It Started With a Lion: The Real Christmas Tree

It Started With a Lion: The Real Christmas Tree: “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 tim...

Behold the Nativity

Carl, my potentially apostate budgie, deconstructing the nativity.

The sound was peculiar, a faint tapping followed by a click.  Too quiet to be a child, I immediately suspected Carl our budgie, of a new form of misbehavior.  I was resting peacefully in that strange world between sleep and consciousness when I suddenly wondered what the little beast was up too.  Carl wasn’t allowed out of her cage without a family member present.  A survey of the soundscape indicated no child in the vicinity.  Willing myself to open my eyes was unsuccessful and I drifted back to sleep.  

When I awoke the second time, I again heard a faint tapping noise.  This time, it was more repetitive and rhythmic.  I opened my eyes as the realization swept over me:  I had fallen asleep on the couch while Carl was out of her cage.  Sitting up quickly, I looked around and concentrated on the noise.  A first glance there was nothing amiss.  When suddenly a budgie hopped through my peripheral vision.   Thanking the Lord she wasn’t hurt, I squinted through sleep to understand what I was seeing. 

The on the mantel piece stood Carl happily gazing at the nativity.  This nativity consisted of a small wooden stable with little nails, upon which a different character was hung for each day of advent.  Aww.  I remember thinking to myself.  Carl is admiring the pretty lights.  What a happy Christmas bird.  At that moment, I was struck by the sweetness of the scene.  “You are a good bird, aren’t you Carl?”  In response, Carl chirped happily and tapped at one of the wise men with her break.  I leaned back on the couch content.  Sleep was still thick in my vision, and perhaps it was a remnant sugar plum fairy that caused me to think such insipid thoughts.  I sighed happily and wrapped my blanket around me.

“Carl?” I sang. “Chirp!” Carl replied.  “Are you a good bird?”  I’m not sure what I was expecting Carl to say, but I certainly wasn’t expecting her to grab the closest wise man by the head and fling him off the mantel piece.  The sound I made in response was somewhat indescribable.  Sensing her freedom was coming to an end, Carl grabbed a sheep off the nativity, dropped it and then pitched a stargazing shepherd after the wise man.  I sat back in astonishment before laughing hysterically.  From time to time I had suspected my bird was unredeemed but this seemed a bit extreme, even for her.  Yet take apart the nativity she did, that day and every other she could manage.  It became an unorthodox family tradition. This year, when we unpacked the nativity, my heart ached.  Our little feathered slice of creation died this spring and I miss her.   

In my part of the world, Christmas has become a slick commercial affair.  There are events to attend, sights to see and trinkets to buy all of which can enhance or diminish the message of the season.  That is, presuming you are familiar with the message of Christmas.   

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:5  

Our world is fallen.  That is an important piece of the Christmas message.   I can’t explain many things that are happening on our planet right now.  But it seems to me, many are waking up to the realization that the world can be a dark place.   Some are offended by the realization, many are saddened.  This is where commercial Christmas can’t help.  The lights that are strung on streets and houses do nothing to enlighten a bereaved heart.  Those who are experiencing profound loss and pain can’t be bought off by trinkets, at least not for long.  So the message for Christmas becomes all the more important.  The good news is that God didn’t leave us without hope.  The world was in darkness, but God sent a light.  

and behold, a voice out of the heavens said, "This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well-pleased. Matt 3:17

The second part of the Christmas message is that God sent his son.  If you say this, it can make people really cross.  It isn’t surprising, people have been trying to separate the Father from the Son for a long time now.  However, Jesus went through a great deal to wear the title “Son of God,” and for the broken and sinful it is a fabulous name.  It is a name that heaven hears.  

Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be.  But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God.  You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.” John 1: 29-33

This part of the Christmas message is sticky because it involves God’s kingdom and parts of God’s kingdom we can experience now and the parts we can’t tend to make us angry.  In my crisis moments, I could not have survived without help – Christian help.  Those who were devoted to Jesus who took up my needs as their own and offered me hope when everything around me, including my faith, was failing.  They brought kingdom hope to my grieving heart.  

But there are things that no Christian can provide.  Things we will experience in the future when creation is rolled up and we meet God face to face.  Justice for egregious wrongs, understanding, and lasting peace have not yet been attained. They are promised yet we must discipline ourselves as Jesus folk not to become discouraged because they have not yet arrived.  

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Look! God's dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death' or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." Rev 21:3-4

Christmas here and now, with its tinsel, lights and carols cannot come close to fulfilling the above scripture.   If I attempt to obtain joy from the trimmings of Christmas I will come away unfulfilled.  But if I can remember Christmas points back to his first coming and forward to his second true joy can appear.  If I, unlike my sweet bird, can keep the nativity in sight, intact and in focus I will be ready for Christmas and His appearing.

I’m praying for you this week,

xoxKaren

PS:  Clearly the most important kingdom gift God bestows is that of immediate forgiveness.  It is central to the Christian faith.   However, I can’t figure out how to say that in this message gracefully.  I’ve tried cutting and pasting it in several places, but it isn’t working.

It seems odd to place a central tenant of our faith in a footnote, but I’m not thinking clearly.  My furnace broke this Monday and I’m living in my basement in a make shift blanket fort.  No kidding.   My house is as cold as my refrigerator, with the exception of one room in the basement.  We have been holed up in here with three space heaters, while they work on getting me a new one.  All this while the polar vortex consumed Seattle along with 123 snowflakes.  It’s rough.  Pretty sure I heard the snowflakes screaming as they fell.  

