House of Bread

 But out of you, Bethlehem Ephrathah … will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel.  (Micah 5:2)

I once spent an afternoon in Laja.
A small town on the Bolivian altiplano,
Laja is a village of bakers.
People all over the region
seek out pan de Laja,
a flatbread made of wheat,
water, oil and pinches of salt,
sugar and yeast. Its taste gives
me a sense of high lands,
open skies, and distant Andean peaks

My friend, Victoria,
comes from Laja. Her father
bakes bread for a living.
I spent an afternoon with Vicki’s
dad, kneading dough, forming small globes,
letting them rise, pancaking them,
then shoveling the bread
in the adobe oven
with a long wooden spatula.
I felt proud, at the end of the day,
of my accomplishments.

Laja gives life
to the surrounding communities.

Bethlehem, House of Bread, a small town
in the Judean foothills, is also known
for a product that blesses surrounding
communities in ever widening ripples.
Sought after by some, rejected by others.
The Bread of Life.

                       The name, Bethlehem, in Hebrew means "house of bread."

nancyjthomas.com

Christmas stories—cute, sacred and … terrifying

 Last night our retirement community choir put on its annual Christmas concert. I love old voices. Their beauty comes from talent plus years of experience plus a deep sense of spirituality. I felt the sacredness of the occasion. And of the story. I enjoyed the appropriateness of sharing the story in community. Again.

The images have been engrained in most of us since our own infancy, passed down through the generations in the voices of parents and Sunday school teachers, envisioned through sacred art (some of which seems strange to our modern eyes), and sang about in countless carols. The baby in the manger, shepherds astonished by choirs of angels splitting the night sky with their Halleluiahs and Hosannas, wise men and camels, a haloed virgin mother and a bewildered papa. Some of us imagine a pristine setting (no cow poop anywhere) and others try to envision a cave for animals as it might have really been, mess and all.

Christmas pageants help us image the story. Some pageants are spectacular, like the one in Southern California I had to buy a ticket for; angels actually flew around (attached by semi-invisible ropes), live camels loitered in the background, and baby Jesus cried real tears. But for most of us, our local congregations give proud parents the opportunity to see their small children enact the story, sometimes with doses of humor spicing the production. Even with this messy simplicity, we can sometimes glimpse the glory.

But we don’t really know what that first Christmas was like for any of the characters. We can only gather up the facts we have and imagine. Thank God for imagination.

One of the greatest resources we have for stimulating our imaginations (and our faith) is the biblical book of Revelation. And, believe it or not, the book of the Revelation contains the Christmas story. This is a version of the story that rarely gets told as part of our annual celebrations. It’s terrifying and hard to reconcile with the stories in the Gospels.

Add it to your Christmas reading this year. Revelations 12:1-10 (and following) is entitled in my Bible, “The Woman and the Dragon.” Sounds like something out of medieval mythology, but it’s part of the apocalyptic literature of the Bible; that means it conveys truth. It contains a mysterious pregnant heroine, a vicious snake-like dragon bent on mischief, a dramatic rescue, a newborn baby, and all of this followed by a war in heaven. And the story doesn’t end there.

This is jarring. I tried to imagine a Christmas pageant following this version of the story. Here’s the poem.

Christmas Pageant Re-imaged
The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born.  Revelation 12:1

Mary stumbles on stage,
balancing the universe on her head,
crying out in pain.
Her adversary enters stage-left,
hovers over her. He grins
from each of his seven faces.
No gentle Joseph in sight. No shepherds.
No silent night.

As the terrors of childbirth are compounded
by the threat of infanticide,
the audience boos.
In a surprise move, God kidnaps
the newborn, then disappears from the scene.
Mary crawls off stage,
seeking a place to hide and heal.
Enter a mob of angels
dressed in battle fatigues.
The stage erupts in chaos.
The special effects guys outdo themselves.
The play reaches a climax,
takes a dramatic turn.
The serpent, bloodied and defeated
but not yet dead, is hurled
into the audience.
Screams everywhere.

