Little Gifts

Yesterday I did something I've never done before by myself. Bob would have come with me, but his new knee is not quite up to tromping through the woods in search of a Christmas tree. So, I took a saw and started off up the hill behind our cabin. The snow was just a little over the tops of my boots, but not a problem for a short jaunt. I was looking for a certain tree. Not too tall, full enough to hang our ornaments on but flatish on one side so it would fit in the corner. I told myself I wouldn't cut one at all if it wasn't just right. Not perfect, mind you, but just right.

Last summer the land up behind us was thinned, which is super important for fire control. That meant that were lots of logs lying sneakily under the snow. That made me go really slowly to avoid a fall or twisted ankle. Which was a little gift. I saw a lot of things I might have missed if I was tromping at full speed. So many little bunnies were out in the sunshine, leaving their little tracks curling everywhere. Bunnies don't go in a straight line, it seems. Tiny, tiny little new trees barely poking through the snow. Birds whose names I don't know darting from limb to limb.

There was another little gift. The wind was blowing toward me, which is the only reason I was able to come over a rise and see a herd of elk just a few yards from me. I could even hear them chewing, they were so close. They all looked at me and turned to go, jogging off over the next rise. The sun took that moment to come out from behind a cloud, and the forest scene was dazzling. The recent snow still clung to the trees, making every single one of them look like a perfect Christmas tree. The sky was so blue and the clouds so white, it was incredibly beautiful.The snow sparkled like someone had thrown diamonds everywhere. I was wishing for my camera, but determined to burn the scene into my memory.

I did find my humble little tree. And it does fit perfectly in the corner. It was growing right up next to a few others, so I felt that thinning that clump was not a bad thing to do, and I got a flat sided Christmas tree out of the effort. We brought some ornaments from home this year. This is our first Christmas in the cabin, and for someone who loves tradition and family gatherings and Silent Night in the pew with candles and hundreds of singers, this all seems strange and new. But good. I know that Christmas isn't dependent on things happening the same way every year. And the ornaments from home were perfect for this little tree.

One thing I love about our cabin is that I can look up with my head still on the pillow and see the sky. This morning before the sun came up there was a really big star right over the top of a giant snow covered fir tree. It was my Christmas star. Pointing the way. Reminding me how fortunate I am to be snug in our cabin surrounded by beauty, how lucky I am to wake up next to a man I have loved for forty years.

Christmas Eve is filled with promise. With expectation. Not the bad kind that rules with an iron fist and demands its own way. Not the selfish kind of expectation that breeds resentment. But expectation that is hope. Christmas Eve is the waiting day. The world is waiting for peace. For the end to suffering and war, poverty and illness. While we wait, there are little gifts all around us. There is the beauty of creation, the love for family and friends. Maybe they aren't such little gifts. Maybe they are all we need. On Christmas Eve or any other day.

Pa Rum pa Pum Pum

The women's choir I'm a member of, Women of Heartsong, had a Christmas party Monday night. There was fabulous food, a hysterical White Elephant Exchange, lots of laughter and fun conversation. Then the really great part happened. We stood in a circle (I think there were 20 of us) and sang for a long time. Singing Christmas Carols is one of my favorite things, and it was pretty wonderful singing with these women I've known for years. But my favorite moment, one that will be with me always, was when we joined arms and sang The Parting Glass. It was the last song of the night. It us a beautiful old Celtic song, first written down in 1615 but older than that, about the last toast of the night, or of the gathering, or of a life. The harmonies are simple but very beautiful, and the sentiment is beautiful, as well.  Listening to it is great. Singing it with people you love is magical.

I notice a theme running through lots of my blogs is that nothing is perfect, but it is usually good enough. The party wasn't perfect. Wine was spilled, some notes were off on some of the songs. But that didn't matter. The circle of imperfect women made a close-to-perfect sound, and it was good enough. Looking around at the women I love, each singing their heart out and pouring out their friendship.

