A Celebration of Life

Today is B’s birthday. At midnight, I wished her Happy Birthday on her FB wall. This morning at 9:30, I left my house to drive to hers. We spent the day together—running errands with the kids, hanging and rearranging art work, drinking coffee, eating birthday food, exchanging Christmas gifts, celebrating life.

I’ve exchanged Christmas presents with B and remembered her birthday every year since I’ve known her; she has remembered mine as well. But our gift exchanges, remembrances, and celebrations of life haven’t been exclusive to Christmas and birthdays. B and I communicate frequently, hang out when we can, and buy each other gifts every time we see something that reminds us of the other. It’s actually a minor miracle that I was able to wait until today to give B her Christmas present. I bought it for her sometime this past spring!

Today was also another of my friends’ birthdays. When I saw her birthday notification on my FB page, I wrote Happy Birthday on her wall. I like Mrs. Georgianna. We’ve known each other for many years. I went to her house as part of progressive dinners in high school. We used to have tiny handwriting competitions with one another.

Over the years, though, Mrs. Georgianna and I have remained in contact only distantly. This reality is no fault of either of ours. Mutual respect still exists. Distance has just happened over the years. I’m remembering her birthday today because FB suggested that I do so, yet I wouldn’t have known that today was her birthday had it not been for FB’s announcement. I may remember Mrs. Georgianna’s birthday in the future because I’m writing about it now, because I’ve formed a connection with it, but unless something changes, which it could, our lives still won’t be intimately connected throughout the year…

One of my biggest blessings of 2012 was the 2012 Advent and Christmas Seasons. For the first time in many years, because I wasn’t so busy doing the work of or studying ministry, I was able to step back, relax, and truly live with a spirit of openness in the waiting and celebration. I’ve written about a couple of things I’ve pondered in previous weeks—realizing that Jesus had grandparents and an aunt, accepting the fact that Jesus’ birth-night was both a non-silent and silent night—but I need to write about one more thing for this season’s revelations to be complete:

It seems to me that Christmas has become the universal Facebook announcement of Jesus’ birthday.

For some people, the reminder isn’t necessary. Some people have an ongoing, intimate relationship with Jesus so his birthday isn’t something they can forget—like I can’t forget B’s. Other people have a distant relationship with Jesus—they may have once been close to him but found that the friendship has drifted apart—so the reminder makes them pause and remember—like happened with me today with Mrs. Georgianna. Still other people don’t have much of a relationship with Jesus at all—they may have heard his name, been introduced to him at some point in their lives, but not ever have formed anything more than a distant connection with him—like happens to me sometimes when a name pops up on FB that I’m not very familiar with—so the reminder is just that—a reminder—a simple thought of good wishes.

For some people, Christmas is a simple thought of good wishes. The season comes, it goes, and it ends. For other people, Christmas is a time for pausing and remembering. The season comes, Jesus’ birthday is remembered, the remembrance reignites thoughts and feelings, it lingers for awhile, but unless something changes then it gets lost in the busyness of life. But for other people, Christmas is a focused day of remembering Jesus’ birth—of what Jesus’ life meant—of the hope, peace, joy, and love that came to earth and still lives today. For those people, Christmas may be a universal season of celebration but it is also an individual spirit that is chosen every day…a reality that does not die…a promise that is not forgotten when the decorations come down.

Birthdays are important because they celebrate life. But to truly celebrate life, day-in and day-out relationships must be nurtured.

I’m thankful for this birthday that I was able to spend with B, but I’m more thankful for the friendship that causes me to keep an eye out for Chinese and Japanese art and that causes B to keep an eye out for orange fish for me. I’m thankful that we’re so far in debt to one another that we’ve given up on keeping a tab. But most of all, I’m thankful that I actively get to celebrate life with B…and Mrs. Georgianna…and my family…and my friends…and you…because of the life that was born in Jesus and continues to live today.

Need for Speed

My grandmother owns a 1988 Crown Victoria.

Most of the time, the car sleeps in G-mama’s carport.

Occasionally, it is woken up so that it doesn’t fall into a slumber from which it cannot be revived.

Even more occasionally, it is taken for a checkup, fill-up, or spin around the neighborhood.

Today, after knocking down countless telephone poles, running into buildings, crashing into cars, and getting stopped by the police twice, I decided to transfer my “Need for Speed” from the sheik Porsche on the Play Station 3 to the boat-like Ford in the driveway.

My cousin Stephen and I pimped our ride all the way to the gas station where we spent a whopping $2 to fill the tires with air.