Pageant concluded.

Merry Christmas.

Now is that weird or what? It seems to me a wide-angle-lens perspective of the whole Gospel story, an allegory of the global significance of the coming of the Christ-child into the world. One clue is that immediately after the serpent-dragon is hurled to the earth, a voice from heaven proclaims, “Now have come the salvation and the power and the kingdom of our God, and the authority of his Messiah. For the accuser of our brothers and sisters, who accuses them before our God day and night, has been hurled down.” The song continues, announcing victory by the blood of the Lamb and by the testimony of believers, giving, in a capsule, the whole salvation story.

A lot to meditate on. A lot to imagine.

Maybe on Christmas morning this year, along with the version in the book of Luke, we’ll read Revelation 12 aloud.

And sing our own Hosannas.

 

[Some free-image paintings I took from the Internet:]

Giusto_de_Menabuoi

The women at Christmas

 It’s just a few days before Christmas as I write this. As I prepare my heart, I’m thinking about the women in the Christmas story. A few weeks ago, I reflected on two older women, Elizabeth and Anna. Now my heart comes closer to the center of the story and I think of Mary, the mother of Jesus.

Not old. A teenager. A quiet girl, someone who pondered life’s mysteries and respectfully followed the dictates of her faith. She was probably looking forward to marriage and a family, as did all Jewish young women. She would receive those gifts, although not in the way she might have imagined. Her encounter with the angel Gabriel and his strange message is one of the most moving passages in Scripture. The poet Robert Siegel has an interesting perspective of this event, one that gives insight into Mary’s character.

Annunciation

She didn’t notice at first the air had changed.
She didn’t, because she had no expectation
except the moment and what she was doing, absorbed
in it without the slightest reservation.

Things grew brighter, more distinct, themselves,
in a way beyond explaining. This was her home,
yet somehow things grew more homelike. Jars on the shelves
gleamed sharply: tomatoes, peaches, even the crumbs

on the table grew heavy with meaning and a sure repose
as if they were forever. When at last she saw
from the corner of her eye the gold fringe of his robe
she felt no fear, only a glad awe,

the Word already deep inside her as she replied
yes to that she’d chosen all her life.

(--Robert Siegel)

Eight days after the birth, we read that “The child’s father and mother marveled at what was said about him” (Luke 2:33). One of my favorite passages about Mary is a short one, coming a few years after the birth of her young son as she contemplated all that had been told her about him: “… and his mother treasured all these things in her heart” (Luke 2:51). Bringing together the angel’s annunciation, her miracle pregnancy, Elizabeth’s prophecy, the news from the excited shepherds, and now the prophecies in the temple of Simeon and Anna, Mary had a lot to ponder and marvel over. Poet Luci Shaw captures some of what might have been Mary’s ponderings.

Mary’s Song

Blue homespun and the bend of my breast
keep warm this small hot naked star
fallen to my arms. (Rest . . .
you who have had so far
to come.) Now nearness satisfies
the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies
whose vigor hurled
a universe. He sleeps
whose eyelids have not closed before.

His breath (so slight it seems
no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps
to sprout a world.
Charmed by dove’s voices, the whisper of straw,
he dreams,
hearing no music from his other spheres.
Breath, mouth, ears, eyes
he is curtailed
who overflowed all skies,
all years.
Older than eternity, now he
is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed
to my poor planet, caught that I might be free,
blind in my womb to know my darkness ended,
brought to this birth
for me to be new-born,
and for him to see me mended
I must see him torn.

(--Luci Shaw)

Today I’m thinking about Christmas and some of my women friends. I’m especially holding in the light four of my close friends who have become widows in the last few years. Some of the books on widowhood say that after a year, the pain lessens. I don’t know, not yet having experienced this, but my friends tell me that the sense of loss continues, as do the occasional tears. Grief is not easy and swiftly gone. A family-centered time like Christmas can trigger sorrow. 