Not going to lie, I’m wishing hibernation were an option.  

Sock it to me Jesus

They were working fine....

Friend!

Has it been a good week?  I was thinking about you last night as I decorated our Christmas tree.  We were a tad late in purchasing one this year but it is very nice to have a Christmas tree in the house again.  

We pulled the decorations out of the garage and set to work.  Each year I am faced with a mystery.  In January, when the tree is taken down, I check the light strands, coil them and place them gingerly in a plastic bin.  The mysterious part is why these lights never work when I take them out of the bin 11 months later.  I simply don’t understand.  Sure enough, two strands of last years lights no longer worked.  I didn't  touch them so how did they break?  To make things even more perplexing, only ½ of a carefully stored snowflake light strand was working.  The first half lit up, the second half refused to come out of hibernation. Why? What am I doing wrong? 

When I voice my amazement at the darker side of Christmas light storage, my man gives me a lecture about how the lights are not made to last, poor quality…ya da ya da…. only three dollars…ya ya ya.  He feels it is his annual duty to deal with my vexation. I’ve heard it all before but it still makes me cross. 

Worse yet, I can't throw out an almost functional set of Christmas lights! It’s so wasteful I can’t stand it.  I think about the reams of lights in landfills, sitting there, not decomposing.  I worry dreadfully that some duck named Bernice is going to happen across my Christmas lights from 2001 and get them stuck around her feet.  Granted, for the first few days she might view them as an upscale ankle bracelet, but what happens when Bernice needs to fly somewhere and is entangled in my lights from Christmas past?  It haunts me.  

So much so, that a few years ago, instead of throwing out a broken strand of lights like my hubby told me too, I hid in the garage and chopped the entire green strand into two inch pieces. For nearly 6 months my family had indestructible twist ties on their bag lunches.  They couldn’t figure out where I had purchased such satanic home supplies. I couldn’t tell them.  My guy doesn’t need to know everything about the woman he married.  Sometimes, you need to cope alone.

It was a blessing therefore, to hand off the Christmas lights to my teens, effectively removing myself from my annual Christmas light angst.*   I sat on the sofa watching the girls work until my little one handed me one of my Christmas treasures.  Most families in my world have a favorite nativity.  A couple of my friends even collect them, which is an admirable if not space consuming endeavor.  Carved olive wood from Jerusalem, stone pieces from Bethlehem, treasures handed down from Grandma, these nativity pieces are steeped in symbolism and meaning.  A cultural cornucopia of Christian Christmas symbolism. 

The Jesus from my nativity….not so much.

Behold, sock Jesus

Yep.  That’s a sock Jesus. In case you were wondering.  

This masterpiece was brought home by a 3 year old, who placed it gently under my Christmas tree.  I will save the story for another day.  All you need to know is that I madly love this sock Jesus.

Last week I confessed I often want a Santa Jesus.  I thought this week we could talk about sock Jesus because He is in high demand these days.  Sock Jesus is an easy going fellow who smiles sweetly at most things - well, everything really.  As long as you are happy and I am happy, sock Jesus has nothing much to say.  Sin becomes irrelevant which is too bad because the fact He condescended to enter this mess is significant.  However, sock Jesus doesn’t worry much about sin because he’s too busy being happy with everyone for everything. 

Truth isn’t important to sock Jesus either.  As long as we agree to get along, truth isn’t needed.  You can tweet what you like and make up your own reality as you go.  Sock Jesus doesn’t tweet because of the whole lack of arms thing, but if he did he would mostly tweet pictures of craft projects.  Sock Jesus doesn't challenge you like your  friends who speak the truth in hard times, love you in the pit and hold you accountable.  Friends like that don’t smile like He does, they’re too busy trying to enforce some warped form of altruistic legalism on a grace filled world.  

All in all, sock Jesus is pretty great, unless you find yourself in a world where souls break, people hurt and life goes wrong.  When that happens all sock Jesus can do is cover up stinky things, like funny looking feet.  You need Emmanuel when life gets hard.  “God with us” is the way to get through when you unpack some broken items in your Christmas box.    

So I’m praying for any broken things you might encounter this month my friend. That as you seek to accommodate a less than perfect Christmas, you will experience the real Jesus.  The one who can forgive you in your sinfulness, comfort you in your pain and bring you joy despite your sorrow.  

I’m thinking of you this week,

xoxKaren

* Totally untrue, I’ve hidden the broken lights so they can’t be thrown out. I’m trying to figure out what to do with 60 plastic snowflake light covers.          

The Perfect Fit

Seating for 14! Let the table setting begin!

It was Tuesday before I realized what I had done.  Fortunately, I cancelled every appointment scheduled, in order to prepare for Thanksgiving. I awoke to a to-do list which equaled the depth of my laundry pile.  After an unsuccessful quiet time, wherein I supposedly focused on the Lord to find peace, I apologized to Jesus, poured myself a cup of tea and looked around my home.  The entire house was catawampus. The bible verse "Jesus wept" sprang immediately to mind as I surveyed the destruction.  Congratulating myself for being so spiritually minded, I walked into my dining area.

The space is about 10’ ½ by 9’ ½ , walled with 2 entrance points.  It was constructed long before the “open concept” kitchen was born.  I loved the room, but that morning as I wrote down the names of my guests, I wondered how everyone was going to fit.  Fourteen people needed to sit at the table.  Mine sat eight.  I needed seating for six more.  Looking around my dining room, I wondered how to pull this off.  I chewed my pencil.  “Jesus wept,” My subconscious quoted.  I rebuked myself.  I looked at the list.  I was missing something.  I reviewed the names again, when it dawned on me.  Half of my dinner guests were 6’ or taller.  “Jesus is weeping,” my subconscious quoted, changing the form in order to make scripture more applicable.  I groaned, stood up and called my girls for a family meeting.

