence.  Perhaps the best sound was no sound at all, when I sat in wonder at the feet of Jesus, amazed once again by His supreme sacrifice in becoming one of His creatures - a helpless baby dependent upon a young mother to survive.  If that were all, it would be truly amazing.  But the rest of the story of His life, all the way to the cross, leaves me speechless.  Thank you, God!

Blessed by Children

Headlights caught the sparkle of snow in the midst of the rain as we made our way through the darkness.  Homes decorated in lights flashed by we drove into the Tennesee hills.

When we pulled into the parking lot, a few cars were already there.  We sat in the car for a while, watching others arrive.  Since there were already quite a few people in the building, we pulled our jackets more tightly around us and stepped into the blustery weather and then into the warmly lit building.

Often, when we arrive at a church where we haven't been before, Charlie and I look for the Missions Board.  This was no exception.  The hallway across from the restrooms was lined with prayer letters and cards from missionaries.  In this church, so far away from our Maine home, we didn't recognize any of the missionaries there.

In the auditorium, a family was practicing a song.  People milled about and talked.  We found a seat.  Soon the room filled.  White-haired men and women were in the minority here.  In fact, there were more children in this room than I had seen on a Wednesday night in a long time.  Most of them sat with their families, though I could see a few sitting with friends.

Hymns were sung.  Prayer requests were taken.  A teenage girl played the piano while the offering was taken.  Another hymn.  Special music by a family with three children.  I half expected the children to be released to their own activities halfway through the service.  But they stayed.

As the pastor began his sermon, two pre-teen girls sitting next to me got out pens and paper.  They listened attentively and began taking notes.  "It's okay to ask God WHY" she wrote.  A couple rows in front of me, teenagers with thoughtful interest on their faces were also taking notes.  Younger children sat quietly with parents.  A couple nodded off to sleep.

There was a reverent hush in the room.  I could almost see Jesus smiling as His children learned at the feet of this pastor.  Come to God with your questions.  Yes, they were learning to listen to what the pastor taught, but they were also learning far more.  They were learning that their presence was desired and that they were a valuable part of the family.

As we left that night, I looked up at the starless night sky and breathed a smiling "Thank You" to God.  My heart was blessed.  I didn't know those children.  They didn't know me.  But they were God's instrument to bless me as I sat with them and learned together with them more about God. 

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.