Waiting For Advent

It’s almost here and once again, I’m behind the curve. 

Advent. 

I didn’t grow up hearing that word let alone, knowing what it meant.My family was never introduced to the customs of Advent. We didn’t light candles on a wreath at the dinner table or even open doors on a children’s calendar to reveal treats. I grew up in the late 50’s and 60’s when families of post-World War 2 veterans enjoyed new suburbs sparkling with Christmas lights and department store windows were filled with America’s newest must-haves. The war was a memory, the boys were back and all seemed right with the world. 

In our house, in the days preceding Christmas, music felt constant.  A large cherry cabinet sat in the corner of our paneled family room. It was a modern hi-fi record player. Inside sat the turn table and a stack of albums perched to drop. The front speaker, clad in burlap and wire mesh, hummed out carols from albums we purchased yearly at the Firestone tire center. I still have them. Bing Crosby, Perry Como and Andy Williams were the men who dominated that prized hi-fi. And the man who was the star of Christmas was, without question, Santa Claus.

Jesus waited patiently.

He still does.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I fully entered into the church world. It was then I learned of Advent. The weeks preceding Christmas when we who call him Savior try to still the voice of commercialism and focus on the one true gift. Since then, every year, I realize that I haven’t come up with a plan on how to make the Advent season more meaningful. Do I quickly look for ideas on the internet? Should I go buy a wreath and candles? And where are those purple ones for the last week? Would it be okay to substitute colors that fit my decor or would that seem irreverent? Do I buy a calendar and fill it with treats for my husband who wants to keep his weight down? And what does chocolate candy have to do with the Christ child?

I’m telling myself to calm down. I don’t need to panic or feel as if I’ll miss the meaning. I’ve changed a bit since the 60’s and I’ve given my heart over to Jesus. I understand the true meaning, although it’s still hard to focus sometimes. I’ll always enjoy the other things associated with the season and I’ll take part in most of them, but I hope to always center myself where it matters. The traditions passed down are numerous, but reading the Bible and spending time thinking about it outweigh everything else. 

So, that’s my plan for Advent. I’ll bring my coffee mug and worn-out bible to my favorite chair each morning. I might put on some quiet music and if I have it all together, I may even light a candle.

Jesus waits patiently.

He still does.

Sweet and Savoring

It’s summertime. The thermometer says 92°. On many days, the humidity is vying to win first place on the misery chart. Today, I opened the door to let the dog out and felt as if I were inhaling soup. Perhaps it’s a sign to work in my cool basement office.

I remember summer nights when I was young. Screened windows were open and fans whirred stirring hot air. (Do people even have screens on their windows today?) When I was a bit older, bedroom windows donned air-conditioners. They’d rattle and shiver and always drip, but they were a luxury we relished when August was in full swing. 

Occasionally, on sultry nights, when dogs barked at bike riders and the crickets were primed for their nightly concert, my parents would surprise us. 

“Climb in the car, kids. Let’s get an ice-cream.” 

Flip-flops (or thongs as we called them then) slapped the driveway as we ran for the back of the station wagon. We’d drive 10 miles to the nearest ice-cream parlor. No thirty-one flavors but perhaps eight. No fancy dipped waffle cones here, just ones labeled sugar or cupcake. We never heard of gelato or sorbet. There weren’t endless bins of toppings, but the teenager behind the counter could sure pile on the syrups and whipped cream and if you were lucky, two cherries. 

We would sit under glaring florescent lights on benches out front with the cold creamy dessert threatening to drip down our arms. Mom would rewrap our cones with endless napkins as we delicately licked the perimeter of the cone. There was an art to eating an ice-cream cone. The drips always determined the method. Some daring eaters would stick the whole top in their mouth and pull it out slowly making a curly cue on top. I tended to be the circle licker. Tilting my head and extending my tongue, I’d twirl the cone round and round smoothing the edges of the ice-cream. Regardless of the method, we savored the treat. I never remember seeing anyone biting and gulping down a cone in record time. What would be the point? Where would the enjoyment lie in that?

Here is my “connect-the-dot” moment. That moment where God provides a memory, an illustration and then connects it for me.