I explained the challenge before us.  We sipped our tea, brain stormed and prayed.  “Lord Jesus, there is no way for this to work.  Have mercy and help us. Show us how to get this done, because it’s impossible.”  As the girls set to work cleaning, I texted my nearest and dearest to ask for chairs and a card table.  One girl friend directed me to another, as I had stolen her extra folding chairs earlier that week.  Girlfriend two had the card table and I whipped out to pick it up, as well as extra chairs because she has so many I feel obligated to borrow them. 

When I returned, the dining room was cleared.  My girls know how to get things done.  We had a blank canvas for Jesus’ coming miracle of spatial orientation.  For the next two hours, we shuffled card tables and chairs in an attempt to gain extra seating space.  As fatigue increased, we were less willing to listen to each other’s suggestions.  We began talking over each other and squabbling broke out.  I was feeling pretty desperate.  I considered seating guests in two rooms, when one of the girls reminded me “God could do it.”  I sent up another prayer, “Lord help.  Honestly, we are so stuck.”  It was lame but it was all I had.  Setting back to work, I kept my mouth shut and allowed the kids to take a turn at directing.  Five minutes later my 14 yr old struck gold.  “What about if we shift the table this way?” She asked.  We looked at each other in stunned silence.  Suddenly, the room placement fell together.    The miracle of seating fourteen was suddenly made possible.  As we placed chairs and name cards, I was gripped with pleasure.  Granted, we had swapped traditional seating placement for a funky café style affair, but it was done.   I sang an impromptu ode to our greatness and thanked the Lord profusely. 

That evening, as my daughters downloaded their day with Dad, I considered how long it took to us to reach our goal.  We had planned, measured and done everything  to make the chairs fit, but the experience of moving furniture around the space was essential for success.  Success couldn’t be separated from the hard work.  Our breakthrough wouldn’t have come without 2 full hours of highly organized failure.    

Are you any good at thanking the Lord for the process my friend?  Or do you, like me, get exasperated easily?  Somewhere in my carnal nature is a hard wired circuit.  I believe if I pray and ask God for help, answers should drop from the sky like rain.  At times I have no understanding why God doesn’t answer my questions simply.  I put my name on the prayer chain, why did it take me 3 months to find a good doctor?   My small group prayed for my budget, why couldn’t I find the best refinancing deal possible?  We prayed and researched getting a new car and bought a lemon, why didn’t you tip me off?  These questions and a million more betray my heart.  I want what I ask for without a fuss.  Am I sounding like a spoiled beast yet?  

I want a Santa God.

As the holiday season unfolds, I’m asking for conviction.  Straight up repentance for the subtle ways I’m out to get from God, trying to bend Him to my will, as opposed to engaging in the relationship he offers. And I’ll be thinking of you my friend, as you encounter problems along your pathway.  That you will stay patient as the pieces shift, kind as you work with those around you, and able to endure until you discover the resolution He has planned.

I’m praying for you this week,

xoxKaren 

A Camel in a Crisis

Curley, the awesome camel

Hello Friend!

I did get your message and yes, I’ve been absent lately.  I apologize.  Since September, I’ve found myself in a peculiar season of transition.  Have you ever felt like your life doesn’t fit?  No matter what I do, I fight a sense of things being incomplete.  Add election madness and the death of Leonard Cohen and you have a Canadian mid-life crisis in the making.  It’s hard to write when tears have taken up residence behind your eyelids.  I’m never quite certain when I will set myself off.  The other day I was talking to a dear soul who is sending her daughter off on her first mission trip sans Mama.  The conversation turned into a counseling session wherein I had to be glued back together because the enormity of children growing up and leaving home just about swallowed me whole.  After presenting myself as a functional yet completely unhinged adult, I went home and considered joining a book club.  I came to my senses a few hours later and decided I needed to take a break.  Which is why, this week, I’m leaving behind all the stress and brokenness to focus on camels.

Sensible yes?

I love camels.

My favorite camel is a fellow named Curley.  In truth, he’s the only camel I’m in contact with these days.  He shows up in a local nursery every Christmas season and when he does, I go out of my way to visit him. Many times.  Frequently.  I first met Curley in 2013.  Life at that time was saturated in despair.  My family got caught up in the economic downturn and was one of the last to recover.  Loss, grief, death, perseverance and the mystery of unanswered prayer created a thick cloud over my family which was difficult to penetrate.  My only respite was found when I left the flat to woggle.  (Not running, not jogging, more an attempt at self-propulsion in an oxygen deprived state.)  For those moments, trying to breathe replaced the gloom.  On an afternoon run, when I had gotten myself well and truly lost, I happened across a nursery that had dressed up for Christmas.  Curious, I wandered inside.   

My visit to this garden center was a gift given at exactly the right time.  I walked inside and found refuge from the confusion that was my life.  With benches everywhere, I was able to sit outside and enjoy the trees and lights, people and peace without needing to interact with anyone directly.  After half an hour of wandering, I found myself by the edge of a coy pond when a young child walked by and told her mother she was ready to visit the camel.  Given that camels are not a regular sight in Seattle, I followed the pink, fleece-clad tour guide, to catch a glimpse of him.  

It’s hard to explain the next half hour.

