It's CHRISTMAS!

Christmas. Even the Merriam Webster dictionary knows what it is: “a Christian holiday that is celebrated on December 25 in honor of the birth of Jesus Christ (the holiday, as some say, instituted to offer the people an alternative to the very pagan holiday of Saturnalia). The English word “Christmas” is derived from the medieval “Christes Masse,” or the mass or celebration of Christ. In Spanish the word “Navidad” comes from “natividad” and the Latin “nativitas,” or birth—the birth of Jesus. In French the word “Noel” also comes from the Latin verb “nasci,” or “to be born.” “Joyeux Noel” is happy or joyful Christmas, or Christ’s birthday.

All this to say, everyone knows that Christmas is the celebration of Christ’s birth. Whether a person celebrates Christmas as such is perfectly up to him or her, but even the name clearly tells us what it is.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I purchased a lovely Christmas decoration at a local craft fair: a small wooden Christmas tree depicting a few of the 200-some names of Christ: Comforter, Wonderful, Savior, Son of God, King of Kings, Prince of Peace and others. I told the woman who made it that I had never seen anything like it and that I was happy to buy it. “You’d be surprised to know how many people are offended by these trees,” she replied with a sad shake of her head.

Offended? By a decoration defining the reason for the season?

Ronald Reagan once said, “Christmas can be celebrated in the school room with pine trees, tinsel and reindeer, but there must be no mention of the man whose birthday is being celebrated. One wonders how a teacher would answer if a student asked why it was called  Christmas.” Indeed, Mr. Reagan.

“For I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God that brings salvation to everyone who believes: first to the Jew, then to the Gentile.” (Romans 1:16, NIV) Jesus came. We celebrate his coming. And we are not ashamed.

THINKTHANKS

If you’re on Facebook, you may have noticed the November tradition of daily thanksgiving postings. Thanks for home and thanks for food and thanks for family—that sort of “regular” thing, and even thanks for washing machines and thanks for reliable automobiles and thanks for good water—the sort of things that might not be so “regular.”

I’ve heard that some people view this public thanking as “showing off” or “making things up,” just so they have something to write about. I’ve heard some people say that, yes, of course they are thankful for their loved ones, for their daily food, for their house and for their job—but after that “they just can’t think of much else.”

And therein lies our problem. We don’t think much about this and so we don’t thank much, either.

Scholars say that the word “thank” most likely comes from “the Proto-Germanic ‘thankojan’ which is a derivation of ‘tong’- ‘to think, feel.’"

Many years ago I was challenged to fill a typed page with as many reasons to be thankful as I could. I sadly admit  that it took me much longer to complete this task than it should have, though once I got going I did manage to do it. And for me, this November “Facebook thanking” is an annual tune-up, lift-up for my spirit. I agree with Alfred Painter: “Saying thank you is more than good manners. It is good spirituality.”

So, if you’re my Facebook friend, what follows is a preview of some of what I’ve been thinking—and thanking— about lately:

**The color turquoise, or teal or aqua—my favorite, as it always reminds me of the sea (my favorite place!)

**Smiles—pure, fresh joy on my baby granddaughter, twinkly and sweet on the boys.

**Purple (and grey and blue and snow-capped) mountain majesty.

**Airplanes (they can turn 20+ hours into about 6).

**Being 62. Yes, really.

**My lightweight laptop. Makes lugging around this overpacker’s stuff much easier on the muscles.

**Being one hour from YNP part of the time. Getting to visit my bison friends pretty much whenever I feel like it.

***The camera that records so many images of my bison friends. And their friends. As all my FB friends well know! Not sorry, either!

**Music. Songs. Michael W. Smith’s new Christmas album. And I don’t care that it’s not Christmas yet—I play it unashamedly!

Goodness, I seem to be out of room and I’m not nearly through thinking, or thanking. And, by the way, thanks for reading, for as G.B. Stern once said, “Silent gratitude isn’t much use to anyone.” (By the way, you might try listing your own thinking thanks! Your spirit will thank you!) 

INVISIBLE?

"Love the people who saw you when you were invisible to everyone else.”

"The Invisible Man,” 1933 movie. “The Invisible Man,” 1958 TV show. A disappearing Aston Martin, belonging to the fantastical James Bond in “Die Another Day.” Wonder Woman’s “see-through” Atlantean jet. Just the other night I watched ABC’s Castle and Beckett valiantly—and successfully— take on an invisible nemesis. It seems people are simply fascinated with the idea of being invisible.

Reports indicate that several world governments may be actively working on the real possibility of “cloaking” technology, which would of course, if it came to fruition, be very valuable in the area of stealth aircraft and other areas of defense. Science fiction no longer.

Invisibility is the “state of an object that can’t be seen.” It is not visible. According to dailymail.co.uk on 9/29/14, “scientists at the University of Rochester in New York have shown off a method to make objects invisible using a system of lenses; by aligning four lenses in a certain manner an object is made 'invisible;' the background behind the object remains visible as light bends around; they say it is the first cloaking device to provide multi-directional cloaking; and the technique could also be used to let surgeons see through hands while operating or truck drivers see into their blind spot.”