• How often do I gulp down my time with him? Do I gobble his Word or do I savor it? Do I stop when something strikes me or do I quickly plow ahead feeling a need to finish? Do I feel a nudge that He wants me to explore, but ignore it?
• Wouldn’t I do better to savor it like I did the cone? What if I take time to linger on a word or phrase that stops me? I could pray using the scripture even reciting it back to him. I could make it just for me. Just in time. It might become a message from God to me that follows me throughout my day. If I were to stop and savor, I might enjoy each moment feeling refreshed and “treated.”  To taste and see that the Lord is good. 

Maybe today I’ll indulge and order a double scoop.

Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him. 

Psalm 34:8

All That Glitters

 

         “I want the one with sparkles!” 

  When my girl was young, sparkles on anything won her heart. The gaudier the better. Princess tiaras, ruby plastic slippers, posters of ponies or glittered t-shirts - no matter the item, if it sparkled, it topped her desire list. I knew if I didn’t fill her closet with sparkles, the “fun grandma” would. My fashion sense veered more toward a classic, preppy look. Oxford shirts, seersucker, and grow-grain ribbon were staples in my closet. So, whenever my girl ran to a rack full of sparkles, I had to pause and mentally calculate how much glitter my world could handle.

     The other day, I looked around my guest bathroom. Several years ago, I had a creative idea to paint it white and make it a blank canvas for seasonal decorating. Since then, I regularly change the bathroom theme. Christmas decor transitions into Winter Snow, followed by Valentines, Easter, Spring, Summer Flip-Flops and finally Fall. 

     Wait. Bathroom decor? Have we switched topics?

     Hold on. My wandering brain can jump from mundane to meaningful. And the most wacky thoughts take off like a kid pedaling on high speed toward the ice-cream truck. I love random! And I love linking random to Jesus.

     Back to the bathroom. Looking at the current Spring decor, I noticed there were two things that glittered. Although I’d bought them and put them out for a few years, it never hit me that the preppy woman had sparkles in her guest bath. “I wonder what the attraction is for sparkles in our world?” I thought. “What draws us to it?”

     Sparkles shine. Duh. They catch the light, reflect it brilliantly and capture our attention. When you scan an isle of merchandise, if it shines, it draws your eye. (And your preschool daughter.) Glittering light is a cool sight, whether in my bathroom or from fireworks in the sky. It’s safe to say we’re all impressed with amazing light.

     If we’re impressed with sparkles here, what kind of glitter will heaven show us? It’ll be like glitter-mania, sparkle explosion times ten thousand. How will we even look at it? We’ll stand there and actually see, not just a reflection of the source of light, but THE light. John 8:12 tells us what Jesus said in no uncertain terms: “I am the Light of the world.” 

  When that same apostle, John, was given a glimpse of heaven as he sat on a rocky island he wrote in Revelation 21:23 “And the city has no need of sun or moon, for the glory of God illuminates the city, and the Lamb is its light.” 

Woah. No blinding sun... but a dazzling Son. 

Now, that kind of sparkle could knock my preppy socks off.

Leave a comment below and tell me what you're looking forward to in that city of light.
No time? Then click the vote button at the top right - a little fun poll.  :)

Ding-Dong

     On a recent winter morning, I had an unusual burst of domestic verve. After my customary two cups of coffee, I got busy picking up the house, loading laundry into the machine, brushing a swirl of blue cleaner in toilets and spraying all the surfaces in the kitchen with antibacterial liquid. What was that sticky stuff behind the toaster?

     I have to say, I was in the zone. I hadn’t even put on clothes. My old robe and slippers were just fine for this day at home. Admittedly, I should have tossed the robe in to the washer with one of the loads. It was marked with coffee drips and and a rather large yellow egg stain. (My nick-name should be Spot.) I had to laugh when I looked into the bathroom mirror while cleaning and saw several clumps of my short hair standing at wacky angles.

     I was deep into scouring, even gloved in yellow rubber, when the doorbell rang. Of course, I wasn’t going to open the door looking like that! What I did do was peek out of the front bedroom window to see who it was. I didn’t recognize the car, but I am oblivious to what my friends drive, so that didn’t help. I strained a bit more and saw the visitor staring at the door. My pulse quickened. It was a dear friend I hadn’t seen in over a year. But, how could I open the door like this? I was barely presentable for the dog, let alone my good friend. It was clear I needed to change first.

