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December
16
“Wednesday
Night Epiphany”
On
Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays, Matt teaches at MCC
at 8 o’clock in the morning.
We have gotten into a pattern
on those mornings—Matt gets
up at 6 to take a shower, then
comes back to wake me up so I
can go to the gym or get
started on schoolwork. I
don’t like getting up early,
and I don’t like going to
the gym, but I’ve started to
enjoy those early morning
moments, seeing Matt’s
smiling face when I first open
my eyes, and enjoying a few
minutes of quiet conversation
before the rush of the day
begins. Although I know
each morning that the peace
and joy of these moments will
soon give way to the mundane,
hectic, and confusing
everydayness of my life as a
graduate student, they serve
to remind me of the baby
miracles that lie beneath the
transitory disappointments and
frustrations that always seem
to overwhelm me for the rest
of the day.
Last
Wednesday, I was reminded in a
startling way of how easily I
lose my early-morning faith in
a joy and peace that can
transcend the difficulties of
the task of living every day.
Magi Davis had had the
inspiring idea that we should
take the Mission Friends group
to walk the labyrinth behind
the church, so we could talk
about different kinds of
prayer and how we can serve
others through our prayers.
I was so excited about talking
to our first-sixth graders
about the many different kinds
of prayer they experience at
our church and elsewhere.
Having been inspired by their
caring attitudes and eagerness
to work to help other people,
I expected to also be inspired
by their innocent yet wise
spiritual insights as we
participated in a reciprocal
exchange of inspiration and
learning.
It
is possible my expectations
were a little high for a
Wednesday night that also
happened to be two days before
Halloween. Laura, Eric,
Maya, P.J., and Dakota wanted
to talk about their costumes
and trick-or-treat plans, and,
to them, the most exciting
part of the labyrinth
experience was that it was
dark and “spooky” outside
when we went to walk it.
Frustrated, I “shh”-ed and
threatened to go inside as
they chased each other around
the peace garden and jumped
out to scare one another,
Magi, and me. When they
finally all went into the
labyrinth, one at a time, I
felt like our experiment in
spirituality had been a total
failure. I walked in
last, keeping an eye on
everyone, concerned our ritual
would become a game of chase.
Then,
as I watched the kids walking
quietly, heads down, I
realized that I had been much
less respectful of the
opportunity to seek God in the
labyrinth than any of the
children had been. I had
wanted control over the
experience; I had wanted to
explore spirituality within
the confines of my own limited
perspective, my rehashed,
earthly thoughts on prayer and
peace and restfulness. I
had wanted to put the
experience on my mental resume
(Walked a Labyrinth and Had
Deep Conversation About
Prayer, October 2003) without
truly giving myself over to
it. As I began to stare
at my shoes, and to think of
how long it had been since I
had quieted my mind and
stopped mentally reciting my
daily to-do list, I was
awakened out of the false
belief that I can just check
God off on a list or
experience prayer on my own
terms. I was embarrassed
but joyful, as I always am
when God reveals herself to
me, and me to myself.
And
a miracle happened. As
the Mission Friends got to the
center of the labyrinth, they
each silently took a seat on
the rock or around it, not
speaking, or giggling, or
poking, but continuing their
experience of prayer and of
nearness to God. I
joined them, and we all sat in
silence for a few minutes,
then began a quiet
conversation about our
experience. It was a new
morning of peace and divine
love, and we were all
experiencing it together.
We knew that the moment, like
all other awakenings, could
not last forever, and that we
would have to cultivate our
faith in our experience
through hours and days and
weeks of mundane chores and
empty conversation. Even
so, we must give great thanks
to the Lord for such
awakenings, which reveal to
our conscious minds the
blessings that we lose in our
attention to everyday
distractions.
—Layne Craig
December
17
“Baby
Ray”
“Baby
Ray” was a story in my
first-grade reader. Baby
Ray lived on a farm. One
day the sun shone down on the
farm — but didn’t see Baby
Ray. The kittens mewed
because they wanted their bowl
of milk. The chickens
scratched furiously — and
vainly; no corn had been
scattered to feed them.
Where was Baby Ray? He
was still fast asleep.
he was not awake.
I
empathize with Baby Ray.
Waking up in the mornings or
to my responsibilities is not
easy!
In
this Advent Season may each of
us be awake — awake to
appreciate the beauty and joy
of this wonderful time of the
year; awake to help those who
are discouraged, cold or
hungry; awake to share the
opportunities for fellowship
and service.