There, in a hay covered stall stood Curley.  Camels are very large creatures and He was majestic.  At that moment he was holding court.  His minions, excited toddlers, were given pieces of brown bread to feed to his Majesty, should he stoop down to their level to accept their offerings: which he did.  If the whole experience had been about watching a camel eat bread, I might have tired of the affair.  Thankfully, it was so much more.  Curley was a camel with attitude.  A discerning eye might have caught the warning sign, stating that Curley had reach.  To be frank, camels have amazing mouths.  Their top lip is spit and both halves work independently to enable the camel to grasp his food.  Or in this case, slices of bread as well as the hats, scarves and mittens of small children.  The child would offer the bread, Curley would bend down to take it slowly, the child would then turn to mother and squeal with delight, at which point Curley would take full advantage of any unprotected body part to try to munch off any accessory he could get his mouth on.  The end result would be a shouting toddler, a laughing mother and a smug looking camel.  

It was delightful.  For that half hour, my darkness stood back as I watched Gods' creation on display.  A strangely shaped behemoth in need of an attitude adjustment, trying to steal hats from children.  The sheer silliness of it was balm to my frayed heart.    

As we launch into Thanksgiving and Christmas, my prayer for you dear friend, is that God would pierce the area that causes you despair.  There are many, many things wrong with our world today.  Few feel comfortable with the state of society on our small planet.   If we will set our hearts and minds towards thankfulness in the midst of a broken world, we will be more able to see and receive blessings.  It might be a simple visit from a loved one, a precious moment of clarity with a mind clouded by disease, or a ridiculous moment with a family pet.  These blessings, when strung together, have seen many a soul through dark and frightening times.

So I wish you a thoughtful Thanksgiving my friend.  That the Lord would give you the gift of a thankful heart.  A thankful heart is a good vehicle.  Like a camel, a thankful heart can navigate dry lands, steep hills and a tiresome journey.   It has the ability to go the distance with little support and encouragement.  But most importantly, a thankful heart is an oasis to those who are travelling on a broken road toward home.

I’m praying for you this week,

xoxKaren     
     

Hallowed Ground

Cookie Monster

Dear Friend,

I’m tucked in my living room at the moment, sitting on the settee with a cup of tea on the table beside me.  The rain is falling though we had a small break in the clouds two hours ago.  I was hoping the day would manage more blue sky before it started to get dark.  Not happening.  

Not that the rain bothers me much.  You can’t live on the pacific coast for 40 odd years and still have issues with rain, but tomorrow is Halloween: the combination of rain and candy harvesting can be difficult.  Am I allowed to confess to trick or treating, or is that too pagan for you?  Having been in the church most of my life, I’ve worn many hats in the church’s approach to Halloween.  From ignoring the holiday to harvest parties, candy drives to bouncy houses, volunteer burnout to neighborhood prayer walks, I’ve been there.  (Except the whole judgement/ hell house thing.  Never done that - not sorry.)  I most prefer the approach that gets me chocolate, but I’m shallow that way. Possibly apostate…

I was blessed to grow up in a small town, the population in the 1970’s was between 7 000 – 10 000 souls.  We didn’t have a lot of options for Halloween back then, things were basic.  Spending money on costumes was unheard of, normal children raided their parent’s closets and imagination filled in any missing details. 

My parents were from the old country, immigrating to Canada in the late 60’s, they never really left the 2nd world war behind.  If your parents were European, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  Your school lunches didn’t look like your friends', you had sensible shoes and it wasn’t a euphemism, and your family didn’t have a set of dishes.  As such, my mother grew up celebrating Guy Fawkes Day not Halloween.  She recounts tales going door to door to ask for “a penny for the guy”  to construct an effigy of the man, that would later be hurled onto a community bonfire as fireworks were set off. Granted, the practice seems perplexing, there is a deadly and complicated history to it but I assure you the memories are recounted fondly. 

I can say that costuming was not her strong suit, yet she managed to come up with costumes for 1-6 children over 33 years.  She wasn’t an amateur by any means.  Perhaps it is fair to say she started slowly.   The older children in my family remember the year my oldest sister couldn’t think of a costume.  My mother, suggested she dress as Madame Defarge from Tale of Two Cities.  In an uncharacteristically dark reenactment, my parents rigged my sister up with a head on a spike:  a Javex bottle wearing my mother’s wig mounted on the broom handle.  This was to give the less literate town members clear clues as to my sister’s identity.  We lived in a time when neighbors spoke directly to each child that came to their door and children were expected to answer.  My sister’s explanation of her costume started out strong, but as the evening progressed, she became discouraged by the interesting responses her outfit was garnering from the adults.  As if an 11 year old dressed as the physical embodiment of the blood lust of the French Revolution was something out of the ordinary. 

Our route Halloween night was simple, along our back street to visit the couple who gave you two dice to roll when you came to the door.  The number on the dice equaled the number of candies you could take from the candy bowl.  From there to the Bool's house, then up main street for a chat with Mr. and Mrs. Long.  Continue up the road and hang a left into the rec centre parking lot.  There, the firemen provided a free hot dog and a can of Crush to all who came to the serving window.  We would receive our hot dog joyfully and proceed to the bonfire,  tended by community minded men who kept our world safe.  Children wearing garbage bags were cautioned to stay away from sparks, while those wearing sheets were liberated by Dad’s who ripped the eye-holes so heads could be free from restrictive flammable fabric.  I clearly remember the heat from the fire, the thrill of being up late and the extravagance of an entire can of pop to myself.  It was childhood magic.

