I hope each and every one has a wonderful Christmas. May you find peace, joy, love and laughter under your Christmas tree (and maybe a few cool other trinkets, as well).
"This is how God showed His love among us: He sent His one and only Son into the world that we might live through Him." (1 John 4:9)
Have a very blessed Christmas.
Dee
You just have to read Women's Ministry Christmas Tea from "Stacy from Louisville". (Just click on the blue letters to read it.) She did a guest post on the blog "Stuff Christians Like". It is fabulous and it will bring you so much Christmassy laughter and joy you might have to change your Christmassy panties. Anybody feel like going to a Christmas Tea?
Merry Merry!
I turned 40 years old in’04. Its now ’08 and you are not allowed to do the math to figure out how old I am now. The point is 2004 was a big year for me. It was a milestone, a dozy, a whopper, the big one – cause for pause you might say.
I admit I had a bit of trepidation when I first realized I was coming face to face with my forties. I didn’t feel forty. I didn’t look forty (and you are not allowed to tell me otherwise). I certainly didn’t act forty. But there it was on the calendar – 2004 – staring me down in some sort of game of chicken to see which one of us would blink first.
So, instead of running from it or saying I was 39 for the second time or mumbling anytime someone asked me my age I acted like David with his slingshot and ran toward the giant. In December 2003, I announced to my family that in case they were not aware I would be having a big birthday in the New Year. In fact, 4-0 in 0-4 was a rather significant number play and not everyone turned forty in such a like year. This obviously called for a very special 40th celebration. My family readily agreed. (The spiked punch I served them didn’t hinder their decision making either.)
I told them that I, we, would be celebrating my birthday on the appropriate day every month of ’04, not just in August as is the usual custom. I, we, would begin next month in January. And gifts would be expected – each month – it was birthday celebrations I, we, were going to be having after all. (This last part I was certain was a deal breaker.) 12 full-fledged birthday parties to celebrate my fortieth, this was my plan.
Much to my delighted surprise the gang jumped in in agreement. The family was on board whole heartedly. It was settled right then; we would have a birthday party complete with cards and gifts for me every month for an entire year – including the months after August.
It was hilarious and a blast. We gathered for bowling and pizza. Fajita dinners or game nights. Each month was different and brought something new. The gifts were great and the cards even better. I love Cheetos, I consider them a food group unto themselves. I have never seen a bag as big as the one I unwrapped one month. I received orange juice – renamed Captain Morgan Juice – because Cap’t Morgan likes to drink mine in the morning. I was given gifts of food storage containers because I rarely cook and leftovers are a necessity. A bar of “It’s All About Me” soap – one of my personal favorites; An “I Love Lucy” calendar; and a pair of Halloween socks.
As you can see the gifts were not fancy or expensive. They were thoughtful tokens of love. I still have most of them, save for the Cheetos (I do still have the empty OJ bottle with the substitute label). I smile every time I put leftovers in a container (I did it last week with some extra cupcakes). And I still have all the cards.
The “birthday parties” were actually reasons to get the whole family together, even if it was only one night a month. We are all so busy these days it gets easy to push family aside – we’ll all understand after all we’re busy too. But for one year my family took time out of our busyness once a month to celebrate a pretend birthday. That’s a gift we’ll all have forever.
Well, someone I know is about to celebrate His birthday. His 2009th birthday. That’s a way bigger deal than a 40th. We are all about to celebrate Christmas which is Jesus’ birthday. Christmas comes but once a year. And that’s sad. We make this huge deal out of it and then it’s over in a flash. All that goodwill and peaceful sentiment is packed up and put away until next year.
My family celebrated my birthday for 12 days and I don’t do a gnat’s eyelash for them as much as Jesus does for me and He only gets one day. Something’s wrong with that picture. So this is my plan; in 2009 I am going to celebrate Jesus’ birthday once a month for a full year. That’s right I am going to celebrate Christmas 12 times in ’09.
It’s the least I can do for the One who gave me the gift of my life and then saved it. There will be gifts – to those I love and those less fortunate than me. There will be singing and worshiping – the Birthday Boy deserves my best rousing “Happy Birthday to You.” There will be joy – because every party is an occasion to celebrate the beautiful blessings He has bestowed. And there will be cake – no decent birthday party is without cake. I will forego the 2,009 candles; I don’t want to burn down the house.