“ . . . you know what time
it is, . . . it is now the
moment for you to wake from
sleep.” Romans 13:11
— Mary Louise Baker
December
18
“Awakening
to Gratitude”
I’d
been a relative stranger to
death for most of my life.
In 1969 my dear Aunt Ruth died
while chatting on the phone
with her cousin. She was
94 and I was 21. Hers
was the first death that
really jolted me.
Dodge,
Van’s mother, died on Easter
morning in 1992 at age 81.
She’d been sick just a few
days, so it was a shock for
Van to suddenly be an
“orphan” at 45. We
really struggled with that
loss for quite some time.
My
dad, Lyman, died in
1994—just days short of his
81st birthday--after a routine
medical procedure triggered a
progression of complications.
When I was summoned to his
bedside, I was just finishing
a book about life after death
and was in the midst of much
doubt and turmoil regarding my
faith.
In
1996, still searching for some
answers, I began reading
Simple Abundance and writing a
gratitude journal, listing
five things I was thankful for
each day. My first entry
expressed “gratitude for Mom
getting back to Kansas
safely—going thru severe
storms on her way home.”
We’d just enjoyed a good
three-day visit. Three
months later, Van and I spent
the 4th of July with her when
I went back to Great Bend for
my 30th high school class
reunion. Two weeks
later, she and two friends
were returning from a week in
Colorado when a young, hurried
driver hit them head-on while
trying to pass a farm truck.
Peggy and Dorothy ultimately
survived the disaster, but
Mom, age 81, died three weeks
later in a Waco hospital.
My
August 9 journal entry:
“I am thankful for
signs.”— “Last night my
five siblings and I made the
decision to stop Mom’s
life-support today.
She’s been in a coma for
most of two weeks and has
fought valiantly against
incredible odds. It’s
time for all of us to let go.
We each said goodbye and
goodnight, but the last one
out saw the tear trailing down
Mom’s cheek. ***
It was 11 p.m. and everyone
headed home, exhausted.
At 12:37 a.m. a bright
aura-type light appeared at my
bedside and awakened me.
Twenty-five minutes later,
they called to say that Mom
had died. *** [Later, the ICU
nurse pulled me aside to tell
me that she had just remarked
about the beautiful angel she
noticed beside Mom’s bed (we
had put one there several days
earlier)---and at that very
moment, Mom took her last
breath.] *** Van and I
commented to each other about
the white bird that had paced
at the bottom of the hill in
our backyard for the last two
days and again today. (We’d
not seen one there before--nor
since.) *** This afternoon,
Sharlande came over, having
just returned from a mission
trip to Santa Fe, along with
our new pastor, Brett—and
what a blessing she was to my
family. As she prayed
with us out on our deck, we
were joined by a hummingbird
that hovered there with us.”
This
series of events supplied me
with some possible answers to
queries but also triggered
many new questions regarding
the mysteries that life and
faith hold. And as I
look back over my journal now,
the things I repeatedly name
as blessings are “family…
nature…love and support of
friends . . . church . . .
quiet times . . . faith . . .
laughter . . . prayer .
. . and hope.” These
blessings supply an abundance
of answers for me now.
—Ibby Jones
December
19
“No
Room in the Inn”
In
1990, as we set out on our
yearly Christmas visit to see
my folks in Texarkana, travel
warnings of inclement, ice
weather were issued. At
the time, Brad was nine months
old, and Jeffrey was three.
Optimistically,
Don and I thought we could
beat the bad weather.
From the outset, however,
travel was slow due to heavy
holiday traffic plus the icy
roads. I’d never been
away from “home” for
Christmas, so turning back was
not a consideration. A
trip that normally takes five
hours total, mounted to seven
hours when we were still 100
miles from our intended
destination.
As
the hour grew late, bumper to
bumper traffic slowed to a ten
mile per hour crawl, and
impassable roads finally
forced us to pull over for the
night in Sulphur Springs, a
task that initially sounded
simple. But there was
“no room in that inn” or
any for miles around.
Instead we were directed
through town to a shelter at
Wesley United Methodist
Church.
Thanks
to the caring pastor, kind
church members, and the
Salvation Army, we were given
food and drink as well as a
place to lay our heads.
Their compassion was bestowed
on over 200 people that night.
