Stowaway

At year’s end we are subject to endless lists of the year in review: top songs, most influential people, and significant events.  It is a time for contemplation, a time to become intentional about the year ahead.  Like many, my year contained both delightful and painful moments.  But as I reflect upon 2014, one amusing incident keeps coming to mind. It made my top ten list.  

Blogging is tricky if you want to keep your friends.  It becomes perilous when you write about an incident that happened to someone else.  It changes to dangerous if you found the event humorous but your friends didn't. Perhaps they will find it more amusing the second time around.   I don’t really believe that but it’s not going to stop me from trying. 

It started with a chipmunk in a Washington State Park.  More accurately, a chipmunk and its hundred closest relatives.  Some years ago, on a camping trip, these creatures captivated my friends.  They have daughters who love critters.  Feathered, furry or fleecy, the girls will admire whatever you put in front of them.  Which is why a chipmunk feeding frenzy became part of their annual pilgrimage.  This year was no exception. By all accounts, it was a delightful afternoon.  Peanuts were provided thanks to Dad, and when they were finished, the girls were happy and the chipmunks had raised their BMI by about 15%. 

The camping trip was a success and they arrived home happy and exhausted.  Over the next few days, laundry was done, the coolers put away, and the trip was about to go down in family history until their Dad noticed something strange about the back seat of his car.  The back seat in the car had been chewed.  Chewed significantly by something that was not his friend. 

And this dear reader, is where the love affair with the genus Tamias ended. 

I could give you a blow by blow account of the following week.  It was a week of discovery, wherein my friend learned how expensive it is to harbor a peanut addicted stowaway chipmunk. A week where frustration reigned, and maniacal chipmunk laughter rang through suburbia. A week when a fat chipmunk from east of the mountains was last seen exiting a Honda at a small local business that rhymes with rowing. 

But I’m not going to do that.

It would be unkind.

You would be surprised if I told you how many times I thought of that chipmunk this year.  I thought of it every time I talked to a young heart about the foolishness of allowing certain sins into their lives.  Inevitably, what started out as a “harmless” event, took root and grew into a problem that was damaging to themselves and others.  Too many times, we make friends with our weaknesses instead of standing against them.  We feed a habit and end up with an unwanted practice that we must pay for.  It can cost far more than we ever expected.

And so dear friend, as the year draws to a close and the New Year’s resolution game begins, why not give some thought to what you would like to leave behind this year.  Find a friend and have a heart to heart.  Ask them to pray with you, to pray for you.   

Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective. Matt 5:16

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. Heb 12:1

Don’t step into the New Year without praying friend.  We live in difficult times and need the strength of God.  God has a plan for you.  Come to Him, seek His face and bring him anything that would try stowaway into your New Year.  He will provide.  He is faithful.

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren 

The Real Christmas Tree

I hope this post finds you well and ready for Jesus birthday.  I am reposting this from last year.  I haven't found a better way to say it yet.  For those of  you who are experiencing Christmas during a broken season,  I want to tell you that you are brave.  I pray that God would hold you close, and speak peace that passes understanding to your heart.   May God place hope underneath your tree this week. 
Happy Christmas,

xoxKaren

“Well, that’s different.” I thought to myself as I drove by the large cross stuck in the front lawn.  “Wait!  Is that blood?”  By the time I asked the question we had passed the house.  “That was strange,” I said to no one in particular.  Everyone in the car ignored me and the conversation turned to Christmas lights and holiday travel.   “Can we drive by that again?  Go around the block.” Straining my neck to see through the back window, I tapped my friend on the shoulder, “please?”  My friend sighed, “No Karen, let’s leave it, I don’t want to turn around.”  She looked at me apologetically.  “It was weird; you can see it next time.  It’s not hard to miss!”

My friend had a point.  It wasn’t often you saw a bloody cross posted on a main road.  I had never seen anything like it.  It was 1989 and I was spending my first December away from home.  Victoria was a beautiful city and I was enjoying watching it dress up for Christmas.  Lights, banners and ornaments were bursting from shop windows and sidewalk spaces.  Tinsel, ribbons and lights were everywhere; why did I care about one strange cross on someone’s lawn?  “Fine,” I sighed.  “But let’s go home that way if we can.”

 I made it back to the same spot a week later to ensure I had seen what I remembered.  I was right; it was a Christmas display unlike any I had seen.  To call it ugly might be unfair: solemn, stark and disturbing, but not ugly.   The cross was large and the wood aged by the island’s constant winter rain.  I remember the cross being draped in a white banner and red paint smudges where Jesus hands and feet would have been.  There was a white flood light at its base which caught the words, “And still He came.”  It was barren, simple and disconcerting.

