Reflections on the day after Christmas

 It’s the morning after Christmas. We’re at our daughter’s house and so far I’m the only one up. Outside the day is slowly dawning. It looks like clear skies today. Tomorrow we’ll head back home.

As a child, I remember being sad on the day after Christmas, thinking I would have to wait a whole long year for this magical time to come around again. Now that I’m on the far end of the age spectrum, I don’t feel that way. “Normal” life sounds good.

For children, and even for us adults if we’re honest, Christmas focuses on the presents around the tree. As a kid I would surreptitiously stalk out the packages, find the ones with my name attached, and try to guess what treasure might be inside. The heavier the package, the more promising the treasure.

As parents, and now grandparents, choosing the gifts and watching the kids open them on Christmas morning is more fun that getting the stuff ourselves. I admit to more than occasional qualms about materialism, thinking about kids around the world who would be overwhelmed with our abundance. But I somehow manage to stifle my qualms as we gather around the tree for the ceremonial distribution of the gifts.

I always love being at our daughter’s home. We’ve been part of the lives of our three grandchildren since they were infants and now they are all young adults. That makes for an entirely different Christmas dynamic. In addition to the pleasure of receiving and opening presents, they’ve all become generous givers, and that’s even more fun to witness.

I was a bit overwhelmed myself when we arrived last week and saw the mound of presents around the tree. I guess that’s natural when you have a family of five generous, creative, and loving people. But I did think that maybe they had outdone it this year. “Just relax, Mom,” Kristin told me, “and enjoy it.” Wise advice.

I was concerned, though, about the modesty of our own offerings. We’re in a different stage of life where most of our income goes into the retirement community fees (well worth it, I might add). Much of our creativity these days focuses on finding ways to live frugally, which is not a bad thing. That frugality affects the extravagance—or lack of it—of our giving. But, of course, it does not affect the extravagance of our loving. Or of our creativity.

I had found some bargains in the retirement community’s resale store, some vintage items I would have paid a lot for elsewhere. And I went through our store of precious stuff we need to pass on to the next generation and picked out some items for this season. And I also did some shopping down town. Nothing extravagant.

I need not have worried. As we sat around the living room on Christmas morning, read the Christmas story once again, and sang carols, we refocused on the greatest Gift of Christmas, the baby born to be King. We prayed together for the people of Gaza, Israel, Russia, and Ukraine. We asked that “Peace on earth, good will to all people” become a reality. And we took our time doing all this. A few tears were shed.

And then the opening of the gifts. Kristin’s family has a unique way of carrying out this ritual, with the intention of making the experience last as long as possible. We each had a large stocking and went around the circle, taking turns removing one item at a time. A bar of sweet-smelling soap, the inevitable Life Savers, a scarf, fuzzy socks, a practical box of hand-wipes, a candy cane, all accompanied by exclamations or, when appropriate, groans (the hand-wipes).

Then we went to the table for a traditional Christmas breakfast of coffee-cake and orange juice. Kristin imported the coffee-cake ritual from her growing-up years in our home. Similar recipe.

And then it was back to the living room for the opening of the presents, another event that proceeded slowly and in an orderly (but simultaneously chaotic) manner. The atmosphere was fun and very affectionate, with people more concerned about how the gifts they gave were received, which was usually with delight. Peter, the youngest among us at 14, chose and distributed the gifts, one at a time of course, so that everyone could concentrate on the one opening his/her present.

It was a hilarious and holy time, with lots of exclamations (“Oh Grandma! I love this!”), laughter, and affection. Hal and I were amazed at Kristin’s gift to us, a large sherpa blanket covered with photographs of us and the grandkids. I treasure it. (Each kid also got their own photographic blanket.)

So now it’s the day after Christmas. I’m hoping for some time playing games with the kids, talking with our daughter and son-in-law, maybe watching a movie together, eating of course, but everything low-key. Normal life (whatever that is). It’s been good.

I still struggle with juggling all this abundance and joy with what is happening in other parts of the world. I still need to be intentional in my focus on the Gift of Christ. I still need all the help I can get in living my life (my normal life) in light of the Gift which is for the whole world.

Let there be peace on earth, dear Lord. Show me how to be a part of what you are doing.

Christmas in a time of war

 Last week I received an email notifying me that a friend of mine had commented on another friend’s Facebook post. I usually ignore these notices; I receive so many of them they irritate me. But in this case, because they were both good friends, I decided to get in on their conversation and I opened Facebook.

My friend from Virginia had posted a cartoon, as she frequently does. It showed a group of people in a subway train, heads down in personal concentration, but instead of their cell-phones, they were all reading books. The subtitle read, “On a different planet.” Very funny.

Then I went to the comment of our mutual friend from Scotland. Her response jolted me. She didn’t think the cartoon was funny at all. It wasn’t the content, but rather the fact of telling jokes in this particular season. She rebuked her American friends (like me) who were sending her “Merry Christmas” messages. “This in NOT a merry Christmas!” she ranted, referring to the war in Gaza and the extreme suffering of so many.