Some of the recipients
admitted that they had not
been inside a church for many
years.
In
our hurried world, we often
get side-tracked, but on that
night, our priorities were
quickly re-awakened. For
Don and me it was imperative
that we find a safe, warn
place for our children to
sleep. Rather than
disappointment since we
didn’t make it to Texarkana
that year, I was filled with a
sense of awe and peace.
Due to that experience in
Sulphur Springs, Texas, we
gained a small glimpse into
the struggles Mary and Joseph
faced on a similar night in
Bethlehem many years ago.
—Kristi SoRelle
December
20
“A
New Awakening: To Be Home”
A
young man and woman woke up
one early morning and found
themselves in another city in
another nation and among
another of God’s children in
a distant land. Almost
everything seemed
different—food, music,
norms, laws, customs,
language, building, climate,
and people—and yet it is
also a part of God’s world
of beauty, wonder, and
complexity. Having lived and
enjoyed, having wandered and
wondered, and having explored
and mugged up the erudition of
these ordinary and yet
remarkable community or
communities for a decade, this
couple (now no longer young
couple) decided to return to a
place they had always called
“home.”
These
returnees arrived “home”
thinking, perhaps naively,
that they could connect easily
and comfortably. Possibly,
they had overlooked the fact
that, for good or ill,
yesterday could not be the
same as today. Much as the
people, physical structures,
institutions, and the
artifacts are almost the same
as they were a decade ago,
much of the contents, psyche,
spirit, and workings of this
system (call it organism)
appeared unfamiliar to them.
These returnees then began to
inquire, “What is
‘home?’” And “where is
‘home?”
A
home, they believe, has
everything to do with
familiarity and unconditional
acceptance. To be home is to
be familiar with and
understand the language,
metaphor, spirit, signs, and
the story of the home, to
evoke memory and respect for
that which is already there.
Home embraces all that we are
and all that we have; home
makes use of the new phenomena
we acquire elsewhere. A home
is where, even in the deepest
darkness, you can recognize
the voice of the face you
cannot see; where in the
deepest darkness you can find
your way around the kitchen
table, the bathtub, the bed
covers, and the Bible from the
bookshelf because you can see
them in your mind eyes;
because you are familiar with
their location and movement;
because you have built a
relationship—a
connection—with them.
So
having spoken so much about
home-going or home-coming, and
having arrived at the place
they used to call home, the
couple awakening to a new
understanding of the true
meaning of home. For some
weeks, months, or years to
come these returnees will
continue to search for the
meaning of true home, perhaps
realizing there is not one
place that one can call HOME.
—Robert & Christiana
Owusu
December
21
“The
Energy of Love”
Have
you noticed how popular it is
these days to dress up one’s
e-mail with pictures or
quotes, which are inserted as
tag lines at the end of the
correspondence? A few
weeks ago, I received an
e-mail from a friend with a
quote at the end.
Without expecting anything
profound, I read the lines.
Right away, I discovered that
I was mistaken, because the
quote stirred something deep
inside me. It resonated
with my thoughts about
humanity’s pursuit of life,
and how we occupy our time
with so many unimportant
activities. I copied the quote
in my journal and reread it
for several days following:
Some
day,
after
mastering
the
winds, the waves
the
tides and gravity,
we
shall harness for God
the
energies of love.
And
then,
for
the second time
in
the history of the world,
man
will discover fire.
—Teilhard
de Chardin
As
I began to reflect on these
words, I thought about how
determined we are to control
the world. We feel
absolutely compelled to
conquer every inch of the
universe, including one
another. We are driven
to excel. We grasp for
power through many channels,
be it education, social status
or economic success. But
these words by Chardin remind
us that the most powerful
forces in the world are often
intangible. Love is one
of those mysterious forces.
We all know it exists.
We can feel it. When
someone we love dies, we
experience that loss as if a
part of our own body were gone
forever. The intangible
becomes tangible.
In
his gospel, John tells us that
God is love. God is a
mysterious force, but during
Advent we remember that the
intangible God became
Emmanuel, “God with us.”
God entered the world as an
infant, and all the power of
God was wrapped in swaddling
clothes and laid in a manger.
On the night Jesus was born,
who would have believed this
little baby would change the
entire world? However,
this seems to be how God
works. God does not
appear as we think He should.
God is not showy or flashy,
but God works everyday
miracles through ordinary
people.
