A Christmas Story Retold

 

A tin of cookies. That’s how this story started out. My dear sister dropped by my office with a special delivery. Inside the smiling snowman can was a sampling of each of her homemade Christmas cookies, complete with teabag.

In my quest to savor each kind, I decided not only to try and identify it, but describe it with the very first Christmas story in mind.

Here’s what I discovered…

1)     Chocolate Chip.

Here is the classic, crisp, chocolate delight that I love. It’s my go to. The favorite. The popular. It’s the first that I chose and when I thought about its popularity, I remembered Mary and Joseph on that night, where popularity reigned in a tiny town. So much so, there was no room at the Inn.

2)     Ginger Molasses.

This deep amber beauty has a distinct spice. Fragrant aroma. An exotic quality that reminded me of those that traveled from lands afar. The Magi. 

3)     Peanut Butter.

A mild sweetness rings through, but what strikes me about this cookie is its sand-like dunes of texture and pattern. The weave of the top design like a basket or straw. Reminiscent of a manger scene.  

4)     Chocolate Drop.

There was a comfort with this dense morsel and a surprise with its white dusting of powdered sugar. My mind flashed to shepherds in fields comforting nervous lambs and their deep, sudden surprise of a host of angels. Snowy against a dark sky.

5)     Choco-Crumb Bar.

This small treat was a perfect square. A chocolate chip, caramel, oatmeal-blend square of a package. A gift filled with richness. Much like other gifts that night. Gold. Frankincense. Myrrh.

6)     Sand Tart.

This thin cookie shaped into a tall tree decorated with deep green. Cedar trees of Lebanon came to mind. Tallest of the tall I was thinking and then remembered the star that night. Empire state tall. Suspended in the sky.

7)     Chocolate Cherry.

Dark icing enveloped a jewel of a cherry inside. Sweetness nestled within sweetness. Much like the babe Mary cradled. Where holy was brought forth by human. Mary the Mother.  

8)     Oatmeal Raisin.

No flash. No sprinkles. No chocolate or exotic spice. A cookie of heartiness and substance. Like Joseph. Husband, carpenter, earthly father.   

9)     Sugar Cookie.

Bright sugar crystals covered this sweet light dough. Simple. Sugar and spice and everything nice. Still just a baby and a simple plan to save the world.

Thank you, sister -- for my sweet gift that offered sweet reflections during an Advent season.

Decking the Halls

The King is coming. The King is coming. 

Can you imagine if someone told you a king was coming to your house for dinner? Oh, the dust bunnies would quiver in their hiding places. What would you serve? Quail and pomegranate. What crimson carpet would you unfurl at your front steps? Movie star welcome. 

I LOVE decorating for Christmas. Each year, I delight in the puzzle to re-purpose all of my supplies into a new spectacle for the eyes. A visual feast. I start from scratch each year. I'll spend two hours ornamenting a garland that I will dismantle in 10 minutes come January. 

As I drove home last night in the early darkness, I thought about my decorations. The sugar-crusted faux fruit and iridescent balls. Magenta. Flame orange. Peacock green. Beauty revealed but once a year and I remembered that I was decorating for a king. A king who doesn't need grandeur, but infinitely deserving of it. The King. 

Blessed

The youth of the church gathered a few months ago to lead the worship service. It was the close of summer and nervous teens took turns climbing alter steps to offer up their testimonies about recent mission trips. They stood small behind the carved lectern. Hesitant, but committed. A trickling, then torrent, of verbs and adjectives poured forth of their experiences. Laughter bubbled from the audience at times and humbled silence followed at others. These students realized that through seeing others' pain and need, did they understand what it meant to be blessed in their own lives. 

The stories ended. Slowly, each teen navigated through the maze of dark pews. Acoustic guitar music surrounded them as each song line repeated, "We were blessed...We were blessed..." One after the other came forward again. Shoulders lined shoulders to stand on the alter and raise a handmade sign branded with that common word. Blessed. Blessed. Blessed. I was moved. Literally. I scrambled from my rear seat in the dark cavern sanctuary. My husband edged me on, "Go, Honey, go." I knew he felt it too. Front and center, I clicked photos from my camera phone. It was too powerful a moment not to capture.  