Human beings sometimes feel invisible, that nobody cares for them. That nobody really sees them. That nobody cares if they see them. That they are completely insignificant to those around them. That they are alone. Forgotten. And that is simply never fun or fantastic.

Dieter F. Uchtdorf reminds us that we should “...always remember—you matter to Him! Just think of it: You are known [personally] and remembered [intimately] by the most majestic, powerful, and glorious Being in the universe! You are loved by the King of infinite space and everlasting time! He sees you as you are, capable and designed to become. May we ever believe, trust, and understand our true eternal worth and potential.”

In his second letter to the Christians at Corinth, Paul encourages the believers: “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. ..We fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

No matter what we feel like, no matter how it might appear to us, God’s Word tells us that we matter to Him. We are not unseen. We are His, precious purchases bought with the blood of His Son, visible to all.

What I Wish I’d “Got” when My Babies Were Babies…but Didn’t until One of My Babies Had Some

 It doesn’t matter if she finds the tissue box and rips them all out; you’ll have more fun watching (and stopping her from sampling) than you’ll have had all day. Tissue is cheap and such sights are too valuable to quantify.

Changing diapers is fun – even the stinky, yucky, smelly ones. Really. Those kicky feet and squirmy little bodies? Amazing! (Just be sure to take the stinky yucky smelly out to the garage garbage, pronto – and hope for trash day to be tomorrow!)

So what if your house looks like a tornado happened there. It did, and her name is Spencer. I adore every whirling dervish moment of her nine month existence. You can pick up when the baby goes home. It will be quiet then and…

Quiet is overrated. Babytalk is the most delightful language I’ve ever learned. And those squeals and giggles could earn a Grammy – they’d earn this Grammy’s vote every time.

That little piece of popcorn the vacuum missed? The baby will find it. The wire sticking out of the decoration? She’ll get that, too. The cabinet by the recliner? All cleaned out for you! Such a cleaning service!

 

We look at the book. We look at the book again. We look at the book. We look at the book again. We look at the book. We look at the book again. We look at the book. We look at the book again.

You rock and rock. And sing and sing. Rock, rock. Sing, sing. And She sighs and she sleeps. Nestled securely in your Grandma-arms. And there’s just no greater privilege or pleasure in the whole wide world.

What, you spent all morning and did nothing but chase, watch, play, coo, change, feed, laugh, rock and change again? Why, you lucky Grammy you! Put it all in your bank of memories and say thanks, God! Oh, so many thanks!

OUR MONTANA BETH

“Middle age is when you’ve met so many people that every new person you meet reminds you of someone else.” --Ogden Nash

Old Ogden may be right, but this has been happening to me for years, long before I reached mid-life (just a few!!) years ago. Because I mention so often that this person or that person looks or acts or talks like another, it’s pretty much considered just another “mom-thing” in our family.

However, when both my husband and I recently encountered our good    Florida friend, Beth, working as a guide at the Grant-Kohrs Ranch in Deer Lodge, Montana—now that was more than just a “mom-thing” - that was a “something!”

No, Beth was not really in Montana. But her doppelganger was. (In German, the word “doppelganger” literally means “double-goer.”  In some traditions it’s seen as a thing of bad luck or impending doom, but in contemporary use it merely identifies someone who physically or behaviorally resembles someone else.) This Beth Doppelganger served as our docent for the Grant-Kohrs ranch house tour. She smiled and laughed like our Beth, sounded like our Beth, possessed facial expressions like our Beth and had mannerisms like our Beth. In fact, I think I will have to ask our Beth if she has any cousins working for the    National Park Service in Montana! As we were leaving, I turned to my husband and said, “Who did she remind…” Before I could finish he smiled and replied, “Beth!”

She wasn’t Beth, of course. But because this guide was manifesting some of the same Beth-like          characteristics (like kindness, humor, joy, as well as some similar physical attributes) - we thought of Beth. We were reminded of Beth.

All of this made me think: do I remind others of anyone, especially of Jesus? Do people think of Him when they talk to me or think of me? When they witness my actions or when they hear of something I’ve done?

The Bible tells believers that they are to walk like Jesus (I John 2:6), love like Jesus (I John 3:16) and live like Jesus (Philippians 1:21). The Apostle Paul urged the Ephesians to “be imitators of God, as beloved children, and walk in love, just as Christ also loved you and gave Himself up for us…”

A young man named Drew, age 8,  says: "My grandma reminds me of God's love because she always reads the Bible, and she loves us. She is always kind to other people, and always says 'please' and 'thank you.'" Eight year old John’s grandpa takes him fishing. And cooks “awesome eggs.” Patrick’s mom reminds him of God’s love “because she will never stop. Also, because she loved me first like God." Doing what’s right. Honoring God. Being kind and caring. Thinking of  others. Constancy. Faithfulness and fidelity. And love, pure love—in action. If we name the name of Christ, those things are to show, like they do in Him.