I’m thinking of a friend who within this passing year has received a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. She and her husband are processing it with courage and faith, but not without sorrow as they face the future. Another friend is caring for her husband now in increasing stages of dementia. It’s a hard road to walk as she watches this once vital, creative, and highly intelligent man slowly become another person. Her Christmas will certainly be different than mine. 

I think of the mothers of Gaza, Sudan, and Ukraine, of those waiting at the Southern borders of our own country, desperate to care for their children. Many of these don’t celebrate Christmas, being of a different faith family, but humanly speaking, they are like all of us.

In prophesying the significance of the birth of Jesus, Isaiah foretold, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned” (Isaiah 9:2). As Mary pondered these things in her heart, she was beginning to understand this story that is really beyond all comprehension. Something larger and grander than the image of a baby in a feeding trough. 

Thank God for Mary who treasured the hope in her heart. Thank God for the faithfulness of Elizabeth and Anna. This Christmas season, may God’s mercy be near those who grieve, those who are ill, those who care for them, and all those who suffer the ravages of war, eviction, and homelessness. “On those living in deep darkness, a light has dawned.” 

Let it be so.

A criminal Christmas

 I spent one of the most memorable Christmases of my life under house arrest.

Hal and I were first term missionaries in Bolivia and ready to head off on a well-earned vacation on the Peruvian coast. We had our two toddlers with us and were looking forward to giving them their first time at the ocean, making sand castles, running in the surf, collecting shells—the whole bit. It was December, summer in South America. We were going to spend one night with our friends in the coastal city of Tacna, on route to the beach house we had rented.

Before crossing the border between Bolivia and Peru, Hal parked the car and began the legal red tape for entering the country. We noticed that the immigration agent who would process our documents was drunk, but he seemed to know what he was doing. After a few hours of going from one office to another, our travel permission was stamped and we were off.

The trip over the mountain pass and down to the coastal plains took the rest of the afternoon and we were tired when we reached Everett and Alda’s home. Everett suggested we exchange our money for Peruvian pesos that afternoon, so he and Hal headed off to the local bank. The bank clerk took our $250 traveler’s check, looked over our documents, then told Hal he would have to check in at the police station first.

Hal and Everett walked over to the police building. The police had been notified and were waiting. They immediately told Hal he was under arrest and made ready to lead him to a cell. Our crime—neglecting to declare our money at the border!—thanks to the drunk agent who apparently forget to inform us. Everett began reasoning with the officials and at one point actually got down on his knees and pleaded for them to place Hal under house arrest, promising to be a faithful jailor. It worked.

Back at our friends’ home, we noticed the security guard out in the street, keeping watch lest we should try to escape. We expected that we could resolve this snafu within a few days and head on to the beach. That was not to be. We remained under house arrest for six weeks. That included Christmas.

By God’s grace, we all found ways to cope with the situation and enjoyed our time together in the small house. We spent times in agonizing prayer, other times playing board games, with lots of good food and conversation. Even the kids seemed happy (not knowing what they were missing).

After about three weeks, city officials apparently decided we were not hardened criminals about to flee. The security guards in the street disappeared. We were given permission to visit one particular beach just outside the city limits. That meant we were able to celebrate Christmas day with a beach picnic in the summer sun of a Peruvian December. I wrote this poem:

Christmas, 1974
Tacna, Peru

Not snow, but foam
blankets these gentle slopes.
Shells and sand crabs
adorn the ground
and announce the season.
God’s glory spews skyward
in a sun-spangled spray
and gulls cry out
our carols today.
Squatting here before a
baloney-and-bread banquet,
it seems not incongruous
to celebrate the Babe
in this place,
to sit in the sand,
join hands
and sing out,
“Joy to the world,
the Lord is come!”