In 2009 the phrase “Christmas comes but once a year” just won’t fly in my home. If it’s the 25th there’s a party going on - Jesus is getting a birthday celebration fit for a King.
And you’re all invited. (I hope He likes soap.)
~
When I was a kid I used to love to race – anybody, anytime. “Race ya to the car!” “Race ya to the slide!” “Last one to the tree is a rotten egg!” Of course, I come from a long line of slow, un-athletic ancestors so I was a rotten egg a lot. (My brother’s nickname on his football team was Blaze – and not because he was fast.)
What is it about running and competition that is so fascinating and fun for kids? I was not unique in my love of the contest. My friends were equal in their “Race ya!” challenges. “Race ya to the deep end!” “Bet I can eat my lunch faster than you.” “Last one to the library is a loser!”
It seems as if I spent the better part of my childhood running or competing. And the races were always spontaneous. My brother and I decide to go get a snack; he turns to me all of a sudden and says “Race you to the kitchen! Ready, set, go!” And we are off and running at top speed. There is no time to think. No time to decide if I want to participate. Participation is a given. The only variable is who will be the rotten egg.
Then one day out of nowhere the racing stopped. I don’t know what my last childhood race was. It probably was nothing special or eventful. Maybe it was a race around the circle driveway or to see who could hold their breath the longest. But there was a last childhood race, there had to have been because I’m no longer racing people to the car.
I’ve grown up. I’m too mature for that sort of thing. Adults do not race.
Well, I did race once as an adult, about 10 years ago. I was skiing with friends and a friend and I had just come off the lift on our last run of the day. We looked at each other, and both being Leos, we 2 very adult women decided to race to the bottom of the hill. I passed her like she was standing still and beat her like a drum, HA!, but only because I was in a deep tuck and I had a tail wind. I think my leg is still in a cramp. As a perpetual rotten egg, I like to tell this story, usually when my friend is around and we are in a large conversation circle at parties. (Perhaps this is why no one wants to race me any more, hmmm.)
Anyway, the point is for the most part somewhere along the way we grow up. We stop running, chasing, jumping and skipping. We think these things are best left to the kids. But the point that it happens is very subtle. We don’t really know the shift is on. It’s not like getting our drivers license; one day we can’t drive, the next day we can.
One reason I know I stopped racing is because I’m too tired. Racing is hard work. It wears a girl out. Kids can do it because they seem to have this boundless energy. Me? Not so much. Stress, multi-tasking, jobs, mortgages, bills, you name it – who has the strength to race?
But I think I’m supposed to be racing. I don’t mean racing co-workers to the coffee-pot – although that would be hilarious. No, I think I am supposed to still be actively engaged in the contest.
Isaiah 41:31 says “But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, They shall run and not be weary, They shall walk and not faint.” (I love the part about the eagles’ wings – eagles are fast and fly high.)
Life’s trials and problems slow me down, trip me up, wear me out, and kick me out of the race. It’s during these trials and tribulations that my endurance is challenged and pushed to its limits. Who feels like racing when all I want to do is sit and nurse my bruises?
But as every marathon runner will attest there is a “wall,” a part of the race close to the finish when they feel like they will not make it, which must be scaled and overcome in order to finish the race. A choice must be made when the runner hits the wall – quit or call on all that you have and push through.
I’ll admit during my trials I have been tempted to quit. My wall has been high and thick but I have God running with me and I am waiting on Him so I am choosing to stay in the race. I will no longer be weary or faint, He won't let me.
In fact, I’m feeling pretty good and re-energized . . .“Race ya?”
~
Tis is better to give than receive. That is what this season of Christmas is all about, giving my loved ones gifts as expressions of my love. But let me get real – receiving gifts is pretty good too, and not just at Christmas time.
I particularly like to get gifts that I can learn from, that I can grow with and that add fun and spice to my journey and maybe snuggle with from time to time. You probably are thinking “Wow, she’s pretty tough to shop for.” Actually, no. Just the opposite.