Yesterday we made Christmas cookies at Sally's house. It wasn't perfect. I forgot several things I was supposed to bring and Josh had to spend most of his cookie baking time at the store. We were late getting started. But those things didn't matter to me. What mattered was being with people I love who want to be together. It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough.

On Saturday the whole family (extended) will come out to Halldortown (Bob's name for our ranchette, recalling our beloved Norwegian Fjord Horse, Halldor) for a Christmas pageant. We have 9 angels, Mary and Joseph, 3 shepherds, and 3 wise guys, I mean wise men. Lots of singing, an angel's dance and a pas de deux with Katie and Daniel. No one will have their lines memorized. Without a practice, it will be a work in progress. There is a spot on one angel costume that won't come out, and the trim is coming off one of the wise man hats. The mole sauce Bob and I made yesterday could be too spicy for some. I have no doubt other unforeseen shortcomings will arise. It won't be perfect. But it will be good enough.

There was no room in the inn. Mary delivered her babe surrounded by animals. His bed was a manger. A manger sounds romantic until we remember that animals ate out of it. It was so far from perfect. But it was good enough for angels and Love incarnate.
This Christmas people will get stuck in airports. Someone will be rude to overworked retail clerks. Some lights will short out, and some trees will dry out too soon. Some cookies will crumble or be doughy inside. Some relatives will embarrass others. Some people will not be able to be with the people they love, and some people will sleep under bridges in the cold. Some people will relapse into addiction and feel the shame all over again. Some people will turn a blind eye to all the need in the world and see only their own desires.

All of us, every one us will fall short of perfect, and our Christmas will fall short, too. Except for one thing. Perfect isn't a thing that happens at Christmas or any other holy day. Not in this life. But perfect does happen in one place. In the hearts of those who choose love. In the one moment we look out, look up and away from our own self and see the wonder of the cosmos, the wonder of creation. When we consider the intricate, complicated thing that is life, and see the possibilities for our own contribution to the good. We'll have the perfect chance to do that this Christmas. And every other day, for that matter. I want to stand in the stable and play my drum. I want to sing with the angels and dance. I hope you all have that moment in your holy day. Pa rum pa pum pum.

Little Feathers: In The Bleak Midwinter

Little Feathers: In The Bleak Midwinter: You probably know that song. It has a haunting melody and beautiful words. And it fits so exactly with the message of my favorite holiday. ...

In The Bleak Midwinter

You probably know that song. It has a haunting melody and beautiful words. And it fits so exactly with the message of my favorite holiday.

In the bleak midwinter
Frosty winds made moan
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone.
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter
Long, long ago.

The thing is, Christmas isn't about the easy times, the wealthy, healthy years of plenty. Most of the world never sees those times, anyway. How many millions of people live and die without the serenity of knowing there will be enough food, enough shelter for their children? We Americans can be lulled into thinking our first world existence is normal and available to all. But it isn't. And the wasteland of need sometimes has nothing to do what we own, anyway. It can also be a poverty of the spirit for those who grieve, for those who suffer at the hands of others, or as a result of illness or loneliness.

In Jesus Christ Superstar, Judas is angry that God put Jesus into the middle of a world with no mass communication, no political calm that would have let his ministry spread without bloodshed. Judas is a very sympathetic character in that play, and that is an unusual twist for many who love to blame Judas. In this play, though, Judas tries every way to figure out how to spare the Jews from Roman wrath, and the only way he can think of to do that out is to have Jesus killed. The Roman occupation was a heavy load for Isreal. The earth stood hard as iron. Water like a stone.

Today is no different. The bleakness of winter lays over our world in war, poverty, oppression, unrest, disease...our earth stands hard as iron. The winter has a grip on every child who is bullied, every tormented soul who can't face another day, every leader who turns a blind eye to the need of the people. Let our hearts not be that hard, as well. Let the hope of love give light. Jesus was love incarnate, and we can be a part of that only if we are willing to let down our guard, give up our own hard-hardheartedness and look at every human as a child of God. That has less to do with religion than with compassion. It has nothing to do with insisting others believe as we do to be acceptable. It has zero to do with politics. It has everything to do with the gospel. Love is, truly, all we need. The Beatles had that right. If love prevails, we all win. It is the only light that can melt this winter that holds the world hostage to its own failings.

