Category Archives: Christmas

key change: we rise through worship

Posted on by December 14, 2022

I’m not sure what the total snowfall is in our area yet, but at one point the snow was three feet deep in our driveway, and some forecasts are calling for anywhere from 6 to 13 more inches in the next 24 hours. But what do they know.

key change: we rise through worship

Our snowy days have outnumbered our non-snowy days in the past couple weeks. The paths in the yard are lined with walls of snow that are getting higher and higher, and the chickens stayed in their coops for days. We are all hunkering, waiting for the next storm that is promised for tonight and tomorrow.

We broke out the puzzle table last night. I’m not sure why it took us so long this year; normally by now we’d have completed one or two puzzles already. But we also forgot to schedule our annual movie night with friends (how do you forget to do something that’s annual?) and I’m not sure where the time has gone.

Well, I do, sort of. We have poultry now, so that’s been a new routine to get used to. And like I said, we’ve had a ton of weather. Plus family from out of town. And some big kid situations.

So the weeks have flown by and it’s almost the middle of December already and my birthday is in a couple days and we have another birthday right after that, and I don’t really know what we have planned for either of those days and – and –

Deep breath.

Still the frenzy. Focus on the Father. Wait for the music to get back in tune, because it will.

The girls are practicing Christmas carols, and it’s magical: The Christmas lights, the voices I love, the notes on the piano intricate, mysterious, and penetrating.

But later I’m on the phone in the middle of a hard conversation while one kid practices piano and her toddler brother “helps” her with as many dissonant chords as he can fit into four measures of music. I quick-walk to the other side of the house so I can hear the person on the other end of the line.

The piano is neutral; it can make music or mayhem. The snow is neutral, too: It can make things beautiful or dangerous. Sometimes both.

On the way to town yesterday I was almost hit by someone pulling out onto the highway right in front of me. My headlights were on, and he couldn’t have missed seeing me. So, cars are neutral, too – they can safely move us from place to place, or, driven by someone who thinks their superpower is the ability to drive through oncoming traffic, they can be mechanized weapons of destruction.

The world is a beautiful and dangerous place. It is still snowing and we are still unburying, and it’s a picture of the stress some of us are dealing with currently, yes? We barely have time to clear one area — or even realize it’s demanding our attention — before another foot of snow drops. The situations take turns bobbing to the surface because everything can’t be processed at once: destructive behaviors, systemic corruption, difficult conversations, unexpected responsibilities, future certainties that are wreathed in unknowns.

I was worshiping when I was almost hit by that car. The radio was off and I was rehearsing a word the Lord had given me to hold onto; I was repeating the words aloud so I would remember them. I saw that car up ahead to my right start spinning its tires and moving forward into the highway, and I kept repeating the words aloud but in my head I thought, Surely that guy is going to turn right into the lane next to me. Surely he’s not trying to cross the entire highway.

But the guy clearly was trying to cross the entire highway, and I was still repeating the words as he started to enter my lane, perpendicular to traffic flow. I swerved in passing, somehow avoided colliding with his front bumper, and fishtailed to recover. And I’m so glad I prayed before I left the driveway, and was worshiping down the highway.

Would it have been different otherwise? No doubt. Worship is never neutral; it either destroys or brings life. The target of our worship is what makes the difference.

We talked recently about how we know how to tell things where to go, but what we didn’t mention is how often we move things unintentionally with our voices. Sound is just movement, vibrations going through matter. Our words are waves of movement through the air. The sound waves make an object vibrate, and the air expands, and then compresses. Things in the unseen move.

A friend told me years ago that worship is our war ship, and we know that much of the battle takes place in our minds. Will we focus on fear, or will we advance in faith? Will we worship the Lord, or will we bow to our own vanity and comfort? The answers to these questions determine which side of the battle we’re really on.

There are high notes of movement where people are fighting for truth in the spotlight for all to see. There are quiet, steady, low notes of behind the scenes movement in every home where people are pursuing forgiveness, teaching their children, stewarding the land, and praying without ceasing.