Just ask God, He knows. During my life, He has given me several such gifts. Each has been the same while being completely unique. I have learned something invaluable from these gifts and my life’s journey will never be the same because He bestowed these upon me. Let me tell you about a few:
Patches
She taught me loyalty, faithfulness and love. (And to always come home after a long day romping around the neighborhood.)
Lucy
She taught me love, love, and more love. (And to never stop smiling, even when you lose your sight.)
Cap’t. Morgan
He is teaching me curiosity, mischievousness, and love. (And to always fight for the one you love - even if it means drawing a little blood.)
Gracie
She is teaching me alertness, playfulness, and love. (And the first one to the big chair wins and is queen of everything.) 
These gifts and others like them have given me so much over the course of my life. And even though some of them are no longer leaving fur tumble weeds in my butter or muddy paw prints on my pants as I dash out the door their memories and souls live on inside me. They continue to teach me and let me love them.
I think the unconditional and pure love of an animal - no matter what size, shape or form it comes in - is about as close to God’s pure and unconditional love as we can get here on earth. (If you think about it, the animals God saved on the ark out-numbered the people exponentially.)
Perhaps that’s why God gave us the gift of animals as companions. By drawing close to our furry and feathered friends and loving and being loved unconditionally our Heavenly Father is really drawing us closer to Himself.
And as Snoopy says, "Happiness is a warm puppy," (or a fluffy little parrot.) Not even Lucy van Pelt can argue with that.
~
Its Christmas time and that means catalogs – hundreds of catalogs – in my mailbox everyday. I usually like catalogs. I don’t order much but I like to see what’s in style, what I should be wearing and am not. See what furniture my living room should have in it but doesn’t or see what techie gadgets and things I don’t know how to use but would make my life so much easier, and more expensive, if I did.
Yes, I love to daydream by catalog. But this time of year it’s just too much. I can’t keep up. And as I did order a few gifts from the catalogs I had a chance to read, I am now doomed to receive mountains more.
One thing that is tough about buying from a catalog as opposed to an in-store physical purchase is that I don’t have the opportunity to see, feel and evaluate the item. Things invariably look different in pictures. If its clothes the fabric could be different than I thought. If it’s a thing it could be altogether different than expected because for starters it’s a different size in real life than in the picture.
Some catalogs blow pictures up to show detail then add – in small detail – the disclaimer “(Not Actual Size)” to warn me that the diamond earrings I’m ordering are going to be smaller than the 2x2 photo. (Disclaimer – I’ve never ordered diamonds from a catalog.) Like I actually need to be told the earrings were not going to be the size of postage stamps. Clearly some wise guy lawyer (like me) got in the way, errr, tried to be helpful. But I’ve also seen this disclaimer in food catalogs – “be careful, the cookies you are about to order are not going to be the size of a salad plate, we just blew them up to show off the sugar detail.” Duh.
There is a situation when I think the disclaimer would come in handy. I think God should project it from time to time, sort of like the bat-signal – just to remind me.
I have a habit at times of treating God as just a regular kind of guy. Jesus was a man after all and for what I can tell He was not abnormally tall or large. He was just a regular guy for His day. It helped Him fit in. And take the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit lives inside me. I’m not a big person – 5’8, 127 lbs. So when I think of the Holy Spirit I don’t imagine anyone bigger than me. God, Himself, I see as my Beloved – the One who loves me and protects me and guides me. In my walk with Him I talk to Him, pray to Him, yell at Him sometimes, listen to Him and try to follow Him the best I can. So when I communicate with Him I’m communicating, in my heart, with a regular size God, a God who fits in my passenger seat.
What I fail to do, however, is see Him, really see Him. I mean I think I see Him – at least I say I do. Every time I see a sunset or a beautiful baby or a magnificent mountain peak I say “Wow, look at that. That is God in all His glory.” But even that is selling Him short. The physical body Jesus took and the Holy Spirit taking up residence inside of me are just portals for God to interact with me. They have nothing to do with His size, His abilities, His presence.
I think the reason I do is because my human brain just can’t comprehend how vast and glorious He actually is. He is my God, handling my problems, counting and protecting the hairs on my head, while at the same time He is your God, handling your problems, counting and protecting the hairs on your head, while at the same time doing the exact same thing for each and every soul on the planet – whether they love Him or not because He loves them regardless. (That’s a lot of people my friends.) If there was one thing, person, Being that needed to carry the (Not Actual Size) disclaimer God would be it.