I don't recall Jesus ever exhorting us to give each other lavish gifts. Or to build lavish altars, or to hoard our blessings under the delusion they belong to us. In the bleak midwinter of Roman rule, a baby was born who grew up to tell the world that God's love does not belong to one race or one religion or one gender or the current group in power. God's love is broader, bolder, keener, further beyond our ken than any human love can be. We can tap into it, though. We can channel it. There is hope. Whatever we give to the neediest people, to anyone, we have given back to God. That is the warming power that can break the iron grip of winter on the earth. Compassion is the spring, the thaw.

What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb.
If I were a wise man, I would do my part,
What can I give him? Give him my heart.

Little Feathers: Where Are You Christmas and Other Grinch Musings

Little Feathers: Where Are You Christmas and Other Grinch Musings: Emotions are funny. I knew that I was feeling unsettled about the approach of my favorite holiday, but didn't really get just how unsett...

Where Are You Christmas and Other Grinch Musings

Emotions are funny. I knew that I was feeling unsettled about the approach of my favorite holiday, but didn't really get just how unsettled until day before yesterday when I sat looking at a Southern Living magazine while Bob had PT on his new knee. I paged through, looking at Christmas cookies and cakes and garlands that decked the halls. Usually I would enjoy that. I have never (at least that I remember) been stressed about Christmas. It has not been about finding the perfect gift or making the perfect cookie, but about hope and love and grace and family and friends. But on Monday those pictures of holiday perfection just made me want to cry.

I thought at first that it was about leaving the Pegram House, where I have loved celebrating Christmas for the past seven years. But honestly, Pegram was an ordinary house in an ordinary neighborhood. The house itself can't be the thing. It must be the gatherings there. When my dad was in the middle of everything.

This isn't technically my first Christmas without my dad. He died just before Christmas last year. But he had been so sick, and had struggled so, that last Christmas I mostly felt relief for the end of his suffering. I missed him, prayed for him and cried for him, but I knew he was so much better off that it colored my grief at the time.

Where are you, Christmas? In The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, the question was asked by Cindy Lou Who. She found herself seeking the old feelings she had around the holiday. But she was changing, as everyone does. She needed to find her new feelings, and find Christmas in them. She was growing up, seeing for the first time the emptiness of the holiday trappings themselves.

Like Cindy Lou, I know better than ever that Christmas doesn't happen "out there". Not on a store shelf, not in a bakery or even in a church. Not even that magical, mystical moment when all the candles are lit on Christmas Eve and the organ quits playing on Silent Night and the beautiful sound of voices lifted together fills the air.

The holidays are long gone when our own children woke us early and could not wait to see what lay beneath the tree for them. The day hasn't depended on five people living in our house for many years. Yet, this year's change seems even more drastic than the empty nest-adjusting years. This year my Christmas, my personal one, is different. And maybe the most helpful thing I have found to cling to is not the narrative of the nativity. Not the centuries old stories of a young mother, a donkey, a baby and star. It is the unchanging willingness of God to meet me in the quiet with a word for me. Sometimes I feel the nearness of the spirit of eternity in the warm arms and love of my husband. Or the hugs of my loved ones. The voice of my mom on the phone. Christmas doesn't happen in a void. And it doesn't happen only in December. Where are you, Christmas? Ah, there you are. Still there, under my solar plexus. In that little unscientific place of solace where my soul rests beside my heart. 

Little Feathers: Timely Timely

Little Feathers: Timely Timely: Another one I wrote a few years back. Today seems like a little time warp, so I'm revisiting it. Gee, Time Flies! That sneaky...