     I ran to the bedroom and changed into jeans and a shirt. I stuck my hairbrush under the faucet and quickly tried to tame the mane. Heading back to the door, I pinched my cheeks remembering that’s how they created color in prairie days. This will have to do, I thought. 
     I swung open the door to see the car heading out of the neighborhood.
     A note hung from the door knocker. 
              Wendie, I’m so sorry I didn’t get to visit with you.
               I’d looked forward to it. Maybe next time. 

************************************

     Jesus said, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.” (Revelation 3:20 ESV)
     I missed it. I was too concerned with looking presentable for my friend. How foolish. If I had opened the door I’m sure I would have been greeted with a smile. We would have spent good time together. But, because I was vain, because my pride took over, I missed it.
     Do I miss answering the door to Jesus because I think I have to be “presentable” before I can let him in? Doesn’t Jesus who sees all things and knows our thoughts even before we do want to see that doorknob turn? Even if I put on my finest formal gown, had my hair and makeup done and teeth whitened, I’d still be lacking. I might look pretty in the mirror, but Samuel 16:7 tells me that man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart. 
      In all of my efforts to clean, did I take time to clean my heart that morning? Perhaps, if I had, my morning would have been filled with assurance instead of trying too hard. I’ve talked with people who think they have to earn Jesus. They feel like until they can check off a list of completed tasks, they aren’t ready. That’s when I remind them of the thief hanging next to Jesus. He didn’t climb down and complete a list. He was guilty... but forgiven because of his faith. There’s only one cleaner I need and that’s the blood Jesus gave on the cross.
     Remove my sin and make me pure. Wash me until I am whiter than snow!  (Psalm 51:7 ERV)

     I opened the door of my heart to him years ago dressed in the stinking filth of sin. Are you still waiting? Still trying? Don’t miss it.
     Listen. Was that the doorbell?

Take a Stand

If your kids are grown, do you wonder sometimes if you forgot to teach them something? Something important? While they’re young, time accelerates to Nascar speed and after the blur subsides, you’re left trying to focus. “Did I read to them enough?” “Do they know where our traditions come from?” “Did I tell them not to pour the hot water for tea into a glass pitcher?”
Just this morning, I wondered if we’d remembered to teach my son to stand when a lady enters the room. You don’t see that happen very often these days. Although he routinely opens doors and pulls out chairs for females, I can’t remember if he stands. It’s not crucial, but a symbol of a gentler society filled with respect. I want him to embrace those qualities — and he does. He’s a respectful young man all around. But, does he stand?
Standing in respect. Who else does that? Soldiers immediately come to mind.  An officer arrives, “Ten-hut!” reverberates and men rise quickly to stand at attention. Respect, you see. 
It’s the Christmas season as I write and performances of Handel’s “Messiah” will sound throughout the world. As the “Hallelujah Chorus” begins many will stand. Why? Legend has it that King George II attended the first London performance and stood up upon hearing the line “For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.” Some say he was showing subservience and respect to God. Of course, whenever the King stood, you stood as well unless you enjoyed time in the dungeon. Better show some respect for the British Crown. 
I wonder. Who do you stand up for? What brings you to your feet? A rocking song at a live concert? Touchdowns? Contestants about to cross the finish line? Sometimes, it’s not even a deliberate action. We just spring up. A reaction to something exhilarating. It’s those times when we can’t help ourselves. When something just takes over and we're on our feet.
As I was reading in Isaiah this morning, I was halted by a small part of a verse that might be considered prose. But, God has a great way of focusing a spotlight on words that, if I stop and take time to think about them, I’m always the richer. 
      Isaiah 48:12-13 says “I am he; I am the first and I am the last. My own hand laid the foundations of the earth, and my right hand spread out the heavens;” and I wanted to stop there. I could picture a massive hand in the sky sweeping across it laying the stars by night and the clouds by day. How amazing would that be? In the age of computer graphics when we visually feast on images in theaters that wow us, this goes far beyond what we’ve ever seen. God is massive. Stopping on that thought alone would have me daydreaming for awhile. But then, I finished the verse. “My own hand laid the foundations of the earth, and my right hand spread out the heavens; when I summon them, they all stand up together.” (Isaiah 48:13 emphasis mine) Wait, what? 
How can the foundations of the earth and the heavens stand up? Now, that’s a puzzler. Literally, I can’t figure that out, but figuratively, that’s awe-inspiring. The earth and the heavens - all that surrounds us - stand up together when God summons them. I don’t know about you, but that’s a sight I’m looking forward to seeing. When everyone and everything stands up for The KING. 
Now, that’s respect.