I wish I could go back and thank those volunteers.  Appreciation is a slow growing crop, I regret not being able to thank them face to face as an adult. A belated thank you, to the men and women who served in my town during those years.  You gave me the opportunity to experience childhood joy. You built into my heart a sense of community that haunts my urban world to this day. 

So my friend, I’m praying for you as you encounter Halloween this week.   That you glorify God and build your neighborhood, eat sugar and smile at strangers and thank the Lord for the grace that saved you and set you free from fear.

xoxKaren 

Rats!

It was the munching noise that woke me.  Whatever was snacking in my ceiling was directly above my bed.  Rubbing my eyes, I sat up and tilted my head toward the ceiling.  Silence.  Had I dreamt it?  I listened again and suddenly the sounds of munching and scurrying filled the room.  I groaned and threw myself back on my pillow. 

It was exactly the right time of year.  The rain had started in earnest and evening temperatures were dipping into the 40’s.  Precisely the time when rodents feel they should move indoors to prepare for winter. The chewing stopped and started again.  In the silence, the noise was incredibly loud.  Unclear what to do, I pulled up the covers and lay in the dark listening.  I really wanted Mr. Rat to leave, but I would be satisfied if he went to sleep.   My clock read 2:15.  What exactly are you supposed to do in the middle of the night when a rat is in the attic?

When I awoke the second time, the clock read 2:27.  Mr. Rat had invited a friend over for hors d’oeuvres.  I was getting mad. The covers around my head were uncomfortably hot, so I sat up and took off my cardigan.  I needed to do something.  I took a drink of water and sat in the dark listening to the sounds of vermin date night.   I wasn’t thinking too clearly at this point.  My head felt full of stuffing as I padded around to my husband’s side of the room and started to root around for his back scratcher.  I knocked over a glass of water and a couple of books before I found it.  My husband stirred slightly.  I smiled to myself.  We had come a long way since the early days in our marriage.  Back then, the least sound would have him running for the front door with a bat before he was even conscious.  I grabbed my weapon and headed across the bed.

I was waving the scratch stick at the ceiling, when I realized I was behaving like an idiot.  I decided if I stood on the bed and rapped the ceiling a few times, there was a small chance the rat couple might change location to the other side of the attic.  I stood up on the bed.  Except it didn’t happen that easily.  Standing up straight on a soft mattress isn’t easy at the best of times.  Standing up straight on a soft mattress when you are half asleep in the pitch black is like engaging in seniors balancing class.  I stood wobbling in the dark.  It was then I started to feel weird about my circumstances.  Reaching down to see if my sweater was nearby, I overbalanced and landed face first at the bottom of the bed.  My husband sighed and rolled over.  I sat still, face smashed in the covers, until his breathing slowed.  I stood up again.  Raising my left hand to the ceiling, I gained some stability. (I remember being pleased I could reach the ceiling whilst standing on my bed.  I’m short and I don’t spend much time near ceilings.)  I kept one hand on the ceiling and struck it twice with the end of the backscratcher.  The rats stopped munching.  Success!  The ceiling was more solid than I expected, making me think I could hit it a bit harder without waking my man.  I repeated the process, adding a bounce to each strike.  Suddenly, out of the darkness my husband asked, “Karen?  What exactly are you doing?” Startled, I jumped (again), landed criss-cross apple sauce on the bed beside him and thanked the good Lord for high quality drapes.

I had two options.  I could attempt to explain why I was ill clad, jumping up and down on the bed, smacking the ceiling with a backscratcher at 2:30 in the morning or I could say “Nothing, go back to sleep.”  Choosing the latter seemed the fastest way to get out of an embarrassing situation.  He must have been really tired because he mumbled “with pleasure” under his breath, rolled over and was out again.

When I woke up the next morning, I trotted to the kitchen to make myself tea and grabbed my phone to call the exterminator. Reflecting on my behavior, I’m still uncertain what I should have done.  It would have made more sense I guess, to go into another room to sleep and waited until daylight to deal with the intruders.  But sometimes, darkness makes us do strange things.  I’d never been awoken in the middle of the night by munching rats, it was a bit surreal.  I was doing what seemed right at the time.

This week as I have been walking alongside a handful of friends that are struggling, I have thought about how we behave in the dark.  More specifically, I have thought about some of the ways I behaved in the depth of my family’s crisis those years ago.  A casual observer would have had ample cause to wonder about my behavior, my susceptibility and intentions.    But those whom God sent to help me were able to see past my situation.  They could hear the fears that haunted me, could cover my vulnerability and could come along side in ways that brought me through the long dark night.   I will be forever thankful.

And you my friend, do you have anyone in your life who has hit upon a dark season?  Continue to ask God for the grace to love, the courage to stand, and the weapons to fight until the light comes on again.

I’m praying for you this week,

xoxKaren

Manure Mess

Hello Friend! 

My goodness, it‘s ages since we chatted.  I confess I got attacked by September.  It’s a peculiar month.  Each fall I engage in home school visions of cozy family breakfasts followed by hyper spiritual devotions before school.  It never turns out that way.  In reality, it takes all the strength I have to pry myself from my bed as the leaves change and the sky turns slate grey.  Most prayers rising from my house come from my children, begging God to keep me away from their bedrooms so they can sleep 5 minutes longer.  It’s a spiritual time but not in the way you’d imagine.

Though I wake them with a cup of tea and a chipper attitude each morning, someone is always cross about being conscious, as if it were a rare occurrence.  I soldier on though, dodging estrogen ladened comments and critical levels of teenage hormones, a valiant warrior set on conquering the teen years.  The task seems endless and thankless, truthfully, but not much is going as I’d imagined these days.  What about you?  How are you fairing?