Even in our overwhelm, we contribute to the music every time we refuse to cave to despair. Even in the onslaught of storm warnings and stressors, we choose to be in tune and aligned with His word and will for us: We will not bow to fear. We will be aggressive in our joy, confident and hope-filled for our future, because we know the Father loves us and in Him there is no darkness at all.

You are not silent, unseen, unnoticed, or unpowerful; you have a role in the harmony that is sometimes in the background but also has moments of loud prominence in conjunction with others around you. There are no big names leading this, no solo efforts. Moreover, no one gets to sit on the bench and wait for the big hitters to do all the work and get all the applause. This isn’t a recreational sport; this is an anthem and we all need to sing.

We don’t worship God into a room, we worship to open ourselves into His reality.

– Dano McCollam

Worship keeps our eyes on the greater reality and helps us rise above whatever threatens to bury us. Principalities and powers are brought into submission. Thoughts are taken captive, and the captives are set free.

The walls bow outward, then cave inward. Light shifts, and air particles move. You may not see it but you know something is happening. If you listen, you can hear the key change.

For though we walk in the flesh, we are not waging war according to the flesh. For the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but have divine power to destroy strongholds. We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ.

– 2 Corinthians 10:3-5

The good news is that you don’t always have to be making noise to be part of the song. There are pauses and fermatas; we must selah and breathe. There are days when the feelings are too much, the pain is too sharp, the lungs are too tight and breathing is a work in itself. Sometimes the enemy throws some wrong notes onto someone’s music stand and they play them anyway, creating dissonance and anger; the sound is too loud and the colors are too bright, and we have to step away from our chair for a minute to get our own breath in the right rhythm again before adding to the discord.

Breathe in, and then out. Grieve in, and then out. Give the oxygen time to replenish and do the work until the pulse pounding gets quieter and you can think clearer thoughts again.

Wounding doesn’t disqualify or diminish you. It doesn’t make you inferior. That’s the enemy’s lie because he doesn’t want you to know that the wounding, stewarded well, helps you rise higher – the warrior must know wounding and pain to lead others in compassion and wisdom. This is how your range expands, how you hit notes you never could before.

God gives us a mantle, not of entitlement, but of strength and authority every time we conquer through pain. This is the power of meekness: forgiving and overcoming, being broken and then healing in a way that makes you stronger than before. You are gentle but uncompromising as you come out on the other side. It is Gandalf defeating the Balrog; it is Jesus defeating death. We die to self in big and small ways, and if we can still manage to worship, we come out brighter than before.

Do all things without grumbling or disputing, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world, holding fast to the word of life, so that in the day of Christ I may be proud that I did not run in vain or labor in vain.

– Philippians 2:14-16

Every time truth is spoken the light gets brighter, the darkness is pressed back and the cacophony diminishes. The movement aligns and the music grows into a tighter, fuller euphony. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.

The dissonance recedes. The chords strengthen; the harmonies come into focus. Notes emerge that are high and strong, sailing over like a banner of triumph.

coming and going: what we see up ahead

Posted on by December 22, 2023

Mealtime traffic in our kitchen resembles the streets of New Delhi, with the bonus of weaving through the local wildlife of little boys, teenagers, and cats.

Kavanagh climbs onto a barstool and kicks his legs at the counter in time to the Christmas music. Newly three, the kid eats as though he is an advocate for the neighborhood chickens, leaving out his scraps of bread crust and tortillas to harden, nubs of carrots to darken and shrivel. In frustration over all the wasted food, I designated a container for chicken scraps in the fridge and informed the family about it.

coming and going: what we see up ahead

“It’s for bready stuff, grains, and fruits and veggies.” The blank looks that met these words seemed to beg for more specifics, so I added, “Pretty much anything except potatoes, potato peels, onions…”

Eyebrows raised. Maybe it’s too late in the evening to introduce foreign concepts like the Care and Feeding of Neighborhood Chickens, I thought, but forged ahead anyway.

“…and citrus. You can’t give them citrus –”

Vince laughed outright. “That’s a lot of excepts.”

