The Work of Christmas 
by Howard Thurman

When the song of the angels is stilled, 

When the star in the sky is gone, 
When the kings and princes are home, 

When the shepherds are back with their flock, 
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart.

as quoted here

best

And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth (John 1:14 KJV)

Usually the rule is: get dressed first then comes breakfast and stories. But it never fails, that when I give in on that rule, things go poorly.

Sam requested eggs and scrambled them. Priya cooked them. The eggs were hot so I let them eat first. Which they didn't eat until the eggs were lukewarm. Aware of the potential difficulties they usually have getting ready promptly, I wondered if they would promise to please get ready quickly after the story. Oh yes, they promised. And I read the story I promised I would read - sometime, not necessarily yesterday or today, but sometime this week. I read it today. I would keep the promise I made yesterday that I would read the book.

As if on cue, things turn south. The nerve-jarring mental game of coaxing them to dress their bodies. (That's a nice way of talking about nagging) If they fail to remove their stinky socks from the previous day, no one blames them at school. They look to the mother who didn't remind them. When they walk in without hats and gloves, they get pity and their mother gets the blame. So I coax and set deadlines and walk out the door and start the vehicle. They bellow at me from the door that they are missing this item or that. I didn't wear any of that last. But I am the mother and as a general rule, mother's need to have these things in order. Or at least have their children disciplined well enough to be able to put things away.

At least seven minutes later than it should have been, we left for school. Me lecturing about keeping my promise and reading them the story and them breaking theirs by wasting their minutes doing something other than getting dressed. They having the good sense to keep their  mouths shut.

The irony occurred to me shortly. Perhaps in my finite way, could I understand what God feels like. Without all my self ambition of course. Is it nearly sacrilege to describe this in that manner?

He gives His best. First a perfect gorgeous paradise. His humans gravitate to the ONE thing they should not do. He knows this and comes up with a long-range solution. After many years, He sends His best again: His only Son. As a peasant baby among the animals. To die the death only horrid perverse criminals are assigned to. Then nobody got it. He came to heal and restore and redeem. They were looking for heads to roll and a big display.

Now we still don't get it. Some are too fixated on preparations for a nice time. Shopping. Wrapping, Performances. Traditions. A few loud ones are busy kicking God in the teeth, burning themselves out obsessing about creches in public places and policing the words of well-wishers. Still more are just looking for a good chance to knock themselves out with one amusement or another and to have a day or two off of the daily grind.

The grace and mercy of the God of the Universe cannot be imagined by mortal minds.He keeps giving his best and we forget, get preoccupied, get straight-up belligerent to Him.  Whew! He still offers forgiveness and doesn't wipe us off the face of the planet.

Thankfully God has everything under control...unlike me. Perhaps- no for sure- He could help me with some motivation for something as small as getting ready for school. And oh how terribly grateful I stand that God always keeps His promises.

hope

"The gospel gives me hope, and hope is not a language the dark voices understand." (Andrew Peterson (as quoted from here)

thinking thoughtfully about Christmas

I'd like to credit Bethannie for bringing this to attention...thanks

middle age

Middle age disturbs me quite a bit. Haunts me.
I don't fear being flabby and out of shape. I'm already there.
I'm not tempted by motor homes or vacations with other white hairs somewhere south. How dull.
Could it be that it's the selfishness I fear?
Not that I'm not already horrendously self-serving.
But observing others, I see this:
You raise your kids. You retire from your job. You find you have some extra cash. You need something to do.
Less energy. More aches. So you turn inward.
"I deserve something nice."
"I raised my kids and put in my time." 
"I worked hard these past 50 years."
Can someone remind me in a few years that I am in process of rotten worthlessness if that is my pursuit?
If it takes watching someone else's kids to remind me of real life. If it takes selling off a few more items in my lifelong collection of stuff. If it takes giving up an evening at home dozing in front of the tube. (that might be a stretch)

Now to trim a bit more self-attentiveness of my current life that is centered around many small children.

two years for El

 

Two grandpas, two grandmas and two aunts attended the celebration. She ate at least two strawberry cupcakes along with her pizza. And she smiled at least twice.

two soap boxes

small print (I'm stepping up now to my pedestal, where, fortunately for most of the world, it won't interrupt much. But it will get the issues off my chest)