To make the rest of the story short, we were eventually pardoned and able to head back home. We never did make it to the beach cabin. But now, these many years later, the memory is a happy one. It reminds me that Christmas is more then snow and presents and being in familiar settings. We were with friends, we celebrated the birth of our Savior, we banqueted on baloney. It was truly one of my most memorable Christmases.

The old ones in the Christmas story

 The center of the Christmas story is a baby. All other characters circle around him—the young and somewhat bewildered parents, shepherds stunned from the angel choir, a merciful inn keeper, and the animals in the cave that may have intuited with their beastly brains that something unusual was happening.  

Other characters never make it into the creches we put up in our living rooms or out on our streets. These are people who were, in one sense, peripheral to the main events, who came before and after the night of the birth. They were old people. And while their roles may seem secondary, God chose and called these men and women to play an essential part in the story.

Two old men and two old women. Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth enter the stage well before the birth of the baby. Simeon and Anna don’t make their appearances until a week afterward.

Zechariah and Elizabeth were both from the priestly tribe of Levi, and Zechariah served as one of the priests at the temple in Jerusalem. We read in Luke’s gospel that “both of them were upright in the sight of God, observing all the Lord’s commandments and regulations blamelessly.” They both also carried a secret sorrow; they had been unable to have children. In a family-oriented culture, this sorrow burned within even into their old age. We read that “they were both well along in years.”

At a high point in the Jewish religion calendar, Zechariah was chosen to go into the temple alone and present the offering of incense to the Lord. It was a holy time, and many people waited outside the temple, praying for God’s forgiveness and blessing.

You know the story. While at the altar, the angel Gabriel suddenly appeared and scared Zechariah half out of his wits. After telling him to calm down, the angel’s message was even more frightening in its utter strangeness. Zechariah and Elizabeth would give birth to a baby who would grow up to become a mighty man of God, part of God’s plan of salvation for his people.

Zechariah’s incredulity was greater than his fear and he responded, “No way! We’re too old!” The angel didn’t bother addressing his doubts; he just struck him dumb. And so Zechariah remained until the birth of the baby John.

I wonder how he explained all this to Elizabeth. He was literate and undoubtedly wrote to her. It didn’t take long for Elizabeth to believe, what with the child growing in her womb. She was secluded for five months, probably due to her advanced age. It would have seemed a precarious pregnancy. But when her close relative, Mary, now pregnant with Jesus, came to visit Elizabeth, the old woman understood, not only about John, but about the child Mary was to bear. She was wise. She responded in praise. Her response greatly encouraged her young cousin who would need it in the days, months, and years to come.

Zechariah also finally got it. At the birth of their son, the couple defied cultural tradition by not naming the child after a father or grandfather. No one in the family was named John, but John it was, according to the angel’s instructions. Then the old man did a very wise thing: he praised and prophesied as the Spirit opened to him the significance of his son’s future ministry in preparing the way of the Lord.

I wonder how this old couple handled John’s strange ways and his leaving home to live as a poor man in the desert. But they were probably dead by the time John reached adulthood. They had fulfilled their role.

Now enter Simeon and Anna. Jesus had been born in a stable, received the visitation of astonished but worshipful shepherds, and now it was time for his parents to take him to the temple for circumcision, according to Jewish law. Eight days old. 

Simeon is described as righteous, anointed by the Holy Spirit. We don’t know his profession, just that he was “a man in Jerusalem.” He enjoyed an uncommon communion with the Spirit, receiving a promise that he wouldn’t die until he saw the Messiah. The Spirit urged him to go to the temple that very day, then revealed which baby was the Holy One. So Simeon did the unorthodox;  he approached the young couple, strangers to him, and took the baby in his arms and praised God. Under inspiration, he announced that the babe would grow up to be, not only the Messiah of Israel, but the Savior of the world. Heady words for Joseph and Mary, grappling with what all these events could mean. Then Simeon blessed them. I’m sure they needed to hear his words, walking them a little closer to understanding. Simeon was now ready to die in peace.