I ignored him and looked at the mess on the counter. “— and pomegranate rinds.” Maybe it would be easier if our neighbors had pigs instead.

We’re planning to get our own chickens in the spring, but don’t think I haven’t already considered pigs, albeit briefly (very briefly) since we don’t have the space. Our property on a bluff with hills is more situated for, you know…goats…since we’re already talking about wild ideas that make Vince laugh out loud.

Lately I’ve been reading every homesteaderly book I can get my hands on. We make small steps every year – a new perennial here, a new skill there – and this year I’m feeling ready for long strides and bolder endeavors. In the middle of winter, right before Christmas, I see green growing things in the future, and fresh herbs in salad.

Sometimes we talk about it in the evenings as we work on the Christmas puzzle, moving all the gardening and foodie books off the card table where they protect the work in progress from the, ahem, local wildlife. Left uncovered, a puzzle in our house will last less than three seconds before little boys “help” by crushing large sections together, and cats tear through it like tiny tornadoes.

We finished one already and we’re onto the second, called “Coming and Going” by Rockwell. We rake through the box, sorting greens from blues or whites from greys, and searching for the elusive edge pieces we’re missing. A thousand pieces at a time, we solve all the world’s problems at this little card table in theory while thinking about how to steward the acre we live on.

My birthday was last week. I got sick the Sunday before, and blinked, and by Thursday I’d depleted our store of tissue boxes and turned 45.

The timing wasn’t all that bad, because Vin invented something new for the week before Christmas break: Movie School for the big kids. Aside from math, no assignments other than watching a bunch of movies that fall more under the “education” than “entertainment” category for some of us, which is how we got Afton to watch Sense & Sensibility (the good version from 2008), and Iree to watch Glory and Amistad. We had to prioritize, not wanting to miss the best ones because Iree is a senior, and this might be our last Christmas with her here under our roof.

Cue suppressed sobbing, and another box of tissues.

By my birthday we’d watched most of the movies, and my grandma called late that afternoon. She asked the same question she does every year: “How old are you now?” as though I have birthdays as often as bank holidays.

“I’m half your age,” I said, remembering the year she pointed out that our ages mirrored each other.

“Well, how old am I, then? Numbers befuddle me sometimes.” And that surprised me, because her age was a pretty big deal last month.

“You’re ninety, Grandma.” More tissues, egad. “Are you having a good day?”

“Every day is a good day as long as I’m still here,” she said. “Some days I don’t know what day it is, and other days I don’t care what day it is, but every day is a good day.” There’s a Grandma-ism for you. We chatted a little more, exchanged I love yous, and hung up.

I didn’t tell her that a couple hours earlier, my other grandma died. My aunt and I had been texting that afternoon and knew she was probably close. I prayed that God would encounter her in her sleep and draw her near…and I’m confident He answered because it’s something He loves to do. She taught me about sewing and gardening, and introduced me to the biggest poppies I’d ever seen. We just ordered heirloom seeds for next summer, and included three different kinds of them.

My grandpa, her husband, died in October and I wasn’t close to either of them anymore. She didn’t recognize me when she last saw me several years ago, but when Kav was five months old I took him to see Grandpa, and he knew me. It took a few long seconds, and I watched recognition dawn. He held Kav’s tiny hand. I told him they smile the same way. And Grandpa looked away, trying to suppress a smile as he quietly touched his own mouth, the same way Kav still does. As we left, he let me pray for him. And he said thank you, and we exchanged I love yous, too.

And now they are both gone, and Grandma is 90, and I am 45. Little Kavanagh just turned 3.

The world is spinning too fast, so I am going to put these pieces together while the snow falls outside, and read about raised beds and chickens.

But I didn’t get far because a delivery truck pulled into our driveway. I ran down the stairs past kids who were running up them, and opened the door to the driver and his assistant as a gust of snow blew in. He gave me a paper to sign, handed me a pen.

“I think it’s the…16th,” the young guy said, eager to help. I smiled and signed my name. Went upstairs, and went back to reading about compost: these elements that die to bring life, but that only do so once broken down properly.