Some of my closest friends are blazing through trials and tribulations while I try to find my shoes and offer support.  At times I feel lame.  Last week I prayed for a friend in Haiti as hurricane Matthew drew near and spent part of Saturday praying for another in Charleston as Matthew passed off shore.  The storm knocked out communication so I turned on the news.  That only made matters worse, everyone was speaking in hyperbole without giving any information. 

Since Friday the problem has only increased. Listening to news is like being dipped in vomit.  Lies, vulgarity and opinions are everywhere.  The reporters are repeating the day’s nonsense, adding layers of commentary to words that are best left to rot on the floor.  What I need to do is turn off the radio.   

My youngest daughter helped clarify my thoughts while we were cleaning the barn this week.  When I say “cleaning the barn” I’m using a euphemism.  What I mean is that I used a rake and picked up vast quantities of horse manure and deposited them in a wheelbarrow.  Then, I waded through steams of horse urine and emptied the full wheel barrow of poop on a horse poo mountain and went back and repeated the process.  Many times over.   It is messy work, when it’s raining, it can be miserable.

Last week we had three new horses at the barn.  Instead of cleaning for 9, we were cleaning for 12.  On top of that, bad weather meant the stalls weren’t cleaned for two days.  When we arrived at the barn, it was a heck of a mess.  I’m not going to describe the scene but my heart wilted just a fraction.  But, we got to work, pulling bedding into buckets and getting the wheel barrows ready.

My youngest is new to this kind of work.  She gets stellar marks for enthusiasm but her skill set is being built so it takes a bit of instruction to get her through a stall.  Which is why she and I paired off and worked on the stall of a beast named Jackson.  After leading Jackson outside, my little returned and looked inside.  “Ugh,” she muttered.  “I know it’s bad,” I agreed.  “But you take that corner and I’ll start over here.  We can put the wheelbarrow in the middle and do the stall together.”   “Thanks Mummy,” she replied, pleased to have help.  We set to shoveling.  A moment later I was called from the stable.  I ran out to the ring to help a friend and returned a few minutes later. 

Did I mention my youngest is honing the skill of accuracy?  It’s easy to shovel manure, but her older sisters, who have a years’ experience, toss rake-fulls of dung into the wheelbarrow at an impressive distance.  This knowledge might explain why my youngest, upon hearing me enter the stall, turned and hurled a rake full of warm horse dung at my chest.  Rake control is the second skill my youngest lacks. Without knowing this, you might have been surprised to watch the rake slip from her fingers as she stumbled forward to retrieve it.  Retrieve it she did, just in time to grasp it and jab it into my unprotected squishy middle parts.  An innocent bystander might have thought she was trying to destroy the Pillsbury dough boys’ evil manure twin with a rake. 

What followed was a fair amount of screaming.  I didn’t say anything because I had horse dung up my neck and headed for the hose. Not sure what else to say about the experience my dear friend.  It was thoroughly unpleasant.

That’s what I was thinking this week as I scoured the inter-web.  “This is unpleasant.”  People are throwing around a lot of dung and stabbing people with their words.  It isn’t easily dismissed either, words hurt and emotions are running high.  I’ve decided it’s a hard time.

I was expressing my Canadian amazement at the American political system when my girlfriend sent me a most useful text.  “We need to you be patient with us, we are trying.”  From that moment, I’ve tried to imagine Jesus sitting in on all my discussions, political or otherwise.  Guarding my tongue is easier when I picture him alongside me.  I’m reminded it is easier to be silent than to clean up a mess of words. 

So I’m praying for you this week my friend.  That you turn off the radio and enjoy conversation with those you love.  Say something kind to someone grumpy this week.  Clean up a pile of dung, mind your tongue and don’t stab any anyone by accident. 

Thinking of you,

xoxKaren

PS.  Happy Thanksgiving Canada.  I miss you so much. 

Photo: Manure, a field in Randers in Denmark  

2005-06-23

Credit Malene Thyssen

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Malene

     

Squirrely

Chocolate Infused Squirrel

Hello Friend!

How was your week?  We had a change in the weather here and are definitely feeling fall’s approach.  I’ve emptied most of the boxes from the move and feel like I’m ready for the new school year.  
Mostly ready.  
Kind of ready. 
Sort of.

A wave of domesticity struck me this week, so I felt the need to bake.  The fact that I don’t know where anything lives in my new kitchen did not stop me.  Instead, I pulled things from the cupboard and stuck them on the floor as I went.  I hunted for my muffin pans and cookie sheets, stacking piles of French white and mason jars all over creation.  Forty minutes into the adventure, I had a deadly game of hopscotch happening across the lino.  By the time the first wave of baking came out of the oven, there wasn’t a counter to be found.  No problem, as the happy owner of a deck, I put the cookie sheets outside to cool.  

That is where I made my first mistake.  The naturalists amongst us will remember that fall is a time when many of God’s creatures are preparing for winter.  As such, the furry beings are harvesting and storing every nut, bulb and root they can get their mitts on.  My garden backs onto a green space that appears to act as a freeway for every squirrel within 15 miles.  At any given moment I can look outside and see at least three of the fluffy beggars.  In fact, one such beast uprooted my basil plant last week in order to store his January lunch in my planter.  Exactly why I thought it would be a good idea to put a rack of chocolate oatmeal cookies outside is beyond me.   But that is what I did.