While school peers may have chosen music camp or sports camp, these rare few chose mission camp. Awkward, nervous, shy, bold, pimpled, beautiful.  To see the love of our Lord surge forth in a generation often labeled as adversary, we were blessed for having witnessed it. Blessed.   

Incognito

"We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade, the presence of God. The world is crowded with Him. He walks everywhere incognito. And the incognito is not always hard to penetrate. The real labour is to remember, to attend. In fact, to come awake. Still more, to remain awake." - from Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer by C.S. Lewis

Incognito. The birds' chatter concerto. The perfect flight of an arrow. A smiling, bubble-foamed baby swirling round the bathtub. Seemingly painted legs of a hopping grass eater.

Can we recognize the incognito? Discern it among the ocean of noise that floods our days?

More so, if we can find God in the beauty, can we find Him in the burden? The life-application notes of my Bible explain to me, "God does not keep us from encountering life's storms, but he will see us through them. In fact, God walks through these storms with us and rescues us." Can we pause between the rain drops and lightning bolts to seek our rescuer, to cry out before the incognito and awake? I wonder.

Yummy Mummies

Chocolate cupcakes.
Strips of vanilla icing.
Candy dot eyes.
Black gel icing for pupil center.

The only cupcake paper liners I had were for Valentine's Day. Covered in fuchsia hearts. Why not? Everyone should love their mummy.

Never Land

Never Land. An underground passage that escapes the tick of time. Crocodile hungry time, that wears on hearts and souls and bodies, etching grooves in cracks of skin, deep as canals. The Lost Boys are there and the Mermaids, too. That cast of unforgettable characters in life that make you forget the tick tock, tick tock, as chapter after chapter closes in the novel of life. The friends of mischief, the beauties of compassion, those you love in laughter and lamentations. Fold them close and find your way to Never Land.

September Saturday

Brown sunflowers. My favorite.
A toasted version of the golden child flower.

My son. A haystack guardian.

Flapjacks with Daddy

The Golden Arches. And pancakes? While many children may associate McDonald's with cheesy burgers and nuggets of chicken crispiness, my boys think about breakfast. My husband has started a new tradition. On hectic mornings or rainy mornings or random mornings, he will splurge on our sons with a flapjack treat. Sometimes he brings the dynamic duo together to tackle a short stack or two. Other times, it's one on one and each child alone basks in the glory of Daddy's limelight and the sweet buttermilk goodness. Whatever the combination, it gives our men-in-the-making a chance to connect with their father in the calm of morning, over the smell of bacon, before busy days burst forth and where a dialogue begins that will hopefully never end.

"Listen, my sons, to a father's instruction; pay attention and gain understanding." - Proverbs 4:1

Exclamation Points

My eldest son began first grade. New book bag, glue sticks, yellow highlighter. The shopping list continued and my eyebrows raised to vaulted ceiling heights. What do they do in first grade?

I received the first email from his new teacher and much like his kindergarten teacher's correspondence, it was peppered with exclamation points. Peppered and salted. They were everywhere. Lounging on our eggplant couch that evening I remembered to tell my husband about this odd little phenomenon going on in the elementary world. We giggled, imagining ourselves sending business emails with that kind of perky punctuation, but then my husband said seriously, "Do you live life with exclamation points?"  I paused, my answer hung in suspension as my brain still processed. What a concept!

So, I recount this story and attach it to some recent photos from The Lost Cajun Kitchen where we dined on alligator! My children thought it tasted like chicken! Did you see those teeth?! What a dining adventure!

I hope this will be one of many exclamation point moments.

Fire and Ice

I helped to lead a Sunday School class not too long ago. It was the week that took our city by surprise with record heat.  Part of the session was about prayer and used an acronym to dig deeper into this topic for children. The acronym was ACTS, short for adoration, confession, thanksgiving and supplication. To break it down more simply we used the words: wow, oops, thank you and help!