I lived in Victoria for ten years and every Christmas I went out of my way to view that display.  It appeared at the end of November.  I wondered if the owner of the house on Shelbourne was tempted to scrap that cross and put up a Christmas tree instead.  “Leave the cross for Easter and decorate a tree buddy,” I thought. But every year, the cross would faithfully appear and to be honest, it brought a secret thrill to my soul.  I was unable to articulate it at the time, but I knew I was witnessing a form of rebellion.  This hideous cross was cramping Christmas’ style.  Something was screaming and I could not hear it clearly.

At this point in my story you need to know I love Christmas trees.  I do not love plastic trees.  If you have an artificial tree I can still love you, but while you are not looking I will lay hands on your tree and pray that next year your tree will live.  I am not put off by you telling me you hate pine needles in your carpet.  It means nothing to me that the plastic tree is the best thing that happened to your Christmas.  I don’t care if it was $3000 and you got it for $18 at a garage sale.  I am not fazed by the fact that you are allergic to trees and they make you sneeze.  I will still sit by your tree and agree with it in prayer, “Dear Jesus, next year make this tree a real boy.”

I tell you this darling friend, so that you are able to understand what I am going to say next. Would you walk with me a moment dear heart?  Could we use the language of pictures, memory and experience to allow the Lord to prepare our hearts for Christmas?

I have many precious Christmas memories.  I was given the gift of a childhood by my parents and I enjoy Christmas. But as I get older, I notice a battle brewing between the Christmas tree and the Cross.  I noticed the battle 24 years ago, when my friend on Shelbourne placed that unattractive cross on his front lawn.  He defiantly decorated it with red smudges and the words, “And still He came.”

Christmas can be difficult.   When the year draws to a close, the world of media starts it full on assault on our sanity.  The airwaves scream the message that a perfect Christmas is available for a price.  Satellites bombard the planet with messages of sales and sequins, trinkets and tinsel that will usher in great happiness and joy.  Decorate your Christmas tree, put presents under it, adorn your house with lights and the sickening loneliness of the season will disappear.  Worship at the altar of perfection and strive to belong to a class of happy folk.  Make the most perfectly, perfect Christmas tree and all will be well. 

The problem is the perfect Christmas tree doesn’t have room for me and many of the people I know.  My friends, who love Jesus daily with their weaknesses, don’t have lives that make perfect Christmas possible.  One has a mother who is a raging alcoholic, while the other struggles daily with a mentally ill brother.  One of my teachers is grieving the loss of her husband while another is in a season of such tempest, she fights hourly to hold on to faith.  Many of them are working hard to restore shattered relationships and set a good example for their children.  Grace, addiction, despair, unanswered prayer, hope, intercession, these are the words that decorate my community.  Thank heaven, thank Jesus, there is a tree for the likes of us to gather around and worship at this Christmas season.

Our Christmas tree is the cross.   Those who love Jesus and are suffering during this Christmas season are welcome underneath this tree.  Fear not, your brokenness will not diminish its glow.  Your shameful relative has a place in the very heart of Him who bled and died here.  The God of this tree is big enough to deal with your anxiety and pain.  We worship here because Jesus decided to leave the glory of heaven and to condescend to become Emmanuel, God with us.  He came knowing we would fail.  He came knowing that you would despair.  He came because He loves you.  He came knowing that He would be betrayed.  He came knowing that He would die a gruesome death.  He came knowing….and still He came……

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. Luke 2:8-14

   

Geronimo!

I had the joy of being raised in a big house that was built in 1929.  It had three floors and a dozen rooms that were filled to the brim with cats, children, and chaos.  My dad was a doctor, my mother was a mother and my parents had the habit of acquiring every stray creature that crossed their path.   Friends frequently brought over injured birds or animals for my father to nurse back to health.  Wildlife was part of our normal.   It wasn't a surprise then, to have a box appear at the bottom of my parent’s lawn one Saturday morning.  There was no note or writing on the box.  It was folded shut, and looked almost empty when Mum went to retrieve it.

Inside the box was a kitten, old enough to have left its mother but young enough to need help.  She had a slender frame and a luxurious long black coat.  Her eyes were a rich yellow and when she closed them, you couldn't see any other facial features. She took one look at my mother, smiled and made herself at home.  I don’t remember how Geronimo got her name, but “Mo” was a gorgeous feline.   She was a friendly cat who loved outdoors and climbing.  When inside, she could be found in the basement on my father’s bookshelf or upstairs in my mother’s bedroom. Petite, black fur, big yellow eyes; Geronimo was the perfect Halloween cat.  So perfect, my parents kept her confined to the house the end of every October for fear she would be taken by Halloween revelers.