God
doesn’t ask us to do the
impossible. In
Deuteronomy chapter 30, God
tells the Hebrew people,
“Now what I am commanding
you today is not too difficult
for you or beyond your reach.
It is not up in heaven, so
that you have to ask, who will
ascend into heaven to get it
and proclaim it to us, so we
may obey it? Nor is it beyond
the sea, so that you have to
ask, who will cross the sea to
get it and proclaim it to us
so that we may obey it?
No, the word is very near to
you; it is in your mouth and
in your heart so that you may
obey it.” God was
talking to the people about
obeying the commandments, but
these words are wisdom for us
too. They help us
remember that God doesn’t
ask us to do the impossible.
He asks that we stop striving
and start loving our neighbor.
This
Advent may God awaken in us a
desire to love others more
deeply. After all, the
most powerful force in the
universe is at our disposal.
God wasn’t afraid to harness
it. He risked it all for
us. Shouldn’t we be
willing to do the same?
—Carol McEntyre
December
22
“Zanzibar”
During
the Christmas season of 1998,
Jason and I were wrapping up
our year in Africa and three
month overland trip with a
month's stay in Zanzibar.
The room at the
“wonderful” place we had
found to sleep was the
equivalent of a 10x10 storage
unit with two twin beds, but
walking through the white sand
just outside our door brought
us to hammocks perched on the
edge of the blue undulating
Indian Ocean just a few steps
away. What was not so
wonderful was the lack of a
clean shower and toilet and
the strange bugs bites I awoke
with every morning.
After two weeks in the same
sheets, who knew what was
breeding there!
We
had decided to stay in
Zanzibar for Christmas even
though the tacky tinsel tree
at the outdoor bar, summer
weather, sounds of the ocean
and sand between my toes
during the Christmas Eve meal
of lobster were far removed
from our usual season of
Advent and Christmas in Texas.
I awoke that Christmas morning
without the usual wrapped
gifts, stuffed stockings and a
house filled with family.
Later
that day, a local woman
dressed in her traditional
clothes, a woman I had not
seen before, walked toward me
like one of the magi bearing a
gift. She gestured that
I could have what was in her
hands if I wanted it -- new
sheets! And I mean brand
new, in the plastic, hopefully
bug-free package. And
these weren’t just any
sheets; these sheets had
flowers on them! I had
spent the last three months in
either my sleeping bag or my
latest white set.
Everything about the sheets
seemed like they should be
familiar to me, but the person
holding them, the sand around
us, the bright blue ocean and
open hut behind her were not
familiar.
That
night I made my bed with my
simple, but much needed gift
and I awoke the next morning
swaddled and happy in my new
clean sheets. I had
missed out on Advent
activities and music that mark
the season as the beginning of
a new year of hope.
But the simple gift from the
woman in Zanzibar was given to
me in a place that made
Christmas stand out like it
never would have found it
wrapped under my Christmas
tree in Texas. Waking
that morning, I was surprised
to learn that for me it did
not take a December filled
with activities to receive the
gift of hope renewed that
Christmas. It just took
one simple gift.
—Lela Wallis
December
23
“Awake,
Awaken, Awakened”
Awake!
Awake, greet the new morn.
Promise
of God - the Christ Child is
born.
From
lowly beginnings He came to
die
For
our transgressions; He reigns
on high.
Awake!
Awake, give this life a whirl.
Enjoy
each creation he made for the
world.
Use
all your senses- Sight- Feel-
Smell.
Drink
deeply from His life-giving
well.
Awaken,
Awaken His spirit in you.
That
by His love you'll walk anew.
To
follow the pathway wherever He
leads,
Focused
on Him and others’ needs.
Awakened,
Awakened now step out to
serve.
He
will sustain and give you
nerve
To
conquer all fears - take a
firm stand.
Help
spread the Good News
throughout the land.
—Charlotte Carpenter
December
24
“Our
Baby” (a Christmas Song)
Mary:
The coldest night I can
remember
That’s why I’ve wrapped
You up so tight
Sleep warm, my child, in this
manger
No one will soon forget this
night
Joseph: Do I call You Master?
Or do I call You son?
Do I teach You how to pray,
Or do I learn?
Do I show You how to paint
Or just watch You create?
Do You already know
Everything You’ll learn?