There is, in fact, no size to God and I think that is the point. I try to put Him in a box or category or character to make Him manageable – so I can manage Him! Now if that’s not the tail wagging the dog. No wonder I get frustrated and angry and lost when I can’t solve my problems. I’m not supposed to be the one solving them. But when I just see an average size God I don’t trust that He’s big enough to handle the troubles I’ve got.
Talk about your (Not Actual Size). Turns out that God is huge, ginormous, God-sized. He’s so big I can’t see all of Him at once. He’s clever; He only shows me the parts of Him that I need at any given moment. He doesn’t want to overload my human-sized brain. But my brain, and my heart, knows that all of Him is there. With arms that can stretch around the world a thousand times in one hug; with a heart so big the love it pours out fills every ocean in just one drop, and with grace so vast and endless the earth will physically turn to dust before He can stop bestowing it. That’s the size of my God.
I don’t want an average size God. I want a God-size God. And luckily for me that’s the size He shipped.
~
I am a Texas girl, born and bred. I love to wear cowboy boots – I own more pairs than a girl has a right too (and I could always use a few more). Trucks, jeans, cowboy hats, spurs, chaps, horses, cattle – I love it all. Which is tough, me being a city-slicker and all. I am a cowgirl who is in need of a good cowboy.
And cowboys. There is no one better than a Texas cowboy. Brave, strong, tall, sturdy in the saddle and polite. You will never meet a more polite person than a cowboy – “Yes, Ma’am.” “Let me carry that for you, Ma’am.” "Can I put out that house fire for you, partner?" I don’t agree one iota with Willie Nelson that mamas shouldn’t let their babies grow up to be cowboys. We’d have a much happier world if more mamas did.
And have you ever been to a rodeo? Those guys are built with steel. They make NFL players look like wimps with their helmets and shoulder pads to protect them from a mere 300 lb lineman. Cowboys wear spurs – Spurs! – to protect them from a 2,000 lb bull or bucking bronco that they are riding - voluntarily. (Go the the Professional Bull Riders website and they rank the bulls and list the “buck-off” stats of the top 50 bulls! More than a few have a 100% BO!) That’s the kind of guy I want in my corner.
There is, of course, the endless debate among cowboys – a debate I can go either way with – 501’s or Wranglers. There are those who say 501’s are the original cowboy jean. Button fly and brass rivets and all. There are those equally as passionate that a true cowboy only wears Wranglers – to wrangle. (You ever see a cowboy from the back while he’s wearing Wranglers? You might vote that he’s right.)
The debate here in Texas is equally as tough on the question of a cowboy’s favorite toy, his truck. Chevy and the Silverado are pretty well known around these parts. Apple pie and Chevrolet and all that. But in Texas it appears as if the Ford F150 is the must have tool in the cowboy tool box. And the older the better. Go to any city, town or wide spot in the road and you will count them by the truck load.
Not every man is born to be a cowboy. You can spot a true cowboy from a mile away. They have a certain saunter, swagger about them. They never wear their hat indoors. They always open the door for a lady and always call their Mother on her birthday. They generally have very rough hands from working hard – even if they have a desk job. (In this day and age not every cowboy gets to ride the range.) A cowboy never cusses in the presence of a lady and he takes a bath once a week whether he needs it or not. Cowboys have an easy way about them. They are never in a hurry and are always the first one there in an emergency.
But for some being a cowboy is just too much. It requires too much selflessness. Some people just don’t want the burden of being the go-to-guy. Khakis and loafers are more comfortable than jeans and boots. And that’s okay. It takes all kinds to make the world go ‘round, as they say.
Which begs the question – what kind of Cowboy would Jesus have been? Notice I didn’t ask whether He would have been one – that’s a no-brainer. No, I mean 501’s or Wranglers? Silverado or F150? Desk-set cowboy or out on the open range?
I’ll tell you what I think – I see Jesus sauntering in 501’s and Ropers – no Luccheses or Tony Lamas for Him. He just strikes me as more of a manual button Guy than a zipper Guy. And some cowboys get there Wranglers starched so they have a nice crease. No one ever does that with 501’s and no way Jesus sports a crease in His jeans. I’m also going with the F250 Super Duty with a trailer hitch. Yes, I’ve kicked it up a notch but He’s a traveling Cowboy and always has people with Him. He’s going to need the extra room and engine strength.