As November progressed, thoughts of cat abduction subsided and preparations for the holiday began.  A Christmas tree was central to my family’s sense of celebration.  Because our ceilings were twelve feet high, we had room to bring a large tree indoors.  Each year we would set out, intent on finding the biggest tree Dad would allow.  My family has never owned large cars, and how we got those trees home on top of a Mazda or a Celica I will never know.  Yet, home the trees came and when dusted off, they were taken indoors, to our hearts delight.

We didn't have a tree stand as the circumference of the trunk was too large.  Instead, My Dad would grab a bucket, stand the tree inside it and while we held it off kilter, would wedge large rocks and pieces of coal in the bucket to secure the tree.  Yes, coal.  I grew up with a coal bunker behind the house, my parents immigrated from England in the 60’s and felt a cultural drive to bring smog to the new world.  Decorating the tree was pure joy.  In the 70’s, we didn't go in for plastic ornaments.  Most of them were made of glass.  We had the awesome kind of tinsel you could stick in-between your teeth and blow out making it spew in dragon like fashion.  The downside was you could suck it back into your lungs if you weren't careful.   

After the lights were placed on the tree, one of my older sisters would climb the ladder.  We put ornaments on hooks and passed them along.  The record player would be singing carols in the background as we laughed and shared stories about the ornaments.  We would drink tea, eat cookies and have a delightful time.  When the tree was finished, we turned out the lights and sat in its glow.  We often light the room by tree and candles only, which to a child’s heart, was simply magic.

Apparently, it was magic to a cat’s heart as well. 

Who knew?

When Geronimo saw the Christmas tree, the best part of nature right there in the living room, something in her feline soul exploded.  She came racing down the hall, took a running leap across the back of the settee and landed midway up the tree.  The tree, adjusting to life without a root system, was a little unsteady, and as Mo ran up the branch to the trunk and started climbing, the whole tree listed to the left.  In surreal slow motion, the tree tipped past the point of recovery and crashed onto the rustic hard wood floor.  The noise itself was both thrilling and horrifying.  Thrilling because as the glass ornaments shattered, they made a beautiful tinkling noise as the shards fell to the floor. Horrifying because the cat yowled like a demon, as she shot up stairs and left us standing there as my parents came running into the room.  Up to that point, we children had done some fairly stupid things, but knocking over a fully decorated, twelve foot tree was not one of them.  The exhilaration was palpable.

After shouting orders to stand still,  pull the baby out of the tree limbs, and shake the glass from our hair, my father re balanced the tree.  Mum put the kettle back on, and my older sister ran to grab the broom.   My younger sister and I cleaned the floor, while the eldest perched precariously on a chair, pulling off the shattered ornaments.  After the shock passed, we started to laugh and relive the experience verbally.  New ornaments were pulled from boxes, light bulbs replaced and harmony restored.  It had been quite an afternoon.

Dinner was late, due to the tree fiasco, and no one was actually present when Geronimo attacked the tree the second time.  We were setting the table and getting seated when the almighty crash echoed through the hall.  The only difference was this time, my mother had filled the bucket supporting the tree with water so it could have a drink at its leisure.  Something about being felled twice might have driven the tree to drink if it wasn't already dead.   As it turns out, the dead tree was not thirsty and our second clean up included flood management.   

Decorating the tree the third time was definitely not as fun as the first two.  We waited until dinner was done and in truth, we had lost the heart for tree decoration.  We were simply on damage control at that point.  We swept the floor again, rotated the tree to hide smashed bulbs and adjusted the lights as best we could.  Inevitably, laughter resumed as we expressed our amazement to Mo’s antics.  The kettle was put on again and the cat was shut in my parent’s room for the night.

I cannot help laughing when I remember Geronimo’s first Christmas.  In total, she knocked the tree over three times.  We actually ended up tethering the tree to the wall because Mo simply would not stay away from it.   We placed a small table near the tree in order to keep her off the trunk but more than once she made people scream in terror, as they walked by the Christmas tree to be swatted on the head by a soft paw.  It was funny in a mildly crazy kind of way.  When we finally took the tree down after the twelfth day of Christmas, it looked like it had been in a war zone.  Smashed bulbs, dented ornaments and headless angels were everywhere.  It was awesome.  To this day I praise God my parents were not materialistic because if they were, that Christmas tree would have ruined Christmas forever.   As it stands, it is a beautiful memory.