Reaching speeds of almost 35 mile per hour, the 1988 Crown Vic provided Stephen and me with a shaky ride through the streets of G-mama’s well-established neighborhood.

Stephen applauded my bravery and unwavering faith in our classic ride, yet he wasn’t ready to test the car’s strength and stamina and take it to the car wash.

Just before my aunt and grandmother became concerned about our whereabouts, Stephen and I navigated the car back into its bed and let it return to sleep.

Call me crazy, but I never doubted that the Crown Vic would get us home safely. The Porsche, though? I’ll be lucky to make it 10 seconds without crashing into a barrier. I guess it’s a good thing that my need for speed is satisfied with a real life adventure of 35 miles per hour.

Jesus, The Four Boys, and A Girl

Last night, after I carefully navigated the minefield of my bedroom in order to make it to my bed, I felt an overwhelming amount of love for the three bombs sleeping on my floor (and the other two kids sleeping in the house as well).

It’s no secret that I adore my nephews and niece, but I’ve come to love them even more this Advent as I’ve allowed my mind to wander to Jesus’ childhood—to his first steps, his unadulterated joy, his being the life of the party, his being the center of adoration, his having grandparents and aunts/uncles, his being a normal kid like these kids I love.

Somehow, in Jesus’ birth and growth becoming more real, the lives of the five children in my life have become more special.

If I believe that each of us is created in God’s image—which I do—and that Jesus was fully human and fully divine—which I believe he was—then I cannot deny the similarities between Jesus as a child and these children that I love.

Jesus was not an untouchable, fragile, docile baby frozen in a silent manger scene and then moved to the temple as a 12-year-old pawn.

Jesus was real.

He could have been my nephew in another time and another place.

Jesus sang and danced and played and laughed and cried and melted down when he was tired or hungry and had a bed time and probably thought it was funny to make armpit noises.

Do these things make my Prince of Peace any less divine?

No.

They just make him more real, and they make his spirit more easily seen in the eyes of my four boys and a girl.

There is so much life to be lived.

The merry music making, present opening, food eating, game playing, and joke telling of my family’s Christmas celebration has reminded me this much.

Jesus came to live it.

He wants us to live it to.

With deep, deep love.

And careful avoidance of the minefields having a sleeping over on our bedroom floors.

Don't Let Anyone Tell You Who You Aren't

I’m not very good with the DVR. Sometime last week, in the middle of my fight with flu, I accidently told the DVR to record the whole series of The Mentalist instead of just the one episode I was trying to watch. I watch The Mentalist because of my dad. He was watching it one night and I got hooked. This tends to happen to me when watching TV.

At the beginning of this week, during my dad’s fight with a sinus infection, my mom told us that we needed to clean off some of our episodes of The Mentalist because they were was filling up recording space. Being the good daughter that I am, I have since spent every possible moment watching The Mentalist in an effort to clean off the DVR, even if it’s meant sitting beside a coughing, hacking dad.

Last night, as I was fitting in one final episode of The Mentalist before going to bed, a minor character said some really mean things to Jane, the mentalist. I like Jane. He’s highly intelligent and quirky and he always drinks hot tea. So when that man said something mean to him, it made me mad. In my anger toward a minor character on a fictional TV show, I posted the statement:

“Don’t let anyone tell you who you aren’t.”

I was talking to Jane, on a recording of a TV show from 2009, but I knew the non-fictional, real-life truth in the statement as I was writing it. I also know the truth of its opposite when the teller is speaking from fear or ignorance: “Don’t let anyone tell you who you are.”

When I woke up this morning, I found a short conversation between two very unlikely people on my wall. They had both responded to my statement to Jane, and then Dr. Colby, my college English professor, told Christina, one of my dearest friends from divinity school, that she looked fully alive in her profile picture. Christina simply said thanks.

What Dr. Colby doesn’t know is that Christina is fully alive—that her current profile picture, while demonstrating happiness and life, isn’t the happiest I’ve ever seen her. Christina is full of deep joy and a giving, hospitable spirit that has reminded me many times to breathe and to remember that I am exactly who God created me to be.

