Christmas Reflections

The church is full on Christmas Eve. Elbow to elbow, friends and family nudge in to make space for late-comers. A trio of angels surround the Advent candle circle, gleaming in the soft light of early evening. 

In a lovely piece of encircling grace, the same family whom I wrote about way back when lit the Christ candle for this first Christmas Eve service in 20+ years where I have no role to play. That year they were new to our community. This year, he is the new associate pastor and his little ones are almost all grown up.

That final singing of "Silent Night" is always moving to me, watching the light spread throughout the room, reminding me

each time that the smallest candle can light the way. Just the smallest of flame, in a sea of darkness.

The next day, I watch from the kitchen as the morning sun lights up the soft honeyed-hues of the hardwood floor, bouncing off the ornaments on our fully-loaded tree. Just three of us for Christmas breakfast - my husband, my mother and me.

She comes to the table shivering a little bit - she always shivers when she comes here, even if it's August - because at 90, she is always cold. But we've turned on the small gas fireplace near the breakfast table and she soon warms enough to smile and sit down to eat.

I've made pumpkin waffles - made them on her small waffle maker which I just moved from her house to mine. She is nearly blind, needs hearing aids, and is so forgetful that cooking is getting to be hazardous, so we're moving her into an assisted living apartment the first week of 2012.

To see her like this causes me physical pain. Always bright, charming, funny, beautiful, my mother is now a worried, frail, confused old woman. And she knows it. She is frightened by it and frequently in tears.

But breakfast is good - she eats 4 squares of waffle, adding whipped cream and fresh berries to a couple of them, and seems quite content. This is the most she has eaten in several days and it gives me a strange feeling of comfort to be able to give her something that suits her, that makes her want more.

There isn't much room for 'more' in her life just now. She can barely manage what is. In fact, the tension surrounding this move has made every symptom worse and I wonder - will settling into this new space bring improvement? Stability? Less worry for me and less fear for her?

We spend much of Christmas day doing quiet things - napping for mom, computer work for me. I open the back gate so that she can go out and wish my brother a Merry Christmas. My youngest brother, the one who died two years ago and whose ashes are buried beneath a fledgling oak in our side yard. My brother who had no life when he died - housed in a sober living residence, loving AA, dealing with a severely damaged heart. He died in his sleep one early October morning and my mother has not been the same since that hard day.
We drive to my daughter's home in the late afternoon sunlight, admiring the crystal clear view of the Channel Islands as we cruise down the 101. It's beautiful out there, and beauty brings its own kind of comfort, reminders of goodness and life and Something/Someone bigger than we are.

The children are wild and wonderful when we arrive - glad to see us, making us feel welcome and loved. My small mom, who had dissolved in tears almost immediately after speaking with my remaining brother by phone earlier that afternoon - she breaks out in a sunny smile, clapping her hands to see the energy and liveliness of my grandchildren as they play together.
After the food, after the crazy-making ripping through paper and ribbon and box and bag, we all help mom out to the car that will carry her home through the night. She has trouble navigating the uneven flagstone walkway, so a son and a son-in-law both offer cell phone flashlights, I offer a strong arm, my husband goes ahead to open car doors. I help her up into her seat - she is shivering again in the frosty night air - and I buckle her seat belt. There. She is safely stowed for the last leg of this long weekend journey.
But really, is my mother safe? No, I don't think so. There is nothing safe about the fragility of her life, there is nothing safe about slowly coming unraveled, there is nothing safe about losing yourself, piece by agonizing piece.

"God alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress where I will never be shaken," the psalmist sings out.

Perhaps there is safety there. Yes, I will choose to believe that. In every way that truly counts, my mother is safe, she will never be shaken. 

Even when she stumbles, even when the tears come, even when she forgets who I am, even when she forgets who she is.

Even then. 

Even then...

I am more thankful than I can possibly put into words to be heading out of town for four days with my husband and our oldest daughter and her family. We need a spell away from these concerns that hang heavy so much of the time. I may find time to write while we're gone and I may not. We're bringing some projects to work on - I got a new scanner for Christmas and my eldest grandson is going to help me figure out how to use it. Because, you see, I have literally THOUSANDS of old photos/negatives/slides that need to be digitized and stored. And we're bringing some watercolor supplies. Dick and I don't 'do' art, but Lisa and her crew? They're all gifted and love to spend time just dinking around with simple instructions and basic art supplies. So we'll try it - maybe we'll like it! I am posting this today with quite a list of friends because I don't know when I'll post again this week. And then the next week, I move my mom. So, those of you who know me enough to pray for me, I'd appreciate your thoughts over these days, both the restful ones and the stressful ones. I will, as always, carry you with me as I go.

Wondering at Christmas

For the last several months, I've had the pleasure and the privilege of connecting with a smaller circle of bloggers through the kind invitation of Seth Haines, over at his Collective blog. Anyone who subscribes to his blog by email is invited to write about their own journey in an email round-up each month. I gotta tell you, there is some wonderful stuff offered in that space. Seth and his wife Amber are both wonderful writers, showing up all over the place, at A Deeper Story and (in)Courage and I am grateful for their kindness to me each month. I went back in and read what I added for December and thought I'd put a piece of it out in this place, just for the heck of it. I liked what I wrote, and I don't always. So I offer it, with a few tweaks, as a very small Christmas gift to you tonight. This month, we were invited to write about our experience of Advent in 2011, and this was written before I made the trip south to pack things for my mom.

Wondering. That's what I'm doing a lot of this Advent.

In both senses of that word.