We sat in our cozy semi-circle and I asked the fidgeting group about "wow" moments for that week. The topic of hail came up. I thought about the cold chunks of ice that dropped from the sky pelleting the ground a day or two ago. The thunderstorm's frosty finale. I also remembered the sizzling temperatures we were complaining about and sweating through sun up to sun down, and it suddenly struck me how our amazing Creator poured forth ice in the midst of a fiery heat wave. Talk about your "wow" moments.

WOW.

"Who can understand how he spreads out the clouds, how he thunders from his pavilion? See how he scatters his lightning about him, bathing the depths of the sea. This is the way he nourishes the nations and provides food in abundance." - Job 36:29-31 (NIV)

Cream Puff

Scrabble Story

NOTE: Look carefully at the words in the picture above and then read below. 

"Hidden in the hat of the valet was a laser. The cat in the nettle ramped up the box of roots as the cop came about the tax. They had new yen. He que(ue)d at the door, finer than before. They found pokey worms in the wool from the drains in the canal at the zoo. He jogged with the gun hidden in the crib. The fit beggar wields it yet saves us. Fie!"

Thus ends our scrabble story (yes, there are some questionable spelling interpretations), but how does the story begin? While our children gather round their play things in mock battle and outer space maneuvers,  my husband and I steal a few moments to tuck in at the kitchen table and cozy up to our vintage Scrabble board. The burgundy box is cracked and the directions are the cream-color of aged paper. It even smells old, but the click clack of tiles as we mix them up and the giddiness of pulling letters makes magic for us. Despite the din of little voices, we sit in our semi-silence to ponder the mysteries of the alphabet. Just 26 letters. Amazing a language spawns from that.

We keep score, occasionally check a word on our Smartphones and rejoice for the triple word slot. In short, we delight in each other's company and remember what being a couple is all about.

Brewster Beauty

We've just returned from Brewster, NY. Situated about an hour outside of Manhattan, this quaint and thriving town is most notable for my dear friend and her family who live there. Admittedly, the drive to this little oasis tests my husband's nerves. Our GPS routed us through Manhattan. What? What!? The lower level of the George Washington Bridge is not a destination I hope to revisit as we snaked our way through this belly of a steel dragon. 

But, the trek is definitely worth it as my girlfriend roles out the red carpet of hospitality. Her husband cooks feasts of lobsters and meats seasoned in their secret sauces. We plop pool side and relish those rare and relaxing moments in a summer that's fading fast. 

What I love about our annual visit (besides the cuisine, of course) is the conversation. I talk and talk and talk some more with this friend of mine of almost 20 years. We switch topics with reckless abandon as the mothers of toddlers, stopping mid-sentence to shout cautions or give snack instructions. We can finish a conversation an hour after it started covering threads of four other stories in between. We are convinced this is a skill only a mother can possess or appreciate and laugh at the folly of it all.  

My charming friend sparkles and I can not imagine this gray world without her in it. To pause in the busyness of our crazy lives and carve time out to connect. A smiling face before my own, in person, in laughter, in long, long friendship. My beauty of Brewster. 

The Lion and the Tribes

Turbans? Yes, please. 

My son attended Vacation Bible School (VBS) last month. Children were grouped together according to the tribes of Israel. Colorful posters displayed on chairs in the worship space showed icons and names of the groups. Spotting a lion, I realized we were assigned to the tribe of Judah. Delighted, I squealed, "Ooh, the line of David! Of Jesus!" My son just looked at me and glanced back at the cool image of the big cat. 

Earlier that Sunday morning, Pastor John spoke about hospitality as we prepared to open our church to the youth of the city and surrounding areas for VBS. He referenced Abraham and Sarah in the desert when three mysterious visitors appeared. Abraham ran to the tent to prepare a feast. Thankfully so, since as it turned out they were messengers. Angels in the desert. 

The theme for this year's Bible School was Marketplace 29 A.D. It offered a snapshot into the time of Jesus' life and culture through the activities of the market. Each tribe visited different stations every night -- jewelry, weaving, pottery, carpentry, scroll writing, spices. Little noses lifted skywards to bunches of dried thyme and rosemary. Herbal treasures. Pretend beggars even made their rounds and children offered up faux gold coins.