Coasting

     I was a Schwinn rider in the 1960s. In those days, a kid's bike was their prized possession. It was used almost daily as long as the weather cooperated. We rode everywhere. Our thoughts had nothing to do with strangers or abduction. We worried about where the gang was and what time our mom would call us in.

     If we cruised long enough, we'd spy bikes parked with kick-stands digging into lawns. We'd add our Schwinn to the group and head for the backyard where they might be dividing up teams for a round of "Cops and Robbers on Bikes." The most coveted achievement of neighborhood bike rides was gaining permission to ride to the nearest drug store for candy. It was roughly 2 miles away and visited frequently by car. But, by bike, without a parent, was a feat reserved for biking legends. I only got to go once but I stood taller than my 4' 8" for a week.

     There were several hills in my neighborhood and I tried to plan my rides so that I descended. The heat of August often found us standing on the pedals and pumping our way up the hill with sweat. Those truly defeated were off the bike and walking it up to the top. But down... ah, now that was a treat. 

     I'd speed up before I hit the crest of the hill knowing the ride down would be that much sweeter. And sweet it was as my blonde hair blew behind me in waves and the humid summer air raced across my freckles. I coasted down the hill with hands free, balanced and loving the freedom. No work involved here. No pumping pedals. No shame of walking. The only threat was hitting a rock and skidding to a messy finish line. Without question - Coasting was the best.

    

     The other day, I was reminded of coasting. Of how easy it was and how good it felt. This time, though, when I thought of coasting, it brought me guilt. I've been coasting. And I feel the need for speed. I'm a woman who told Jesus she'd devote her life to him. And in many ways, I have. And in many ways, I've coasted. My life is a comfortable mess. My relationship with Him is still strong, but I'm sensing a "coasting" when it comes to others. You see, I serve where it feels good.

I lead studies with women in my church. Fellow bike riders, so to speak. 

I socialize with people who share the same faith and lifestyle. Their kick-stands land in the same yards. 

I've been given directions to the store and the responsibility to show those who are lost. Do I?

I've trusted in his help on the rocky roads, but I've forgotten to encourage others wobbling on tired treads. 

It's time for me to quit coasting. I've just been enjoying the ride. I must be ready to stand when called and face the hill.  The time is near when I'll feel eternity's freedom blowing across me and I'd like to see familiar faces smiling beside me. On your mark, get set...

     

Just in Time

Many walked by the hill that day as they hurried about their business.They were on the road heading in and out of the city. The morning was slipping by and there was much to be done. They had no time to gawk at those on the hill. Besides, they’d seen it all before.Thieves, murderers and crooks paying for their crimes.

If they had paid attention, they would have watched guards laughing and gambling. Not an uncommon activity. They would have heard sobs from those gathered - not an uncommon sound. They would have seen blood stained crosses holding convicted men - not an uncommon sight. But, they had places to go and things to do. They didn’t notice. Until the sky turned dark as night in the middle of the afternoon. Noon in fact. Was a storm approaching? Should they seek cover? Many continued on hoping to avoid what might be coming.People looked at the sky over and over again. For three hours.

For three hours, Pilate paced in his opulent quarters wondering about his wife’s dream.

For three hours, members of the religious council conferred with each other over decisions made and allegiances sealed. 

For three hours, hiding disciples wept.

Then...a shout from the hill. 

The earth rumbled and shook.They heard the roar as dirt moved beneath their feet and they dodged bouncing debris. They watched in terror as huge rocks split like eggshells. Women shrieked and children cried out in panic. The noise was loud and angry. The rubble flew and dust clouded. Panic prevailed. And then, it stopped.

People stood up, dusted themselves off and moved on.They slapped one another on the back in congratulations.“Praise be to Yahweh,” they said. “He saved us from death.”

For three hours that Friday.