I don’t have to tell you what color hat He’s wearing – white straw with a silver band. His horse is a beautiful chestnut American Quarter – tall, strong and fast like the wind. Can’t you just see Him in His spurs, chaps and white shirt? “That sure looks heavy; can I help you with that problem and carry it for you, Ma’am?” “Sure looks like you could you use a little bit of grace, little Lady. Why don’t you let me give you some.” “Say, partner, I gotta heap of hope here for you. Why don’t you let me load it into your barn?” Jesus would have made an awesome Cowboy. There is not a bull or bronc alive that can throw Him.
I can see Him now. Steady, strong and true. Riding His horse across the Texas plains saddlebags full of miracles.
He is just the kind of Cowboy a cowgirl could lose her heart over.
~
I love Scarlett O’Hara. She is a woman after my own heart. Fiery, determined, cunning, coy and always finding herself in some sort of pickle. She thinks she is in love with Ashley, the steady, sturdy one, who leads Scarlett on with admissions of love. She is equally, perhaps more so, inescapably drawn to the dashing “scalawag” Rhett. (Her word, not mine.) Ashley, of course we learn, is weak when it counted and never truly loved Scarlett. Rhett, on the other hand, strong and dashing patiently pursues Scarlett, knowing he will eventually win her despite her protestations.
We meet Scarlett and Ashley in the parlor at Twelve Oaks Plantation during the barbecue. (Why don’t houses don’t have parlors any more? You just feel fancier when sitting in one. I always did in my grandparents’ – when I was allowed in; children can be so messy.) During this scene Ashley tries to tell Scarlett it’s off between them, if it was ever on, and he is going to marry Melanie. Scarlett will hear none of it. This of course leads to years of flirting and pursuing between them – mostly from Scarlett’s side but the married Ashley does profess his love to her after the war. (Talk about scalawags.)
Ashley would have been all wrong for Scarlett. He was so weak and melted like butter in the sun and could be pushed around like a rag-doll by the much stronger-of-constitution Scarlett. If Scarlett had opened her eyes for a moment and stopped focusing on him as the prize she would have seen him in his true light. A good guy just the wrong one for her.
Rhett is the one for Scarlett. And we all know it the second he comes out from hiding in the parlor after Ashley leaves and Scarlett throws a vase at the closing door. The tension is palpable. Rhett, we can see is no genteel gentleman. He is a swashbuckling “varmint” (Scarlett’s word, not mine) and we are instantly, hopelessly in love. Rhett is a dashing hero. He is the type that can match Scarlett’s wit, strength and passion. We know that he will keep his word and, given the chance, take care of Scarlett forever.
She, of course, will have nothing to do with Rhett. She cannot see or refuses to see past the sleek package and pretty words. She instead focuses on the fact that he is not what she wants, not what she has already set her mind to. She knows what is best for her and this man is not it.
Rhett: “No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.” A woman who can pass up on a lover like this is clearly walking in the dark.
I am so like that sometimes. Always pursuing the wrong thing – I know what’s best for me and you can’t persuade me differently. I want what I cannot have or I want something that I can have but is no good for me. Put the perfect opportunity, event, thing, person, whatever in front of me sometimes and I will keep moving it out of the way to get what I want. When I finally to get it? “Okay, that was neat. Now what?” The victory is so very short lived, if there is a victory at all. Sometimes, like the Ashley situation, the eyed-prize never comes.
I have, thank goodness, been fortunate enough though to meet my Rhett Butler. And if I have to say so, and I do, my Dashing Hero really is the real deal. As we know, for all Rhett’s greatness and strength, he was but a man who eventually could not withstand Scarlett’s shenanigans and he abandoned her. But my Hero withstands all my shenanigans – and boy there are many to withstand – and will never abandon me. He loves me and pursues me with such a force that Rhett would envy to give to Scarlett. My Dashing Hero is patient, oh so patient. When I spurn Him and the gifts, opportunities, people, blessings, He is trying to give me He waits, and waits, and waits.