The marketplace pulsed with life and so did our Vacation Bible School. We danced in whirling circles and waved scarves of scarlet and tangerine. My son's favorite song offered an Egyptian dance move, complete with lyrics: "Pharaoh, Pharaoh, ohhhhhh baby, let my people go, uhh. Yeah, yeah, yeah."

The week continued. Friendships were formed. By the fifth and final evening, the dancing and music were moving more into a frenzy of games of chase, bounding leaps and other horseplay. Some members of the tribes listened more than others. The energy was reaching a crescendo and my gut reaction was to corral, lay order to chaos, but I refrained as a spectator.

After the happy bedlam had subsided and we made our way home, I reflected on my feelings. How I had wanted to stifle joy, curb its free and boisterous spirit because it didn't seem to fit my definition. Not very hospitable for these angels in the desert. While VBS is traditionally meant for children, I found my very adult self learning in the process. I can only be thankful that I have my lion to lean on.

"Do not weep! See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has triumphed. He is able to open the scroll and its seven seals." - Revelation 5:5

Mom in the Heels meets Cat in the Hat

I was reading this book recently and was struck by how much I must resemble the Cat at this point in the story, juggling any number of things. My own dialogue reads something more like this:

The volvo needs fixed,
The special cupcakes need mixed.
The diapers are out,
There should be more blogging about.
The dishwasher is broke,
Just let the dirty ones soak.
Pack lunch for a field trip?
Try not to flip.
A fun trip to the store,
Stumble home through the door.
Kick off the high heels,
Put away more meals.
Find jammies, pour milk,
Blueberry splatters, stained silk.
Emails from the boss,
Sometimes I'm at a loss.
A presentation at dawn,
10PM fold socks with a yawn.
Exercise, burn flab,
There's no time to gab.
Does my bible have dust?
I have not made it a must.

Do you remember what happens next in the story?

My balancing act is more akin to a train wreck.  Still, I keep trying. Spread projects out, slow drama down.  And some things just don't get done because of the occasional impromptu family dance party in the living room. Complete with a rousing rendition of "Rock Me Amadeus" and some robot moves. Cat in the Hat, look out.

Country Charm

Country living charm. After almost a decade in Washington, D.C., we moved to a substantially smaller area in Pennsylvania. Green hills dotted with farms. Black starry skies. 

Five years later, I am still delighted by small-town living. While I can't find French-Thai or Ethiopian cuisine or swanky, posh lounges that overlook marble monuments, I can find a Penny Fair. An honest-to-goodness, we'll take your copper Lincoln-head coin for payment Penny Fair. Are you serious? I wanted to hand him a twenty. SO excited. 

We stumbled upon this Penny Fair one Saturday in a churchyard. Everything was a penny. Everything. Including the entrance fee into the petting zoo. Fluffy baby chicks scrambled round like a pillow fight. Ducks sloshed through a water basin, now slippery for small, eager hands. Little girls in cotton-candy colors clutched kittens tight to their middles. Pigs snuggled in the mud. A llama eyed us from afar and my youngest kept calling him "camel." A chocolate calf lay nervous beside her owner. Lashes long. 

My girlfriend once told me before my big city departure, "Oh, honey, I just can't picture you in mud boots and garden gloves. Unless they're Prada." I laugh at that image. As I now laugh at the fuzzy chicks that tease my boys in this charming country life of mine. 

Thinking

My sister gave me a gift certificate to Bas Bleu this past Christmas. This is a catalog/web-based book company, which in French means "blue stocking" or literary woman. They offer a fascinating selection of titles, both modern and vintage.

One of the books I settled on was a A Year with Aslan: Daily Reflections from The Chronicles of Narnia. Its new, permanent home is the scratched surface of our dark kitchen table. While my family has not read The Chronicles of Narnia (someday!), I appreciate the opportunity to discuss life lessons, based in fact or fiction, with my sweet brood.

How could I resist such excerpts with titles like: "Never Forget to Wipe Your Sword" and "Eustace the Dragon Tells His Story." Swords? Dragons? My six-year old is all ears. My soon-to-be three-year old is all belly. He interjects with shouts for more dessert.