Spit it Out

"Don't beat around the bush. Just spit it out!"

"Get to the point. What are you trying to say?"

"I'm not following you. Can you explain it better?"

Has anyone ever said that to you? Or, are you the person thinking this to yourself as a friend or colleague goes on and on? I admit to both. And both situations can be so frustrating.

I've been guilty of trying to deliver a hard truth cloaked in lots of words meant to temper the blow. I've waxed on about how hard it is to say or what we all sometimes need to hear isn't always what's easy. Blah, blah, blah. When, really, I should just begin with "This isn't easy to say, but I'm going to be truthful with you." Then, speak and be ready for what comes.

In other scenarios, I've squirmed while listening to speakers (mostly ineffective, I might add) talk a blue streak before ever getting down to business. Nothing exasperates me more. It takes a lot of prayer to keep me from loud sighing, facial expressions showing annoyance and excessive leg crossing. "Get on with it!" I want to shout. Patience is not an easy virtue for me. So much time is wasted on speakers who enjoy hearing their own voice.

But, what about the times I need to get to the point and just avoid it? I don't say what needs to be said, period. I don't wrap it in soft cotton or throw it out there in bright sunlight. It just never gets said. What are those hard words and why are they left silent?

I can answer the second part of that question easily. I want people to like me. Who am I kidding? I want them to think I'm the best thing since Steve Jobs created Apple. If I say that, they won't like me at all. May even avoid me or ridicule me to others. And then what?

What are those hard words? Well, they may have to do with truthful answers to "How do I look?" or "Was I wrong to say/do that?" Friends say they want you to be truthful, but are rarely ready to hear it, so we smile and say the polite things to avoid hurt feelings.

But, what I'm ashamed to admit is that most often, the hardest words to say center around the one who gives me the most. He asked his best friends, "Who do you say that I am?"

Today, this verse got me:

But many people believed in Jesus. Even many of the Jewish leaders believed in him, but they were afraid of the Pharisees, so they did not say openly that they believed. They were afraid they would be ordered to stay out of the synagogue. They loved praise from people more than praise from God. - (John 12:42-43)

• Did you see what I put in bold? Ouch. My lesson for today... and everyday. How about you?

For I am not ashamed of this Good News about Christ.

It is the power of God at work, saving everyone who believes. (Romans 1:16)

“Everyone who acknowledges me publicly here on earth,

I will also acknowledge before my Father in heaven.

But everyone who denies me here on earth, I will also deny before my Father in heaven."

(Matthew 10:32-33)

These aren't cloaked at all.

They're straight to the point, yet I'm squirming.

Thank you, Jesus, for being such a loving friend to tell me truth.

Early Christmas Morning

Two children sleeping soundly under mounds of covers. The kitchen clock ticks away while my mug of coffee steams beside the couch. I've listened to scripture on this day of Christ's birth and wondered at how God could send Jesus to be away from his side for 33 years. My heart aches for my kids when they're gone for a few days. I revel when they're here. Inside, my heart is singing.

Christmas morning. How I thoroughly enjoyed it when my kids were little. I would often beat them out of bed and ready the breakfast table. Santa would leave their stockings bulging by their plates. I'd quietly turn on the tree, light the candles and above all else, start the coffee! Then, I would hear soft padding of slippers coming down the hall and the joy would begin.


My children are grown now, unmarried and here for Christmas. Both of them sang at our Christmas Eve services being light to thousands in the sanctuary. As I watched them on stage, I uttered a mother's prayer over and over. One that I'm sure is common for most of us when we see our kids serving the King. Nothing fancy or eloquent, but straight from my heart - "Thank You, Jesus. Thank You."


The candles are lit, the stockings wait at the table and I'm on my second mug. In a few minutes, I'll have to wake them up. The joy will begin. But for just a few seconds, if I close my eyes, I can still hear slippered feet padding down the hall.

Coming Attraction

"Slip sliding away" is what Paul Simon sang and it's been true of my September. I'm pretty inconsistent with this blog thing, but I'll throw something on here so the five who follow it will feel like there's hope. I've joined a writing critique group that now has me focusing on my novel, so be warned that any time I have to write is dedicated to that. In the meantime, I'll jot a few random thoughts to close out September.