I don’t know if my friend, Beth’s, Montana doppelganger knows Jesus but I know Beth does. It shows, and I think of Him when we’re with her. My prayer is to be a “double-goer” with Him, too, wherever I go—and I want it to show!

 

 

Little Things Will Get Ya

“Enjoy  the little things in life…for one day you’ll look back and realize they

were the big things.” – Robert Brault

Oh, Mr. Brault, I’m so sorry. We did not enjoy that little thing. And right away we realized that, yes, it was a very big thing!

Here’s the story. My husband and I were on vacation, soaking up a gorgeous week of Florida sun in one of God’s best places on the Gulf Coast (according to our winter-weary, warmth-deprived souls, anyway). But sometimes, even on vacation, one needs clean underwear. Our hotel not having any coin-operated laundry facilities (one strike against that place!), we were forced to take a      vacation morning and seek out a local laundromat.

We’ve long had the luxury (and it is surely a luxury for a great part of the world) of in-house laundry equipment and hadn’t had the need for a public laundry facility in years. Though we  didn’t know what to expect, the business turned out to be pretty clean; the machines were, if expensive (I guess I never pay attention to how much washing and drying laundry at home actually costs), fairly modern and up-to-date. After loading our items into two         machines (as long as we had to do one load, why not do two?), we sat down for a pleasant wait reviewing the news from 2011 (in other words, reading outdated magazines even too old for doctors’ offices). What we did not do was check for a little thing.

And, boy, did that little thing cause big trouble. A previous patron had, for whatever reason, left one of those BLEACH INCLUDED laundry pods in a wash machine, the very one we used. (Who would think to check for that? I will, that’s who. Next time. If there is a next time.) When the “I’m Done” beeper sounded, we found that most all the items (and of course they were the dark load items; not the white underwear) had large, splotchy, obvious “someone-doesn’t-know-how-to-use-bleach-properly” stains on them. Only a couple items of clothing in that load were of the old, we-don’t-really-care-about-them items. Included were several newly purchased and now-ruined tops of mine (how many mowing or painting shirts does a person need?) and a dark blue (now turned dark blue and white) “This Old Cub” T-shirt, which had been presented as a special gift by our daughters to their Old Cub father. Boo. Hiss. Why hadn’t we washed just the underwear as originally planned?

Ernest Dimnet once said that “the     happiness of most people is not ruined by great catastrophes or fatal errors, but by the repetition of slowly destructive little things.” While we weren’t exactly happy about the laundry “oops,” this “little thing” surely wasn’t a “great     catastrophe” or a “fatal error.”           Destructive, yes, and will not be       repeated if we can help it. But, what about other destructive “little things” that might be in my life?

“Keep a close watch on how you live and on your teaching,” warns Paul in I Timothy 3. “Stay true to what is right for the sake of your own salvation and the salvation of those who hear you.” Pastor David Whitehead agrees: “Pay attention to the details of everyday life,  for it is when we pay attention to the little things that we are preparing for the moments when our light shines the brightest.” Little things...like my words? My attitudes? My thoughts? My desires? My activities? Are they bright lights or...big, ugly laundry splotches?

DAD, A YEAR LATER

Right before Father’s Day last year I wrote an essay. In it I said that I thought 2013 would be the last such holiday I would spend on earth with my Dad, while he was still on it. I was right. Dad passed away on June 25, 2013, a month and a half or so before his 90th birthday.

I can’t say I would have wished he stay on. At least not the way his poor body had deteriorated. He was so tired, so very, very tired. The truth is, the end of earthly life comes sooner or later to each of us and Dad was fortunate to have reached “later.” He was, as they say, ready to receive his reward.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. He was an honorable, quiet, kind, patient, industrious, honest (telling the truth was paramount), loving person – a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. There’s a quote that says “to really know a father, observe his behavior with a lady, a flat tire and a child.” Dad? Check. Check. And check – he’d have passed each one with flying colors. (And as far as my Dad is concerned, I would add “a dog” to the list. There’d be a check mark there, too. And a big “woof” from all the lucky canines who ever crossed his path.)

My father was not a rich man in the sense that this world defines rich. He worked hard in factories and at what some would consider “menial” jobs for his entire life. College was never an option for him. Money was always hard to come by and he could be described as a frugal, “waste not, want not” type of guy. He didn’t waste and his family didn’t want – for anything we needed. An understanding of money and what one should do (and should not do) with even a little bit of it eluded him, and it’s frankly been a little frustrating to sort out the small estate that he left behind.

Proverbs 16:21 says that a “wise man is known by his common sense.” Dad was rich in that. And so I know and remember him. And realize that the estate he left us is really very, very large. Enormous. We were taught respect. And care. And truth. And though he didn’t often give voice to the words, love. Thanks, Dad - you left me an extremely wealthy woman. Happy Father’s Day!