Not surprisingly, when tea time rolled around and I told my little to grab the cookies from outside, mayhem followed.   “Oh my gosh what are you doing?” was the first shout I heard.  Looking out the window I saw a rather portly squirrel balancing on the edge of the cookie sheet.  Standing in a pile of cocoa and oat dust, he looked surprised to have been interrupted. My daughter was livid and scolded him for stealing her treats.  The squirrel, who was now hovering on the verge of a diabetic coma, roused himself and scampered across the yard and up the fence.  Still furious, my daughter continued to hurl insults at the cocoa encrusted beast.  By this time, my husband and I went outside to quiet her down.  

Hubby and I were discussing my unmerited faith in animal kind when suddenly, a hawk plunged from the heavens and landed on our fence about 10 feet from our heads.  More shouting.  It seems that Mr. Hawk had spied the chocolate infused squirrel on the brink of a sugar black out and decided to chance an assassination attempt despite our proximity.  Blessedly, Chocolate Squirrel had enough sense to jump left.  Hawk missed squirrel and flew to a nearby tree.   I can only imagine what would have happened if Foodie Hawk had managed to get his talons on Chocolate Squirrel in front of my Angry Child.  More shouting and high decibel amazement ensued. I called off tea time and headed inside to pour an adult beverage.  

Not all of my afternoons involve a nature documentary unfolding in my back yard.  When I was thinking it over that evening, I was struck by how human Chocolate Squirrel’s behavior seemed. He was one naughty and blessed squirrel: kind of like some people I know.  One thing lead to another and before I knew it, I was looking through my hymnal to find an old song.  

Unique to Christianity, is the plan created by the Father to save his creation. Sin created a rift between God and humanity that could not be closed by man’s good works.  The Father sent His Son, to pay the debt for mankind so that his followers might live at peace with God.  One could spend a lifetime trying to comprehend the grace of God.  

So amazing is this grace, so beautiful is the concept, that in recent years it has become unfashionable to mention sin in some of our churches.  Questions for self-examination no longer exist in many prayer closets.   Repentance is no longer a part of prayer.  Suggesting a behavior change is thought to be a form of legalism as we are all now under grace.  It is understandable but dangerous.  Stand-out-in-the-open- gorging-yourself-on-chocolate-oat-cookies-until-a-hawk-swoops-down-and-eats-you kind of dangerous.  

Loving God means being thankful for His grace.  Spending time before Him, asking for forgiveness for my failings, confessing where I have been mean spirited does not diminish His completed work in my life.  Bringing my brokenness before him in prayer means I can experience the truth of what I am, the greatness of my God and His unconditional mercy that makes me ever more thankful.  Sometimes the old hymns say it best,

-Jesus Paid it All -

I hear the Savior say,
“Thy strength indeed is small;
Child of weakness, watch and pray,
Find in Me thine all in all.”

Jesus paid it all,
All to Him I owe;
Sin had left a crimson stain,
He washed it white as snow.

For nothing good have I
Whereby Thy grace to claim,
I’ll wash my garments white
In the blood of Calv’ry’s Lamb.

And now complete in Him
My robe His righteousness,
Close sheltered ’neath His side,
I am divinely blest.

Lord, now indeed I find
Thy power and Thine alone,
Can change the leper’s spots
And melt the heart of stone.

When from my dying bed
My ransomed soul shall rise,
“Jesus died my soul to save,”
Shall rend the vaulted skies.

And when before the throne
I stand in Him complete,
I’ll lay my trophies down
All down at Jesus’ feet.   
Elvina M. Hall, 1865. 

It's a good song.  

Praying for you this week.

xoxKaren

When Dreams Die

The house was large: I don’t know many that sport a four car garage.   It stood in the shadow of a hill, on a quiet street in a beloved town.  With a price tag of over a million dollars, it was likely to sit silent a while longer.  The lot was empty when I last visited, the house a dream that had yet to be put on paper.  

Residents say the couple moved to their town in order to build their dream home.  Without any real information, speculation and conjecture roam freely.  It should be noted both are deleterious and destructive.  All that is certain is by the time the dream house was standing, the relationship behind it was razed to the ground.  Divorce and relocation followed and now the house sits empty waiting for new love to fuel new dreams.

We walked by in the twilight as the crickets began their evensong, the sprinklers providing percussive accompaniment.  The scene was beautiful but the sadness was overwhelming.  The dream was achieved but the relationship behind it was gone.  

Quotes about dreams are endless, some are poignant and others are pure bunk; google it if you want to invest/waste some time.  I am convinced that dreams are tied in part to relationships.  Though dreaming is a solitary activity, it takes the investment of others to achieve them.  It seems there must be a balance between the two.

Christianese is a peculiar language.  One for the phrases endlessly repeated is life with Jesus “is all about relationship.”  Though true, I find the phrase unhelpful at times.  When I’m in the emergency room, lost in a phone tree trying to pay a bill and waiting for a friend to arrive to take a child to co-op, I’m not always sure what my “relationship with Jesus” has to do with anything. Though when I consider dreams and relationships, my uncertainty diminishes.

Webster’s defines dreams as “an idea or vision that is created in your imagination and that is not real” or “something that you have wanted very much to do, be, or have for a long time.”  Most of the connotations are positive.  We are encouraged to spend our lives making our dreams a reality.  The self-help section is filled with publications on the subject. The notion of fulfilling your dreams and changing your life is popular.  Those who are blessed to see the fulfillment of a dream can experience an elation and satisfaction that is life changing.  It is a rich and rewarding experience.