Last evening we read a brief scene in which Aslan the lion meets the Witch. His golden form. Her marble whiteness. The main questions: "Why can't the Witch look Aslan in the eye? When have you not been able to meet someone's eyes? What was the reason?" The reasons flowed. Shyness was my oldest son's first thought. Shame quickly followed. Fear. Deceit. So many feelings the heart holds.

Rarely do I ration my time to think. My day is about doing. My night is about doing more. Thinking is reserved for the shower. Time to pass while the suds bubble. Rinse. Repeat. I'm thankful for my Aslan book and its provoking questions. Even more, I'm thankful for the moment it offers to chew on an idea and discuss its deepness. The gift of thinking.

Riding the Waves

Virginia beach and boardwalk. 

Turtle sculpture surprises. 

Turtle Cay Resort: A home away from home. 

King Neptune rises out of the sand in a giant way.

Our very own beach bum. 

Planet Pizza in alien style. 

Flowers exotic at dinner. 

Flying high at the Military Aviation Museum.

The family vacation. This is the one time of year that we spend the entire week together. Every moment of every minute is filled with family. Crying, cajoling, giggling, grumbling, snoring, smiling, feasting, fighting, dog-paddling, teasing, strolling and the list continues. 

We arrived at the resort under looming gray clouds. The hotel room was not ready nor would it be ready for the next two hours despite what my confirmation check-in email promised me. After seven hours in a car with two small children, I proceeded to turn the lovely lobby into my personal hotel room as we carted luggage in from the car in search of swimsuits and floatation devices under the raised eyebrows of other guests. Thankfully, we took a quick dip in the pool before a downpour drenched everything in sight. I returned to the lobby with a wet, cold (and by this time) screaming toddler in my arms much to the shock/dismay/surprise of other guests. It really is amazing how quickly a room becomes available with a baby wailing at the top of his lungs. A rocky start. 

The next day was sun-kissed with light breezes on shimmering waters. My husband and eldest son took to the ocean with boogie board in hand and joy in their hearts. They body surfed, boogie boarded, jumped wave after wave running back to the beach on occasion to cheerfully glug down Gatorade. I was watching our two-year old play with construction trucks in the sand. A picture of contentment. That was until my oldest ran up to me and informed me that daddy lost his glasses in the ocean. He would have come to tell me himself, but he couldn't really see me. Oh dear. 

After a visit to the local mall, we tried to put that issue behind us. Then there were abdominal pains my six-year old experienced and we considered a trip to urgent care. My husband gashed his head on the pool edge and was forced to wear a Scooby Doo band-aid prominently on his forehead. My toddler's runny nose was manifesting into extra fussiness. 

BUT, it wasn't all so challenging. We swam together in the moonlight one night under dark clear skies and crazy lunar beauty.  I snuggled in air-conditioned glory on cool crisp white sheets and took a nap beside my baby, soaking in his sweetness with each glance before we drifted off. My eldest son's sheer delight at the museum aircraft hangar as he uttered, "I can't believe I'm standing here at this very moment." My husband reclaimed the sea and his boyhood happiness with surf and sand. 

There were so many moments. High and low. Both crest and trough of the wave. But, what I found was that most often it was within the difficult moments that my family truly rallied together the most. Surrounding the loved one in need. Trying to comfort and help hang on until the wave subsided and the tide was calm once more. And ride the waves we did. 

Garden Glory

First flowers of the garden. 

I live in a house of men. Well, one man and two men waiting to happen. I am constantly surprised when they express delight at fresh flowers in the house. I drag my fresh-cut blooms from every season through the back door. Pedals cover countertops, discarded greens litter the kitchen floor and I arrange and re-arrange blossoms into an organized mess of hopeful loveliness. 

My husband smiles and thanks me often for the small touches that complete our nest. My little boys dance around me with "wows" and pleasure sighs escape rosebud lips as they marvel at the color creations of God's great glory. Garden glory. 

Remembering the Fallen

Gazing at Gettysburg monuments -- Our eldest son's suggestion

after we explained what Memorial Day represented. 

Papa Bear in the lead.