 I have to admit, straight up, that I am lazy and undisciplined. And our upstairs generally tends toward cold when the temperature is cold outside. And we own a down comforter. At five a.m., my bed never feels most cozy. But it works well to get up at this time. And so after I sometimes help Mark pack his lunch and breakfast, it's a good idea for me to not head back to bed. So the point is, while I enjoy warm beds and sleep, there are far more profitable things for me to do with my time. In fact, almost every time I hear someone moaning about how little uninterrupted sleep they get, I think of a quote I heard once. A very old lady, in her 90s, who had raised several children mentioned that sleep was overrated and she intended to sleep when she was old and in the home. Since we read the Little House books fairly often, I often remind myself that 150 years ago, the modern convenience of a furnace that heated the whole house didn't exist yet in the average home. Nor did house insulation. In addition to that, I have undisciplined children who were never taught at a young age to go get in their beds and sleep many hours on end at just the snap of my fingers. Therefore, they get up at night sometimes. Sometimes they are needy and need to be held. Sometimes they get scared. Sometimes they cough all night. I guess those are things that come with children. Sleep is good in a warm bed with a down comforter, but some things are more important. For now.


Which is why I get slightly annoyed at the massive amounts of griping among parents at their babies and small children who don't let them sleep 10 hours uninterrupted.


Which leads me to wonder this: if you wanted a perfectly predictable life, why did you have children? Keep a goldfish. When they kick off, you pitch them out. They don't talk or cry or ask you to tie their shoes and zip their coat or request a glass of milk. In fact you only really need to feed them once a week and if you don't, they aren't going to complain. And goldfish never close their eyes to sleep.


My second complaint lies with giving to charity. Apparently the current trend is to be down on Operation Christmas Child boxes. They promote American consumerism and the organization itself has some issues. I guess they've been known to switch items from one box to another. The poor children who might get those boxes might have been the slave labor that put together the cheap plastic junky toys in the boxes they receive. Those are all probably good points. Some are also concerned about the political correctness of connecting the sharing of the Gospel with getting a box of hygiene items and toys. To top it all off, the founder of the organization once equated a certain world religion that is known for blowing people up and the word "evil". Scandalous really.


But I guess I'd rather give and think that maybe the recipient who was getting the toothbrush and sparkling toothgel I packed in a shoebox, wouldn't normally get such things otherwise. 


My real problem with giving involves the gift giving campaign that my county is heading up. The newspaper that came today had a story on the front. The same advertisement was hanging up on the church bulletin board. I still remember following mom around the store picking out things for one of those children when I was younger. These needy children has specific wants. Not just any old shoebox of goods would do. Mom said later that she was buying things for other people's children that she probably wouldn't buy for hers. A few years ago, I was waiting near the doors of a store where a tree was set up with tags listing specific gifts that specific children of specific ages wanted. Really, you need a video game system. A DS or DX or whatever it was called was at the top of the list of things you were asking random strangers to give you to make you feel loved and wanted. While your parents watch TV with more stations than I could afford and you talk on your own cell phone. 


Yes, my criticism does lie in a deep-seated problem I have with giving where there isn't a need. Perhaps I need to look around for some place that needs volunteers to read books to children as gifts or ties shoes and changes diapers free of charge. Is there anyone looking for volunteers to supervise playdough play or to be available at whim to fill glasses of milk? 


I guess I'm still going to fill up those two red and green boxes the kids brought home from school. Sam's been asking when we can go fill them. Priya wants to make sure that this year, we do one for a boy and one for a girl. I still count a hairbrush and pony holders, hard candy and colored pencils as needs. I want my kids to know that much of the world lives on very little. I don't want them to think even for a second that Christmas is about making a large list of wants and expecting to see those things in wrapping paper on Christmas Day.


Maybe the heart of the issue lies in this: when a person or group sees a need and rallies some others to fulfill the need instead of petitioning the county commissioners to lend a bit more cash or the state legislators to ramp up the welfare allowance, things are done more efficiently. 

(I am now stepping down from the podium. There is a massive pile of clothes to be tackled in the basement) 

on child rearing

Gary Thomas, author of Devotions for Sacred Parenting, quotes Charles S. Spurgeon:

To be a believer in God early in life is to be saved from a thousand regrets.

in other news

When our friend Leif saw these chickens, he came in and told his mom the chickens are having a "bad hair day".

Edmund likes to eat out of this hubcab.

Anneka and Leif like pepper rings and they are good friends. At least as well as four-year-old children can be friends.

Minneopa

John and Anneka (and Luke) on the trail...

Janet with two and one, respectively...

the Falls had no falls but the bridge was swell anyway...

Anneka posing and advertising her parents alma mater (compliments of Goodwill)

El shows her special "owers"

A day with John is not complete without a game...

little L...

That stump behind the kids came from across the road. Ordinary people drag valuable things home. But we aren't ordinary, really. My landscaper designer (Aunt B) will help us fit it into the landscaping.