Not all dreams however, are taken from our hearts and brought to fruition. Many dreams are cast upon the shores of providence and are washed in on a tide of disappointment.  Other dreams die slowly as time and resources are reallocated.  When loss and grief pierce the silver lining of a dream, what is a body to do?  

I’m not certain where in Christianity the monstrous lie of a perfect life starts.  Many believe it is a side effect of prosperous churches.  Somehow we are entrenched in the notion that if we behave properly and honor the Lord, disaster will keep its distance.  Sadly nothing could be farther from the heart of the gospel.  Yet insidiously the belief persists until the storm clouds gather.  When misfortune strikes, our relationship with the Lord becomes strained.  We are faced with endless questions regarding His care, concern and character.  We are faced with the death of a dream and a confused relationship.  It is a heart-wrenching place to be.  

Dear friend, if clouds are crossing your skies could I remind you about a few things about your relationship with your Creator?

He is not confused.  Your heart ache and frustration with him does not cause Him discouragement.  He understands it completely.  He is not angry.  You might be furious and done with Him.  He is not done with you.  His wrath has been satisfied through the cross.  He will shore up the lack you are experiencing. Though you do not know to maintain your relationship with Him, He will see you through, He will remain faithful.  

Your relationship with the Lord is eternal.  Scripture paints a picture in the 49th chapter of Isaiah, discussing Israel He writes, 

Can a mother forget the baby at her breast

and have no compassion on the child she has borne?

Though she may forget, I will not forget you!

See, I have engraved you on the palm of my hands;

your walls are ever before me.

Isaiah 49:15-16

This the heart behind God’s relationship with His people: eternal and unfailing.  His grace is given freely, His forgiveness is given endlessly and is love is given relentlessly.  

Dreams are born, change with time, and perish.  Much like homes they are built, renovated, and disassembled over time. Unlike a dream that exists for a season, His relationship with you lasts beyond the grave.  This foundation gives us the ability to hope and dream again.

I’m thinking of you this week,

xoxKaren

From Trash to Treasure

Objet d' art 

One of my most valuable possessions sits on my bathroom counter.  When I brush my teeth in the morning I catch sight of it and smile.  (No, it’s not my toothbrush charger.  And no, I still haven’t found it yet thank you for asking.) Given as a gift, wrapped in newspaper, my daughter sat beside me shaking with excitement until I opened it.  
“Do you like it mummy?” she asked, twirling around the room, blonde curls bouncing in every direction.  
“Absolutely,” I replied, bending down to kiss her little head. 
“It’s very special and I made it just for you.” She smiled at me conspiratorially, as if she had at last fulfilled an unmet desire.  Hopping sideways and grabbing her foot, she continued “You don’t have to share it.”  
“You are very thoughtful and I will not share it at all.  I will hide it in here and keep it all to myself.”  She giggled at my new found selfishness and hopped out of the room, misjudging the corner and bouncing off the door.  Her head missed the doorjamb by an inch and I winced reflexively.  Examining the treasure in my hands I was aware of two things.  One: I had no idea what this thing was and two: I loved it.  I thought some more.  Nope.  No closer to enlightenment.  Sitting with my objet d’art, I thanked the Lord for my creative little creature.

She showed her love of junk at an early age.  While other children played with dolls, my daughter would build imaginary worlds out of tin foil and thread.  Civilizations created out of paper drew water out of bottle cap wells that reached into the earth's core.  Rocks were mined with precision and lint cattle were corralled in yogurt containers that doubled sailing vessels.  When she was old enough to wield a glue gun there was no world that child could not conquer.  Childhood magic runs deep in her heart.

But while I wasn’t looking, something happened.  This child, master of rubbish and rubble started to create.  She acquired skill and resources, talent and treasures and I stand amazed.  What was little, fat and adorable became refined and beautiful.  I sit. I wonder.  I cry.  It happened without my doing.

As September rushes to embrace us, many parents are thinking about their once little people.  It is hard to accept they have grown.  We look at their faces and see shades of chubby cheeks and runny noses.  We recall their tantrums and triumphs, we wonder how they will do without us.  Behind the nostalgia lurks an anxiety, what about their brokenness?  Where will it take them?

We are told that the God sees us hidden in Christ. No amount of self-cleansing or atonement will make us acceptable to the Father, it is a gift bestowed to us by faith in Jesus the Messiah.  Yet as parents, faith in Jesus can dim when we look at our families.  This month is a trial for many who are launching their children.  It takes faith to let them go.  Their sin looms large in our minds and causes fear to rise.  Fear speaks loudly and drowns out the voice of the Father.  If your heart is aching for your child and your nerves are raw at the thought of launching them might I take a moment to speak to your heart?

Dearest Parent, what a job you have done with your child.  What success and trials you have known.  Did you ever believe you would make it this far?  I pray you would come to know God will continue to watch over your child.  That you would find peace knowing He loves your babe more than you do.  His plans for them are for good and growth.  He is not surprised by their weakness, He purposes to use it for their good and His glory.  I pray that Jesus would speak peace and joy to your heart as you learn anew to pray for your child.  That they would rise up and exceed your expectations and bring you joy.  May peace rest on your sore heart during this season.   

Summer has flown too quickly and I was thinking of how my children have grown.  In truth, I can’t spend much time on such thoughts without tears. Dear Friend stand with me, be strong and have faith.  There are good times ahead.  Your child will launch and there will be good fruit.  Beautiful things are yet to be created. Though parts of their heart are ugly and without form, God makes all things beautiful in His time.  I pray that we will have the faith to stand strong while sad, to sing loudly in the dark and await what the future holds. 

I’m praying for you this week,

xoxKaren

10 years later