This touched a cord in me and I wrote back immediately thanking her for her concerns. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

Here in the retirement community, Christmas cheer vibrates off the walls. The staff has outdone itself with a large glowing Christmas tree in the lobby and other trees in every public place. Snowmen, Santas, elves, and nativity scenes inhabit every empty space. Lights sparkle in the greens adorning the walls. Here on the 5^th floor we residents have taken charge and our lobby is festive and each apartment door festooned with family heirlooms. It’s Ho Ho Ho everywhere you look.

I don’t want to sound critical. All this really does make me happy. Hal is part of a musical trio—two ukuleles and one harmonica (his). They preform in the different neighborhoods of the community. I went with them when they played their music in the memory-care unit, the place where residents with dementia live. I watched the faces while the trio played. During songs like “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” and “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth,” everyone was smiling and swaying, some even tapping their feet. I would certainly not begrudge these people their childhood memories. They also smiled at “Joy to the World.”

The last two nights the beautiful Christmas concerts placed the emphasis of the season where it belongs, on the Christ child. I thrilled to the music.

But back to my friend’s concern. My concern as well. How to carry together the two diverse realities this Christmas season—the very merry celebrations all around us and the extreme violence and suffering on the other side of the globe.

Some of my friends have told me they no longer watch the evening news. Too negative, it affects their spirit. I can’t adopt that perspective. Hal and I regularly watch our news program, talk about it, and pray together. We need to know what’s happening because it matters.

Prayer seems like such a simple answer, but I know that a small person’s (me) prayer has power with God. At least I think I know that. But I can’t help but wonder—what difference does it make? I pray that God “make wars cease to the ends of the earth” (Psalm 46:9) and the next day find out that the bombing has intensified.

The people of Palestine, and the people of Israel too, don’t celebrate Christmas. It’s not part of their faith traditions. But this is the place of the first Christmas. That first Christmas season was not merry, although it was joyful to a few chosen witnesses. Joyful and mysterious. While it was not actively a time of war, the Romans were oppressing the Jews and suffering abounded. War was on the way.

The original Christmas story gives clues that help integrate these two realities. Years previously the Spirit had revealed to the prophet Isaiah that the babe would be born and that one of his strange names would be Prince of Peace. 

Prince of Peace
Isaiah 9:6

Silent night, we sing.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
A story book song
for a star-studded dream.
That night wasn't silent
pax romana not withstanding.
Bethlehem teamed with people,
impatient, demanding,
wanting to be in their own homes.
Inns throbbed with activity,
wine flowed, and in one dim corner
a woman moaned in childbirth.
That night wasn't silent,
and neither are ours.
The world convulses
in a chaos of crises.
The newscaster's voice is grim,
and people fear the dark.
Here at my house
my grandson cries out in nightmare,
and insomnia stalks these rooms.

Prince of Peace,
you came to Bethlehem
in the clash and crash of life
as it is.
Show us your face.
Teach us the strength of your tranquility,
the power of your humility
         that bent to babyhood
         and still bends to us.

Prince Jesus,
baby and Lord,
we kneel.
Speak Shalom to our world.
Here.
Now.

Lord Jesus, have mercy on the people you love in Gaza, Israel, Ukraine, and Russia. Let wars cease. Let lives be rebuilt.

Amen.

Merry Christmas.

Old journals

 The task of downsizing and discarding never seems to end. The treasures are the hardest things to tackle: the collection of letters my father wrote to me after I left home; the scraggly teddy-bear I once loved; the china doll that sat on my dresser; pictures the kids drew when they were little; and so on. You have your own lists.

Passing them on to the kids and grandkids seems the best option. I made a catalogue with photos and descriptions. I distributed it to the tribe, asking them to write their names under the stuff they wanted. I ended up with a few names here and there but was still left with boxes of old vases, paintings of Bolivian landscapes, my wedding dress, and thousands of photos. Why don’t they want this precious stuff?

The conundrum I currently face is the most difficult—what to do with my old journals. I’m a writer and I’ve been a faithful journal keeper all my life. Now, in my years of retirement, I’m left with boxes of notebooks dating back to my teenage years. They’re full of struggles, triumphs, complaints, and prayers. Full of stories. The conundrum—to leave for the kids and grandkids to read or to spare them the burden and throw them all out before I die?

It's enlightening now, reading them. It’s also sometimes distressing, even embarrassing, to remember how immature I once was. I’m thinking of purging the journals (the parts I want no one to read, ever), and selectively passing the rest along. But that seems a bit dishonest.

If I were famous there would be no question. I’d be obligated to leave the whole story to the researchers and literary academics to craft into biographies. But I’m not even close to famous, except to a small group of people (which contradicts the concept of “famous”).

I’ve decided to keep one of my high school diaries—a day by day list of which boy looked at me that day. I’ll keep it because I find it hilarious, and proof that I was once an adolescent.

Frequently I face my struggles through poetry. Here’s an old-journal poem, inspired in part by a paradox I found in the book of Isaiah about “the old ways.”