All I have to do to have my Dashing Hero sweep me off my feet and love me inescapably forever is all Rhett ever wanted Scarlett to do – say His name. “Just once.” (Rhett’s words, not mine but they are right on.) One call of His name, that’s all it takes to be loved and protected and showered with blessings for all eternity. Luckily for me I’m brighter and a bit more cunning than Scarlett – I have called out the name of my Beloved – Jesus. (And He is the Dashingest Hero you’ll ever want to love you.)
And as God as my witness, my life has never been the same since.
~
I have heard this sentence much too often lately for my tastes, “It’s simply hopeless.” I don’t like it because it reminds me of myself and the way I sometimes feel. I don’t like it because it is pessimistic and does not even try to incorporate the positive. But mostly I don’t like it because it simply isn’t true – in any circumstance.
I have heard this despair filled remark said about world poverty and over-population. I’ve heard it said about illnesses. I’ve heard it said about debt and deficits. I’ve heard it said about civil rights. I’ve heard it said about unemployment and the nation’s economy. I’ve caught myself muttering it a time or two.
Now, I am not saying that every situation will turn out the way I hope it will. Quite the contrary – as we know, that rock-n-roll singing career I’ve been hoping for with my core girls from high-school – “The Cheap Sunglasses,” has not panned out as I’d planned. But hope has a point and a purpose.
If anyone had a reason to be hopeless it was Helen Keller. Helen was born a healthy, normal child but became sick at 19 months old with an illness that left her deaf and blind. However, her family would not let their young daughter languish in a silent and dark world. The family cook’s young daughter began to teach Helen household signs she made up to help Helen communicate with the family. The family was determined not to stop there. When Helen was six, her mother heard of another deaf-blind child that was being educated. Pursuits of that situation eventually lead to a meeting with Alexander Graham Bell. Bell recommended a Boston school for the blind. It was at this Boston school that the Kellers met Annie Sullivan, herself half blind, the woman who would become Helen’s personal teacher and friend. The relationship lasted 49 years.
If Helen ever felt hopeless it was Sullivan who brought hope to her chaotic, undisciplined world. Helen was enrolled in school and Sullivan taught Helen to speak, read fingers in the palm of her hand, and read Braille – in four different languages. (I have trouble enough with one and I can see!) Helen graduated magna cum laude from Radcliffe College with a Bachelors of Arts degree. Helen went on to live her life as a world famous speaker, author and political activist (warrenting her her own FBI file!). From a blind, deaf child to a world influencing adult – no wonder they called Annie Sullivan, The Miracle Worker.
Like Helen, I too have a Miracle Worker to bring me hope and create miracles where there is only darkness and silence. I heard someone say once that “you are not in line for a miracle until you have a problem nobody can solve but God.” I love that. It is stark in its truth and simplicity.
My Random House College Dictionary defines hope as “the feeling that what is desired is also possible.” So I suppose that when a situation is deemed hopeless a person no longer feels the desired outcome is possible. Here is the major flaw in hope’s definition – it is based on feelings. Anything based on feelings or emotions is going to be fickle. I am in a good mood; I have hope – I get in a bad mood; I lose hope. Feelings as a foundation for hope will always lead to disappointment and despair, unless I get exactly what I am hoping for and that rarely happens. So, I must look for a different foundation.
Jesus isn’t fickle. He does not waiver when my emotions do. When the wind begins to howl and my self-confidence begins to founder He gets stronger. “Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.” (Isaiah 40:31) There is a reason little children sing “when I am weak He is strong.” There is nothing – Nothing – Jesus cannot do. Man cannot do a lot – Jesus can do a lot. We only have to put our hope, our trust, in Him. And when we do He will never disappoint.
Like Annie Sullivan, it is the job of the hopeful to bring hope to those who have none. It may have been hopeless for Helen but it wasn’t for her family or for Sullivan. The hope my Miracle Worker brings and the miracles He performs – through those “Annie Sullivans” He uses to bring them – may or may not solve the immediate problem, but it always lifts those in need to new heights and brings light where there is darkness and joy where there is silence.
Keller wrote in her autobiography that upon discovering her first word - water - spelled out by Sullivan in the palm of Helen's hand, her "living world awakened her soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free!"
Hope for the hopeless. Sometimes just that simple gift is itself the miracle.
.
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