And you friend, how is your Christmas joy holding?  Are you focusing on the coming of our Savior or are you getting caught up in trivial Christmas trappings?  Any Christmas mishaps yet?  Burn any cookies or send any cards to the wrong person? 

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.  Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.  And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Phil 4:4-8

Do not let mishaps and mistakes seize your heart this season friend.  Keep rejoicing.  We have so much to be thankful for, and one to place our hope in.  It is such a wonderful season to rejoice.

Good Christian men, rejoice
With heart and soul and voice
Now ye need not fear the grave:
Peace! Peace!
Jesus Christ was born to save
Calls you one and calls you all
To gain His everlasting hall
Christ was born to save
Christ was born to save

Praying that you might truly rejoice this week,

xoxKaren

    

Time Out

On any other day of the year, a donkey on display could be forgiven for getting tired of crowds.  After hours of human interaction, a discerning parent might say, “I think the donkey is tired sweetheart.  Look but don’t touch him.”  But on this particular day, the situation was more complicated.  To start with, the donkey in question was not actually a donkey, she was a horse.  A miniature horse to be specific, who was being loved on by everyone around her. 

Willow’s long mane was a shade of cream that matched her brown winter coat.  She looked like she had slipped on fancy socks for her evening out, which complimented her ensemble beautifully.  She was clean, ridiculously fluffy and entirely adorable.

On this special evening, Willow was the marquee draw of the living nativity.  All the regulars were in attendance.  The shepherds had donned their requisite dish towels and Joseph and his family were present.  The heavenly host though beautiful, decked in tinsel and nylon wings, had nothing on the donkey impersonator.  Willow was a rock star and it was causing problems. 

Willow’s fans were composed primarily of children under five years of age; toddlers who had not mastered the art of walking.  They took one look at their horse-donkey hero, squealed with delight and launched themselves straight at her muzzle.  Their chubby fingers could not get enough of Willow’s plush locks.  Laughter filled the air, as child after child pet the pretty animal. 

I was recruited by a friend to volunteer at a dinner held for at-risk pregnant women and their families.  I and a couple hundred stranger-friends were working to create a special night out for approximately one hundred families.  The evening itself was a miracle.  Tens of strangers waltzing to the tune of organized chaos.  Children, face paint, cookie sprinkles, slot cars and mashed potatoes were all crafted into a celebration held together by generous hearts and willing hands.  It was a delightful event. 

My role took me all over the building to check on volunteers and solve small problems as they arose.  I went outside to the nativity several times throughout the evening. After two hours, I noticed Willow was not tethered next to the Holy family anymore.  She had been relocated to a place beside the celestial choir.  I found Willow’s owner/agent and asked her if everything was okay.  “It’s great!” She exclaimed, her eyes sparkling.  She was bundled in a hat and scarf, but excess fabric couldn’t dull her shiny heart.  “Ummm…and your horsey?” I inquired, not wanting to cast aspersions on Willow’s commitment to her role.  She threw back her head and laughed, “Yep, a bit grumpy,” she confessed.  “She’s getting a lot of admirers this evening.”  I hovered for a while longer, watching families enjoy the display, until duty called me back inside.

The night continued at a rapid pace.  Happiness and mayhem, decked the halls.   When I checked in on Bethlehem forty minutes later, the scene had shifted yet again.  The angels were gathered around a propane heater drinking hot chocolate, Jesus was being held by an extended relative and the donkey was nowhere to be seen.  “Where’s Willow?” I asked.  My friend rolled her eyes heavenward.  “Willow needed some time alone,” she giggled.  “She is behind the stable, the crowds have done her in.”  I walked around the makeshift stable to the railing.  There, shaggy head buried in a bucket of feed, was Willow the horse-donkey.  She had intentionally been tethered so her head was turned away from the crowds, facing into the corner. 

The donkey was in timeout.

Because I have a bizarre sense of humor, I must confess the sight thrilled my soul.  At a time of celebration, I understood how all the merriment could drive someone around the bend.  I could sympathize.  It is so easy to lose your patience and sense of peace at during the holidays.  Half an hour in a shopping mall is enough to make me question the meaning of Christmas and I’m a believer.  The demons of consumerism sing a captivating carol at Christmas time.  “Worship here and lift your spirits” they croon.  “Where is my visa?” the chorus echoes in reply.  It is enough to bring distress to any faithful heart. 

I encourage you not to become dismayed this season.  If you, like Willow, are being pulled away from the view of your Savior, take some time out with your favorite Christmas Carol.  Remember the truth behind the celebration and return to your place at his feet.

God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

The world may have gone crazy, but you know the truth.  May you find comfort and joy this season dear friend.

I’m praying for you,

xoxKaren