But the story continues. Anna was the oldest person in this Christmas story. Her husband died after only seven years of marriage and she was a widow for 84 years after that. That would make her over 100-years-old. (Some translations say she was a widow until she turned 84. Even that’s old in anyone’s book.) For all those years of her widowhood, her primary occupation was worshipping, fasting, and praying, so much so that some people thought she actually lived in the temple. That day, as soon as she saw the baby Jesus, she knew and “gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem.” That’s what a prophetess does. I just imagine Mary and Joseph, taking all this in.

Here's a poem commemorating Simeon and Anna.

Ancient Blessing
Luke 2:21-38; Psalm 92:12-15

Old people have a reputation
for wisdom, but that’s often
not the reality. Alzheimer’s,
dementia, or outright crankiness
can overcome personality in the aged.
In spite of that,
sometimes we are blessed
to know the green leaves
of an ancient tree, taste fruit
that sweetens with the years.
So with Simeon and Anna.
Faithful servants, approaching
death, both lingered on
in the hope of his coming.
Years of waiting met reward
in the courts of the temple.
Filled with joy, held by the child
they held in their arms,
they thanked God, blessed the babe
and his parents, and gave public
witness that has become
a permanent part of the story.
Thank God for the legacy
of such as Simeon and Anna. 

And thank God for using older people. Thank God that he’s not finished with any of us. Age is irrelevant in God’s story. Take heart. 

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.

The cachi-wachi of Christmas

 A big part of retiring and moving to this retirement community was downsizing our stuff. I’ve written about this previously. This included all sorts of Christmas decorations: funny things the kids made, a collection of cross-stitched tree ornaments, gift ornaments from other countries, different creches, hangings, and so on. You know what I’m talking about. I actually managed to get it pared-down to one box of precious Christmas stuff. We’ve decided our small apartment won’t handle a Christmas tree, and that helped.

Marie Condo, the queen of de-clutter, to the rescue again, reminding us to only keep stuff that brings us joy. We have a word for that in the Aymara language of Bolivia. Cachi-wachi. Beloved stuff. So let me show you some of our precious Christmas cachi-wachi. This is part of the stuff we brought with us.

The first is a carved wooden creche made by an Aymara artisan in the small community of Juli, Peru. The shepherds are dressed as Aymara sheep herders, and the animals around the manger include two high altitude llamas. It reminds me that Jesus came as a baby to a culture similar to the Aymara people we served among for so many years.

The second manger scene is one I made from a pattern found in a woman’s magazine over 30 years ago. The figures are felt, glued onto an Aymara awayo, the cloth the women use to bundle their babies and carry them on their backs. I’ve made and gifted dozens of copies of this hanging.

The creche below comes from Rwanda, Africa, where our son and his family served for many years. It’s made of some kind of straw, hangs from the ceiling, and twirls around in a breeze. The angels seem like weird alien insects and they always make me laugh. If the real thing was anything like this, I understand why the shepherds were “sore afraid.”

The next "ornament" came as a gift a few months ago. I knew that the Christmas cactus sometimes blooms, but this one didn’t give any hints of being anything other than a nice succulent taking up space in our window. It surprised me. It probably shouldn’t have. The name itself is a clue. But it’s Christmas time and this plant opens up a new pink blossom every day. Soon it will be covered. I like to just sit, look at it, and smile. Like that baby born so many years ago, it stirs up hope from a deep place.

I love Christmas. I’d love it even without the cachi-wachi, but the stuff helps me celebrate. It’s all touchable. These things occupy space and brighten up the room with their colorful materiality. And isn’t that what this time of year is all about? God put on materiality. He became a baby and occupied space in a real place. We call it incarnation. God made flesh. Human. Real and touchable.

It's a miracle beyond my understanding. But not beyond my celebrating.