I am wondering how to help my failing mama make a move to assisted living. The physical part is easy - I'll travel 250 miles round trip this week, spend three days and clear out her cupboards and closets. Her apartment is small, her possessions few. I can do this part. The emotional part? That's a lot tougher. Finding that inner centered place of calm and quiet, speaking words of peace and comfort from that place, not giving in to either frustration or sorrow. That takes intentionality, that takes care. I'm praying both will appear in abundance over the next three weeks.

I am wondering about other family members who are facing into difficult decisions in weeks ahead, people I love and admire, some of them Jesus followers, some of them not.  How can I help? How can I listen?

I am wondering about how to more fully live into whatever 'retirement' means - to write good words, to listen well to directees and to the Spirit, to be present for my family, to carve out sufficient time and space for my own inner health.

BUT...but... 

I am also wondering at the immensity of God's love and the scandal of his Grand Plan.

I am wondering at the quietness of a starry night, at the obedience of gnarly shepherds and foreign kings, at the day-by-day, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other faith of a small-town carpenter and a teenaged girl, great with child.

I am wondering at the singing sky, the celestial company who ring out words of peace and comfort, the messengers of God who serve as sentinels for GLORY.

I am wondering how to receive this infant king, this One who comes in the way that each of us comes - bursting forth from the cocoon of pulsing blood and salty water into the harshness of cold air, pungent with the scent of life-on-earth.

How can I embrace this One who embraces me and all of life?

How can I say, 'Welcome,' and 'Thank you,' and 'Bless me, O Lord, for I have sinned' to One so small, so innocent, so vulnerable?

I am wondering if I can make space inside my heart-of-hearts for a baby's bed, clean and comfy, well-lit and protected, welcoming and warm. I do so want to do that, just that.

Even so, come Lord Jesus. Come.

Merry Christmas, everyone! May the WONDER of the Story brighten your day and the year ahead.
 

'Tis the Season...

Monday evening, Christmas Day, 2006

It's been a quiet Christmas at Lake Woebegon. A lovely Christmas, in its own way, but a quiet one, nonetheless. We gathered with our kids on Saturday night, at our daughter's home in Monrovia, 2 hours south of here. Eric, Rachel and Grace had safely packed, shipped off their belongings from east coast to west and landed in Long Beach the afternoon before. Mark had further medical tests that same day, Lisa and Joy took my mom out to a Christmas tea at the Huntington Library, and Dick and I had worked quietly at home in preparation for our long day south. I say quietly - that's excluding the sound of the jackhammer ripping out (v-e-r-y, very s-l-o-o-o-w-ly) the marble floor tiles I have despised since we purchased this house almost 10 years ago. (Marble is cold, hard and unforgiving - to fine china and small children. We will soon have hardwood flooring throughout.) And, of course, we waited most of that day for the electricians to re-connect our internet service, our exterior lights and the tv in our bedroom - all of which disappeared from service the day before. Only the first of many such small mishaps over the next few months, I'm sure.

We gathered as an immediate family Saturday night, already stuffed and over stimulated from an earlier-that-same-day gathering with my mom, my brothers and my sister-in-law, niece and nephew. It was delightful to all be together - for the first time in two years - and we all enjoyed watching the babies toddle their way through the happy confusion.


Griffin is 15 months old, very attached to mom but willing to make friends, if you give him enough time. His lovely strawberry blond hair is growing in to form an interesting sort of mohawk effect.

Gracie is 14 months old, very social and tries her darnedest to charm the socks off every single person in the room. She also sports one of the spiffiest bed-heads since her father was a wee one. (She's just up from a long nap - jet-lag, don't you know - in these shots.)

We had had Italian food with the larger clan and everyone was stuffed by the time we celebrated together, so we just went straight for all those presents. The 8 years olds in our midst each received 3 different Star Wars light swords from various family units and proceeded to light-slice their way through the house while the rest of us enjoyed the rest of the gift-opening a little bit more quietly. It was a good day, all of us glad to be together in one space again. We headed for Santa Barbara around 8:45, tired and grateful.

Christmas Eve was a busy and beautiful day, with a single morning service and a brief candlelight service at 5:00. I was probably the only person who really missed serving communion by candlelight, but was still moved to tears by the lifting of our lit candles during the last verse of "Silent Night." Dick and I had lunch at the Samarkand with his mom, so enjoyed soup and fresh pears for our Christmas eve supper.

Today was the quietest of all. Just the two of us this morning, sleeping in a little, enjoying the treat of Jeannine's scones and homemade hot chocolate for breakfast, then taking Dick's Mom out for a delicious turkey dinner on the pier at 1:00 p.m. It was a gloriously beautiful day and we enjoyed watching the birds and the sailors whilst we ate. We took Mama home and then drove downtown for a 3:30 showing of "The Pursuit of Happyness," an excellent and heartwarming story which seemed appropriate for today somehow. And it's been a quiet evening, restful and relaxing.

Tomorrow the jackhammer starts again, and we may try to take in one more flick before we check in at work on Wednesday. In the meantime, we're enjoying the sweetness of quiet for a little while longer.

Here's a look at our space as of now:

The kitchen, looking east, toward the hall and backyard.

The kitchen, looking into the living room. This entire doorway and wall will come out once the furnace ducts are moved tomorrow.

The family room, down to the studs, looking toward where the new laundry room will be built and the door opened to the new garage. We're trying to salvage these two banks of cabinets for use in the new garage. We put all other old cabinets into the dumpster.

A brief addendum: as of 10:21 a.m. Tuesday the 26th, there are NO workers in view. Sigh.

A second brief addendum: as of 10:35 a.m. Tuesday the 26th, 2 faithful furnace fixers showed up and worked hard all day, clearing out the no-longer-needed-ducts and reconfiguring our existing furnace for shorter distance coverage without burning up. :>) Maybe tomorrow, we'll cut through the remaining beams/walls.