Ash is a good addition to compost, the book says, and I remember that from having a woodstove in our last house. And that’s encouraging, because we’re installing a woodstove in this house next month, and a few more raised beds in the summer, and we’ll need more compost. I see a new plot of carrots, garlic, and cumin, and the need for a wheelbarrow next year.

That night while Vin put the little boys to bed, I made tea for kombucha – this is a skill I know that no longer intimidates. Into the water goes the tea, a pinch of dried plantain, and a small handful of dried dandelion. Stir with the wooden spoon. Grab a sweater and pull it over the flannel. The water starts to boil, turn off the heat. It will sit overnight, cooling, growing stronger. In the morning, I’ll strain the leaves and toss them in the compost before adding the sugar and scoby.

The kitchen is quiet, the traffic stilled. I can hear Vin reading to the boys upstairs. We’ve been talking about how life will change rapidly in the next few years, with another kid or two graduating right after Iree does. In five years, out of eight kids, only half of them will be living with us, and we probably won’t be reading many bedtime stories anymore. 

In the middle of the mayhem, I see an emptier house and a less busy kitchen in the future, and small boys growing taller than me, like their brothers.

But I also see their older siblings returning with grandkids to visit. I see them playing in the garden, chasing chickens, and tracking dirt into the kitchen as we weave and dodge their busy traffic. I see reunion and life ahead, and poppies blooming in summer.

_________

_________

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over the top: trading our agenda for God’s peace at Christmas

Posted on by December 21, 2020

Well friends, I’ve broken my streak: Until this week, I’ve successfully avoided all stores since…oh, February, I think. It has nothing to do with the agenda of social distancing or illnesses or government plots to overthrow the world; it’s just because I utterly hate shopping.

But the other night Vin and I took the Chimichangos – that’s Kav and Finn to you – to the store near our house to grab some stocking stuffers and other essentials. You know, like tortilla chips.

over the top: trading our agenda for God’s peace at Christmas

And Kav still doesn’t say much, so secrets are safe with him. But Finn, who talks all the time whether anyone is listening or not, is a security risk when it comes to gifts. And as soon as we got back home, he had an announcement.

“Afton!! We got you a NEW WATER BOTTLE!!”

Afton, scandalized at this breach of confidential information, waved him off, yelling, “Stop! Don’t tell me! Shh!!”

Undeterred, Finn plowed forward. “It’s BLUE!”

So that’s how that went. (For the record, he’s only partly right. It is blue. But it is not for Afton.)

My birthday was the following day and I woke up to fresh snow – it’s still one of my favorite gifts, though it’s not one I get every year – and the familiar back-forth, back-forth sound of the neighbor snowplowing his driveway. Christmas songs were playing downstairs.

Tell how the angels in chorus,
Sang as they welcomed His birth,
“Glory to God in the highest!
Peace and good tidings to earth.”

My phone rang, and I knew the name but was stunned to see it on the screen. Her eyesight is shot and I’m always the one who calls her these days.

“How many years are you now?” Grandma asked me.

“Forty-four,” I confessed.

“Fooorty-four!” She drew it out into long syllables. “How many years does that make me?”

“Well, you just had your birthday, and you turned…” I can’t remember, because the number coming to mind doesn’t seem like it could possibly be true. “You were born in ’31, right?”

“Right.”

“So…you’re 89.” And I think we were both shocked. “If you behave yourself, we can have you for many more birthdays.” She’s had two fancy helicopter rides in the last five years, and that’s enough for me.

“Behave myself?” she scoffed. “Is that required?!”

She said Michael, my uncle, remembered my birthday and reminded her to call me. She asked if the kids were helping me have a good day, and I told her they were all playing outside and leaving me alone for a few minutes, so, yes, they were. She asked if we had our tree up already. I said yes, and told her how Iree sewed a bunch of little bird ornaments that were all over the tree…although at first she gave them to Finn to put on the tree, so they were mostly just congregating on three branches. (Obviously the birds were too shy at first to mingle with the other weird ornaments. I bet if you let them loose in the store, they’d hate shopping, too.)