What Christina doesn’t know is that Dr. Colby made a huge impact on my life in college. While it’s true that I made my only B in Dr. Colby’s English class and that I couldn’t, for the life of me, write a thesis statement to her liking :-), it’s also true that the many hours we spent together because of my writing difficulties built a mutual respect that has stood the course of time. I suppose that in an ideal world I would have sailed through that English class, made an A, and graduated with a 4.0. But, in the real world, struggling through Dr. Colby’s class, having a crisis of belief in myself and my ability to write (a crisis lasted for well over a year), having a mentor to walk the course with me and teach me, and emerging from the crisis with my own voice, means way more than a perfect GPA. It's not like anyone walks around asking about my college GPA anyway! Through the ears of my perfectionist, people pleasing, self critical, self damning college self, I heard Dr. Colby telling me that I couldn’t write—that I was not a writer. But she wasn’t telling me that. She was trying help me be the best writer and self that I could be.

I am blessed to have parents with whom to watch TV and share these days of life. I am blessed with their DVR and sofa and electricity that allow me to see the world through different characters’ eyes. I am blessed to have friends like Christina and Dr. Colby—friends who believe in and support me not for who I’m not or should be but for who I am. And if you are reading this then I am blessed to have you, too. I am blessed that you care to read words from a girl with a blemished writing past and that you have given your time to my thoughts.

Don’t let anyone tell you who you’re not, friends. And don’t let anyone tell you who you are unless they are affirming what you know to be true in your spirit…that you are a loved and cherished person of worth and value, created in God’s image, redeemed by God’s grace, gifted by God’s spirit, freed by Christ’s forgiveness, and held in God’s love even when you do not know it is there. God’s love is there, my friends. It is there. Actually, it is here. It's what Christmas is all about. And it can never, ever be erased.

Together In This Thing Called Humanity

Original Monday Plan:
• Counseling/Spiritual direction in North Raleigh.
• Lunch in North Raleigh with a friend I hadn’t seen in a year.
• Finish sending out Christmas letters at a coffee shop in Raleigh.
• Dinner in Clayton with a friend I hadn’t seen in five years.

Actual Monday Events:
• My niece’s pre-school performance of The Nutcracker in Raleigh.
• Lunch in North Raleigh with a friend I hadn’t seen in a year.
• Play with my niece and nephew in Raleigh.
• Drive my mom home to Lillington.
• Rush to the Post Office in Lillington before it closes.
• Dinner in Clayton with a friend I hadn’t seen in five years.

As you can see, my Monday didn’t turn out as originally planned; however, it has been a wonderful day—especially after a week of being sick. I’m pretty tired after being out all day, but my extraverted self is happy after lots of human interaction both with family and with friends I hadn’t seen in way too long but that felt just like yesterday being around.

My introverted self is also happy after a few minutes of reflection…the most meaningful of which occurred at the preschool Nutcracker…which…I know is an odd time for introverted reflection but it happened.

While waiting for the show to begin, I looked up and saw Elizabeth Gardner. She, like the other parents in the room, was there to see her child. She may be a weatherwoman who had just come from the television station, but she’s also a real person—a mom who beams at her children when they perform, an onlooker who smiles when she sees something cute, a partner who helps with household chores, a white collar worker who has to pick out her clothes, a family member who gets to buy Christmas presents—a real person—but one that people are often either too star struck to talk to or too star struck to remember that they don’t actually know or vice versa and therefore immediately assume they know her. [I almost called Elizabeth by name and started talking to her like a long lost friend. But. Well. I’m not. Just a weather fan and former teacher who met the weatherperson once at school.]

I quickly realized that I’m glad that I’m not famous…and that I must always remember—with stars and bums and rich people and poor—that we’re all in this thing called humanity together.

Jesus…thank you for coming to live with preschool nutcracker dancers, weatherwomen, and in-between-ministry-ministers alike. Thank you, too, for calling us friend. Amen.

Was It Or Wasn't It A Silent Night (Part Two)

Yes.
It was a silent night.
Yes.
It was not a silent night.
Or at least that’s what I think these days.
And here’s what changed my mind:
The memory of a college fire drill.

It was my junior year at Meredith.
I was sick, much like I am now.
I had Vicks vapor-rubbed my chest and taken some NyQuil.
I was very asleep when the fire alarm went off.
I stumbled out of the building with the help of a friend.
I sat down on a little wall and swayed back and forth,
Trying not to fall onto the ground.
It was foggy outside.
The fog against the street light created that unique foggy orange light look.
It was silent.
It was ringingly silent.
It was middle-of-the-night-silent that comes when you’re jolted awake or
You’re sick or
You just can’t sleep.
There was noise.
Yet it was silent.
It was a silent night.
It was not a silent night.
And I’m thinking that’s how things were the night that Jesus was born.