Both: O
Christ, our child
Dream Yourself to sleep
For choirs of angels
Are gathering to sing
For today You were born
Into this world a King
But for now… You’re still
Our baby
Joseph: Sleep, my child, until
tomorrow
The news will travel all the
land
A baby born in a manger
The Chirst-child born in
Bethlehem
Mary:
Precious, Messiah
Do You know Your name?
Do You know the number of the
stars?
Can You see Your future?
Can You feel the pain?
Do You remember how You made
my heart?
Both: O
Christ, our child
Dream Yourself to sleep
For choirs of angels
Are gathering to sing
For today You were born
Into this world a King
But for now… You’re still
Our baby
—Ryan Richardson
December
25
“Longing for the
Child”
When
I was three years old, I stood
at the front of the church
poised to perform in the
Christmas play for the
congregation. Although
all of the preschoolers were
dressed as angels, I was
decidedly disenchanted with
this role. “Mary’s
who I really want to be,” I
had told my mother as she
straightened the garland halo
on my head. I stood on
tiptoe and gazed into the
manger at the doll that was
“playing” Baby Jesus.
With the imagination of a
gutsy three-year-old, I
somehow convinced myself that
I was going to be Mary.
As the other children sang, I
inched closer and closer to
the manger, keeping my eyes
trained on it. Finally,
I could stand it no longer.
I reached into the manger,
grabbed Baby Jesus, and rocked
him proudly through the rest
of the song, in spite of my
wings and halo, exuberantly
thinking, “I’m Mary!”
During
my first semester of graduate
school, I lived in an
international community of
graduate students from all
over Asia. Only a few of
us were American, so we spent
a lot of time answering
questions about American
traditions around the
holidays. But I was
oddly awakened to the memory
of my three-year-old encounter
with Baby Jesus when I heard a
young woman from Kyrgyzstan
announce that she was hosting
a Christmas gathering for the
graduate students with
families to bring their
children to, “Because after
all,” she said, “Christmas
is a holiday for children.”
When
I heard those words, I froze.
Was it true that Christmas was
only for the children? I
pictured myself standing on
tiptoe, peering into the
manger, trying to see Baby
Jesus’ face. I
wondered, what would it be
like to stand beside that same
wooden manger now, no longer
standing on tiptoe, but
leaning down to get a look at
His face? I closed my
eyes to imagine it, and
thought of how it was no
longer the excitement of
holding Baby Jesus that I
longed for. Rather, I
longed to be saved—to be
rescued from the pain and
betrayal life delivers after
the imagination of a
three-year-old has vanished.
Suddenly, I opened my eyes,
startled by the image of the
baby looking up at me:
His young, dark eyes searched
mine. The warmth was
overwhelming.
Perhaps
it is when life brings us to
our knees that we really
understand why He came, and we
are awakened to the reality
that Christmas is not just
about the children. It
is about searching for the
Child who came to love us, and
who saves us with each gaze
when He looks up at us from
the manger.
—Erin Cline
December
26
“I
Wonder . . .”
There
are lots of new rules now
about how to care for infants,
or at least new in the last
twenty-five years.
Babies no longer sleep on
their tummies, but must be put
“back to sleep” on their
back. And so I wonder,
“Did Jesus sleep on his back
or his tummy in the crèche?
Babies
now have disposable diapers
and heaters for the disposable
diaper wipes. What did
Mary find to diaper her child?
How did she keep up with the
laundry? How did she
trim his nails so that he
wouldn’t scratch his face?
Where did she find
antibacterial soap to wash her
hands before handling her son?
The
hospital nurses immediately
wrap newborn infants very
tightly in cotton blankets,
enclosing their arms and legs
close to their bodies.
They call this
“swaddling.” Kerry
asks me, “Is this new?
Have they always done this?”
I reply that I think Mary did
this for Jesus.
Fathers
are now closely involved in
the pregnancy and birthing
process. How involved
was Joseph? Did he breathe
with Mary through the pains of
labor or allow her to rest her
aching body across his
shoulders? Did he take
the midnight shift, bring the
Christ to Mary to be nursed,
and nestle him back into his
straw bedding? Did he
immediately begin to wonder
about the future of this
unexpected Son – his higher
education, athletic talents,
or skill with woodworking?
Where
were the grandparents?
How did this young couple
manage to travel a long
distance, give birth to a
child, and get him safely back
home without the cadre of
proud grandmothers and
grandfathers? Surely, it
takes at least six people to
survive the first week of life
with a newborn.
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