 

Old Journals
Isaiah 43:18-19; 46:9-10

1
Do I keep them, all the notebooks
of stored memories, stories and struggles?
Years of anecdotes and meditations—relational problems,
cute things the kids said, past resentments I don’t want to reveal
to anyone, spiritual highs and shadowed valleys,
dreams good and wicked. Will my kids and grandkids
really want to read this stuff, to know and fondly remember
their dead grandmother? Or will all this paper burden them?
To toss or to store in the attic? Guilt if they toss, loss
of storage space if they keep.
Remember the old things, those of long ago,
says the Lord God.
How seriously do I take that?

2
Why not unburden myself and spare the kids
a difficult decision? Do I really want them
to know how immature I once was? How petty at times?
How cast down and struggling to keep the faith? Not really.
But somehow, I can’t let go. Not yet.
It feels like destroying part of my identity.
Does throwing out old journals
erase the stories, mean I’ll be forgotten?

3
God once again muddies the waters,
seems to contradict himself by telling me to
Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past.
How do I apply that to my personal pilgrimage?

Why forget? Because, says the Lord,
I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up!
Do you not perceive it? I am making a way
in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

That sounds good. I could do with a fistful
of new about now. With a truckload actually.

4
Are my old journals a barrier to new life?
Remember the former things. Forget the former things.
Why do you so often send me mixed messages?
Is it either/or? Or both/and? How do I do that?

Once again I am perplexed by paradox.

For a friend in hospice care

Death has become a more common part of life since we moved into our retirement community. That makes sense as all our neighbors are older. But being “common” doesn’t lead us to make friends with death. Death still jolts and stabs. And even though we believe in heaven and have the hope of reunion, our grief is real. The passing leaves a hole.

A good friend died just a few days ago and I’m still trying to settle my heart around that reality. Her passing did not surprise us. Janice had been struggling with cancer for several years, and earlier this year she and her husband decided to stop the chemo and try to live as fully and freely as they could with the time she had left. It was a good decision. The courageous way Brian and Janice faced death while choosing life has been a tremendous example to all of us.

But when she went on hospice care, we all knew that the time was drawing close. So we, her friends, tried to spend all the quality time we could with her. So much so that Brian eventually had to make a schedule permitting visits by two friends a day. (Family, of course, was there at all times.) In the last weeks, I got two of those scheduled visits. The last was on the day before Janice died. She was by now unconscious, but I sat by her side, read her a poem, and prayed with her. Brian, her sister, and a son were there, too. It was holy ground.

Following is the prayer/poem I wrote and read to my friend. It flows from images in the 23^rd Psalm, a passage that reflects God’s compassion and care for his children. A passage that shines a light of hope into the darkness, a light that ultimately vanquishes death.

 

Prayers for a Friend in Hospice Care

-1-
I hold you in my heart
which is a good place, my friend,
because Christ is in me,
the hope of glory.
You and Jesus are at home
in my heart, surrounded by glory.
Brian is there, too, of course.
Jesus has his arms around
you both. My prayers
blow in on a Spirit wind,
ruffle your hair, carry
the fragrance of hope.

Breathe in that fragrance, my friend.

-2-
What started out as the valley
of the shadow of death turns
out to be a glen in a redwood forest.
Morning light streams through the trunks,
floods the small space where you stand,
listening. The tall trees around you
are all at prayer.

-3-
I see a table in the forest, set
with beautiful dishes, real silver, and crystal
goblets. You and the people you most love
are seated, expectant, and, yes,
hungry. Soon the food appears.
The united chefs of The Red Lobster,
The Olive Garden and Tenderloin
seem to have collaborated, as angelically
gorgeous waiters carry in all
your favorite food. After a brief thankful
prayer, you dig in, conversation
temporarily suspended, though the sense
of companionship remains.

Somehow you all manage to ignore
the others, those peeking at you from around
the trunks of the surrounding trees
--pain, fear, death, defiance, defeat.
As your satisfaction and gratitude grow,
those others turn to mist, fade into the ground,
vanish. Soon all is light, all is beauty,
all is joy.

-4-
I ask the Lord to fill your cup with

Faith

in who he is, who he has always been
for you, who he promises to be in your future,
forever and ever, life without end.
Let faith light your way forward.

Hope

that all the faithfulness of the past
and all the promises for the future
shine here in this present moment.
Let hope’s light flood your being today.

Love

clearly revealed in the people
who surround you, who have become
God’s hands, arms, feet, and face.
May your love be released to bless
them back. To bless your Lord.
Let love’s light shine into
and out from your heart.

May your cup overflow. Faith. Hope. Love.

-5-

I see your friends, Goodness and Mercy,
sticking with you through the thick
of plenty and the thin of want.
They’re always there,
sometimes giggling, sometimes weeping,
sometimes running ahead
to hack a new path
through the brush,
sometimes walking alongside
to talk and laugh and wonder with you.
Often they follow close behind,
not always perceptible, but there
nonetheless.
They’ll be with you,
they tell me,
for the rest of your life.

-6-

And you will dwell
in the house of the Lord
forever.