As my friend Amy said in response to my note on Monday:

I like Amy Grant's spin on the song..."I need a silent night, a holy night, to hear an angel voice through the chaos and the noise. I need a midnight clear, a little peace right here--to end this crazy day with a silent night." I imagine it was super hectic for Mary, and loud, with all the doors Joseph was knocking on and all the grumpy people who were irritated that 2 kids would have the nerve to interrupt their sleep to ask for a place to have a baby. Shuffling feet, doors slamming, Mary's cries, Joseph's pleas, cows mooing, sheep baahing, horses nickering, the scraping of stone as Joseph cleans out the only thing in the stable he could find to prepare for a baby. Mary screams, a new born baby cries, and then. Then. There is that one silent moment as Joseph wipes Mary's brow and Mary smiles down at her sweet sleeping baby through silent glistening tears. And I think that that moment is what the silent night is about—the moment when we realize that while the world is busy slamming doors and being rude we miss out on the mercy that is meek and mild and the truth that is as pure as this child. That night, redemption was knocking on the doors of Bethlehem (and our hearts) but they couldn't drown out the noise (or chose not too) long enough to hear the heartbeat of the Savior. So maybe every now and then, a silent night is a good thing.

Or as my friend Jaime said:

I have always loved the song Silent Night and always (even as a child) pictured it as a scene from AFTER Christ was born. And, as a mom who has cuddled and coo'd and watched two precious newborns sleep peacefully in my arms (and am eagerly awaiting this one), I think Mary DID probably have those moments of peaceful, silent euphoria with her sleeping or nursing baby that night.

God…thank you for both/and rather than either/or. Amen.

Was It Or Wasn't It A Silent Night?

A few years ago, I reached my breaking point with still life, snowy nativity scenes and other unrealistic views of Jesus’ birth and the Christmas season. It was then that I began to refuse to sing “Silent Night” because I didn’t agree with the lyrics and that I penned the following poem:

So maybe it wasn’t a silent night (and)
maybe Mary screamed (and)
maybe the Wise Men didn’t find Jesus in a stable (and)
maybe Jesus cried (and)
maybe there wasn’t snow on the ground (and)
maybe it wasn’t even winter (and)
maybe the animals stank (and)
maybe meaning is more than a story (and)
maybe the story is more than “Merry Christmas” hanging over a
commercialized,
dumbified,
secularized,
polarized
modernized America that
maybe worships the imaginary, still-life manger scene
maybe more than the Man who lived to walk out of the hay.

It was also at that point that I began to sing “Labor of Love” by Andrew Peterson because I did agree with his words:

It was not a silent night
There was blood on the ground
You could hear a woman cry
In the alleyways that night
On the streets of David's town

And the stable was not clean
And the cobblestones were cold
And little Mary full of grace
With the tears upon her face
Had no mother's hand to hold

It was a labor of pain
It was a cold sky above
But for the girl on the ground in the dark
With every beat of her beautiful heart
It was a labor of love

Noble Joseph at her side
Callused hands and weary eyes
There were no midwives to be found
In the streets of David's town
In the middle of the night

So he held her and he prayed
Shafts of moonlight on his face
But the baby in her womb
He was the maker of the moon
He was the Author of the faith
That could make the mountains move

It was a labor of pain
It was a cold sky above
But for the girl on the ground in the dark
With every beat of her beautiful heart
It was a labor of love

And little Mary full of grace
With the tears upon her face
It was a labor of love

What do you think? Silent night or not? What Christmas songs can’t you sing because you don’t agree with or like them and what Christmas displays, demonstrations, and/or beliefs really don’t sit well with you? Share your thoughts…but please share respectfully.

…to be continued…
…on Thursday…

Yet Through It All

This hasn’t been my best week.

I got plowed into by a large man on Monday night and heard a large crash at the house.

My printer ran out of color ink on Tuesday and made my Christmas letters look sub-par.

Yesterday, after choosing to stay on four lane highways that I thought would be safer and better lit than two lane back roads, I ran into some boxes in the middle of a very dark Hwy 421 N and pulled off my right fender, a portion of the right bumper, busted a headlight, disconnected some wires, and punctured an obvious hole in my windshield wiper fluid container.

Today, I woke up with a very bad headache after having difficult dreams all night.

I told my parents that I was trying really hard not to be discouraged, but I must admit that the trying is very hard.

Yet through it all:

I was able to keep that large man from experiencing major injuries by breaking his fall and I was able to help my parents clean out their closet after it crashed…even if my dad was sitting in a chair giving orders because of his sore body and busted knee.

I got to have lunch with a dear friend earlier that Monday. Spending time with her always brings a lot of laughter and helps me keep life in perspective.