“He is such a sweet boy.” Then she tells me again: “Babies that come later in life are so special.”

She told me how she shoveled snow around her house that morning; it was a beautiful day and the temperature was perfect. Not too cold, not too warm. And if you’re curious what the perfect temperature for shoveling snow is to an 89-year-old Alaskan grandma, it was 24 degrees.

Tell me the story of Jesus,
Write on my heart every word;
Tell me the story most precious,
Sweetest that ever was heard.

Last month when it was her birthday, I called and tried to arrange dinner plans. Here’s how that went:

“I don’t know if I have plans,” she said. “Let me ask Michael when he gets home.”

“I already checked with him. You don’t have plans.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope. We’ve been calling and texting already.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. I told you, we’ve been working on this.”

“Oh. You’ve been working on this.”

“Well, yeah, a little.”

Then she tried a different tack. “Are you tired from all that work?” And then she giggled. Such a rascal.

But she was right – I am. I am tired. Tiiiired, you can say it in long syllables.

This month had birthdays for Kavanagh and me, and by that second week, the month already looked like it was headed off the rails. As I type this, three things are due by the end of the month, including a big new project. And we’re hoping to take a few days off before Christmas.

I want to make cookies and deliver gingerbread to the neighbors. Vin wants to make tamales and deliver them to friends. There are sewing projects and presents to wrap and a scarf I’m making for Iree. And I also want time to just sit and do nothing, provided that “nothing” means I can work on the puzzle in the library.

It doesn’t look super promising, when it’s all put down like that.

And as I start to feel the tension rise in my chest, there’s a check in my spirit.

Fasting alone in the desert,
Tell of the days that are past,
How for our sins He was tempted,
Yet was triumphant at last.

I know this feeling; it’s striving. It’s the overachiever, the ambitious list maker, the I-can-do-it-by-myself independence, the get-it-all-done-and-cram-it-all-in flesh that I’ve been (mostly) delivered from for years, but it comes back at certain seasons…like Christmas.

I get the feeling that in five years I’ll look back on this the same way I look at my kids when they get all stressed out and take things too seriously.

Tell of the years of His labor,
Tell of the sorrow He bore;
He was despised and afflicted,
Homeless, rejected and poor.

But right then, looking at the list, was not five years from now. Right then I was thinking of all the things I needed to do and how the week kept shrinking. I was trying to figure out how much time I had before we had to leave for an event that night, and whether it would take more than five minutes to do my hair. And I was wondering what that Facebook notification was, and whose email just dinged in my inbox. And I needed to go to the bathroom.

Tell of the cross where they nailed Him,
Writhing in anguish and pain;
Tell of the grave where they laid Him,
Tell how He liveth again.

So this to-do list and I are staring each other down, and I’m filtering it through the sieve of God’s agenda versus my own. The work projects – those are His assignments. The downtime with the kids is, too. But the social media is not, all the events are not, and the striving and stress are not.

As I lay my agenda down, the Lord’s agenda becomes clearer:

Focused work. Undistracted evenings. A few projects with the kids. The puzzle at the table, maybe some baking, maybe some sewing.

And whatever can’t be done, doesn’t need to be done. When that’s the agenda, I can look forward to Christmas.

Love in that story so tender,
Clearer than ever I see;
Stay, let me weep while you whisper,
“Love paid the ransom for me.”

– Frances Crosby, Tell Me the Story of Jesus

A couple of days after my birthday was Kavanagh’s, and that morning I woke up slowly while nursing him in bed. He had fallen asleep with his hands folded on my chest. This boy has stretched my parenting and my trust in God, teaching me that it’s okay to push ourselves to the limit as long as it is God’s agenda and not our own.

And I was struck with joy over this Christmas baby who, like another baby before him, was so unexpected and unplanned, but is such an over-the-top beautiful part of our lives.

It’s not the first time God sent that message to His people.

His own coming crossed the bounds of all our agendas, proving again that He still knows best, and He will go over the top to show His love for us.