We're movie fans around here. Mike's all-time favorite is "Hunt for Red October" and although many guys love that movie, I think he wins the obsessed award. No lie - he's watched it probably 34 times. I don't understand how you could watch a movie that many times without knowing every line. I have several chick flick favorites and when "Hunt" isn't on the screen, they sneak in and he enjoys them as well.

We love the program on our Apple computers that shows us the trailers for upcoming movies. We click, watch and usually say, "That looks good." And, of course, in the theaters, we watch trailers and grade them as to whether we'll pay to see it. Some are thumbs down without question but other trailers cause us to lift our eyebrows, look at one another and go "Oooo... I can't wait!"

Interesting thought this morning:
If Jesus' visit to earth - you know, when he came as a babe and died as a Savior - if that visit were a "trailer", what would your reaction be? Would you give it a thumbs up or down? Of course, I know this depends on your faith or lack thereof. Think about it. Would you be interested in the "feature film"? Would you say "Oooo... I want to see that one!" Well, if you liked the trailer, you're going to love the whole film (so to speak). When that's released, it will be high-definition supreme and color beyond our imagination. Action, romance, music, and sets will be mind-boggling. The leading man will be THE only leading man. And the supporting cast? Well, if you get to see the whole picture, then you'll be part of that cast. And, perhaps the best part - no calories with our buttered popcorn and Milk Duds. Oooo...I can't wait!

I'm One of His Peeps

I was out the door this morning by 8:30 (a rarity for this non-working woman) and headed to 3 stores before the impending storms dumped copious amounts of rain.  I wanted to scoop up all the needed supplies for dinner.  Today is my turn to pamper a friend who just had a knee replaced by taking dinner to  her family of five.  Nothing fancy, but comfort food: pot roast and brown gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh fruit salad and brownies.  She'll feel satisfied if not healed by the last course! Chocolate has definite healing properties.

As I checked out at the first grocery, the woman bagging asked the question of the day, "So, are you fixing a big Easter dinner this weekend?"  I'm sure she'll hear most women reply with menus of ham and potato salad or maybe something made with jello and pretzels.  She looked disappointed when I answered, "No, not really.  You see, my family's involved at church all weekend.  We always have been, really, and after 3 days and 5 services, they just want to veg."  She nodded muttering a polite "Oh."  I felt like I was suddenly un-American or un-Christian or something very "un". I tried to smile at her and assure her that we loved our church. The one right down the street. It's great. She kept nodding and dismissed me with "Well, have a good one, Hon." I felt I had somehow failed at Invite-Someone-To Church 101.

Driving home, I wondered when Easter became all about ham. I like ham. A lot, actually, but seriously, how did it become an Easter staple? We can't escape the bunny hiding eggs. (Not carrots or anything associated with rabbits. How do you explain bunnies with eggs?)  For way too many, Easter means meals spread on pastel tablecloths along with candy, chicks, daffodils, and children snatching dyed eggs before others can grab them.  It's tradition.  Don't mess with tradition if you want to get along with Great Uncle Albert or better yet, your mother-in-law who prepared all this food.  Still, I wonder, how can we shine the spotlight on, as Linus from Peanuts might say, "...what it's all about, Charlie Brown."

For me, Easter is tied in the top spot with Christmas.  I adore waking on Easter Sunday picturing the joy that Mary, Martha and all the Christ followers must have felt when they found out Jesus was alive.  As one of His, my insides sing with excitement on Easter.  I imagine what it would have felt like to be in their company. The wide-eyed disbelief followed by hugs and shouts of promise and laughter. Oh, to feel that excitement about my savior every morning!  I don't have to be one of those believers in the garden staring at an empty tomb.  I'm seeing my own empty tomb that was once filled with a self-centered life that only gave me frustration, jealousy, worry and despair. A grim hole with no sign of light. That was before I gave in.  I turned everything over to Jesus and said, "I trust you. You lead and I'll follow." Now, there's a light shining - it never goes out.  Now, I look to heaven knowing where my savior waits for me.  He's with the Father.  He's with my loved ones.  He's waiting to show me the room he has ready for me in a place I can't even imagine. Because he won.  He defeated death.  I'll live with Him forever. All because I surrendered to the the One who loves me most.  You can have my candy and ham - I'll take the Risen Christ.