I was still able to send out over 30 Christmas letters on Tuesday and people actually wanted to read them.

I had the privilege of cleaning my friend Flora’s house yesterday. She just turned 83 years old and is a joy to be around. After calling in reinforcements to help with cleaning and companionship, I was able to get one bathroom and the kitchen super clean…and it feels good to see something move from dirty to clean.

I was moved to a tearful grin by a Facebook book post that a friend dedicated to me.

I was able to drive my car home after the boxes busted it up. I have no idea what was in the boxes, but whatever it was hurt GiGi pretty badly. I wasn’t hurt. The car can be repaired. Being home last night allowed me to watch one of my shows with my mom. My dad is letting me borrow his car today so that I can still go on the trip that I was planning—albeit one day delayed. I get to see one of my favorite kids debut on stage tonight and I get to hang out with one of my closest friends tomorrow and help her prepare for a move.

I was able to eat a lunch paid for by my dad, drink some water, make some coffee in the Keurig, and take some medicine for the headache that seems to be subsiding, and I was able to complete a devotional writing for my church’s Advent devotional. I was able to study Zephaniah a bit and find encouragement in the prophet’s words.

So.

This hasn’t been my best week. Yet. I have so much for which to be thankful.

For friends, family, traveling mercies, food, medicine, and the ability to share life with others through time and writing…Thank you, God. Thank you. Amen.

The Trust Fall Stance

Well…our month of thankfulness is officially over. But I don’t want to stop being thankful. So I won’t. Since I only have one official thankful question left to answer, I’ll address that first in this post:

What are some things you appreciate about God? I appreciate that God is Creator. And creative. I appreciate that God is love. Steady and patient. And I appreciate that God works in and through time even though God is eternity.

Now I’ll continue to say that I’m thankful for the ability to read. And to write. And for the many people who have shared their thoughts, lives, and stories through their writing throughout the years. I’m thankful for Brennan Manning and his devotional book Reflections for Ragamuffins. I’m thankful that he is transparent in this faith and that he so often speaks of the grace of God. I’m thankful for an Advent Devotional that I received many years ago. It was a free resource; a mass produced paper back devotional that I picked up at some church I was visiting. This booklet, “The Lord Is Near,” was compiled from the works of Henri Nouwen…another writer whose life and works I’m very thankful for. In fact, a couple of years ago, I gave my dad one Henri Nouwen book per month for an entire year. The collection is downstairs. My dad was very thankful for the gift.

He was also very thankful for my presence tonight, and I was very grateful for my camp training in trust falls. As my mom, dad, and I were walking to the chapel for a Christmas concert at Campbell, my dad tripped and fell. When he rounded the corner of the building, he didn’t see the reflection pool and one of his feet fell into the water. [The pool wasn't lit.] That knocked him off balance and he began stumbling. I looked back to see what was happening and realized he was getting ready to fall. I stepped toward him, got in trust fall position, and did my best to catch him so that he could get his balance and not fall. While I didn’t stop the fall completely, I stopped him from landing on his hands, face, and head, so he only scraped his knee where he hit the ground and nose where his glasses pressed against his face as he pressed against me. I didn’t fall. My trust fall stance kept me from that. I am very thankful. My dad is too.

I’m also very thankful that my mom wasn’t in her closet when it fell tonight. That’s right, friends. Just as my closet fell a few weeks ago, my mom’s closet fell tonight. I thought I’d heard her flip on the light switch in the closet a few minutes earlier, so when I heard the huge crash I bolted off the couch, where I was sitting with my injured dad, and ran to the closet yelling, “Mom! Mom!” I looked in the closet and saw a huge pile of stuff that was high enough to have crushed a human body. When I didn’t hear her respond, I almost started digging, but then I heard her say, “What? What’s happened?” from behind me where she was sitting in her computer chair. Though realizing that her closet had fallen wasn’t a fun realization, it was better than the alternative which was that dad had fallen again.

So…at the end of this 3rd day of December, three days after the month of thankfulness has ended, I will be a thankfulness overachiever and declare that I am very grateful for being trained in trust falls (although I don’t think they were meant to be used in real life, just in trust building games!), being in the right place at the right time, being able to break my dad’s fall, and being reminded just how much I love my parents and how grateful I am that they are in my life.

Good and gracious God, you know how much clutter fills my mind and heart these days. Help me to pay attention to your presence in my life. Help me to look for and find opportunities this Advent to become more aware of how you touch my life each day. May I become evermore a sign of your love and light in this world. Amen. (--prayer by Henri Nouwen)