Priya and Anneka helped gather the paltry bit of produce from our pathetic garden before it froze.

And really, besides some various kinds of peppers, a few carrots, the few tomatoes we got away from the free-range chickens, this swiss chard is about all we had to show for. And some potatoes. But swiss chard is tricky because it tastes so, well... green. I tried the Rustic Swiss Chard Tart recipe that someone won quite a few dollars for in Better Homes and Gardens magazine. The crust was really good, but the swiss chard still tasted really green. Like alfalfa. Cheese doesn't really even help it. Kale is green and spinach is green and they are good. Beans are green and they are good. Swiss chard comes in green and yellow and red and is beautiful, but it tastes green.

Ellie is perhaps the only one who can carry "Oocie". The cat appeared one day in the shed and must have been someone's pet, but as someone wise (Mark) once said (in relation to a dog-pound Basset Hound named Buford that I had to have once who turned out to have a body odor problem and a penchant for wandering), "There's a reason why someone got rid of it."

vision

We're not called to be a people of vision, we're called to be a people of revelation. God speaks and we follow. We've completely taken this Disney notion of "when you wish upon a star, your dreams come true" and melded that with faith and come up with something completely different. There's something wrong in a culture that preaches nothing is more sacred than your dream. I mean, we walk away from marriages to follow our dreams. We abandon children to follow our dreams. We hurt people in the name of our dreams, which as a Christian is just preposterous.

That doesn't mean I just sit here waiting for God to hand me a Post-it note with tomorrow's agenda. But I brainstorm, I have ideas, I put them on the wall, and I pray about them. Then one of those ideas will start to percolate a bit, start to bubble, and then I chase the bubble to see if that's where God is moving me. But if suddenly God seems to be moving me in a different direction, I let go of that idea, because it's just an idea. If I keep calling it my dream, I'm holding on to it too tightly until it becomes something I can't let go of. And the only thing I can't let go of is God. Everything else should be held with an open hand.

(Phil Vischer of Veggie Tales fame on his new venture Jellyfish Labs, quoted in WORLD magazine)

on the first day of second grade and kindergarten, respectively

lovely camping site away from other campers, except for the karaoke across the cornfield

campfire to cook breakfast and to warm the 40 degree morning air

popcorn over the campfire

watching the water boil

paint

scraping the little remaining paint...

primed...

slave sister labor endangering their lives to paint dangerous places...

second coat....perhaps begging for just one more...

the cross

 Jews demand signs and Greeks look for wisdom,  but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles,  but to those whom God has called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. ( I Corinthians 1:22-24)

It's offensive and not a nice conversation starter in polite company.

In fact, according to Greg Gilbert's chapter in Don't Call it a Comeback: The Old Faith for a New Day, sophisticated Greek and Roman people did not "even utter the word cross in polite company." It wasn't uncommon either for the Roman government to line major roads into the cities with dying, dead and rotting humans who had undergone crucifixion, for display purposes. Shock value. Rotten flesh, writhing misery, stench, slivers in already shredded flesh, bodily fluids.

That is a far cry from the shiny smooth gold ones attached to the front of many churches.

Last week as we were driving we listened to this CBH CD of old songs, songs that unless I specifically purchase recordings of them from many decades past, one would not hear anywhere else. It occurred to me why we sing very few old cross songs much anymore: they are raw. And they don't have happy peppy themes involving rivers flowing and such. And they make me feel bad about myself. They don't lead me to believe I'm the one one who was wronged. I am the one who was wrong.

We, as Christians, want our message to be liked. Just like we like to be liked. We'd much rather be the one offering the sweets and not the castor oil. So apparently somewhere along the way, we've sanitized the message. Like it's our message to tamper with. Like we thought up the whole idea of redeeming generations of mislead, lost, even beligerent people by taking their place, dying a nasty crimnal's death. Like any of us stepped down out of heaven and was willing to be put on public display, in maximum agony.

No, wait, that's not right. No, but that's what Paul means when he says "Jews demand signs and Greeks look for wisdom,  but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles".

A "stumbling block" and "foolishness" for those who change their name or message to be less offensive to those they supposedly want to reach. Of course, that would seem logical if we are the ones trying to bring them in. But when God is doing the bringing and we get that straight, then we offer the message, straight up, no spin, leaving God behind the scene drawing hearts to Himself.

Really, there is so much in our churches that we've wiped pristine, polishing away the raw roughness and beauty of the original message. We get hung up on clean carpet and having enough space that we (perhaps) inadvertently put a "closed" sign for God on fingerprint-less front doors.

Oh I would much rather be involved in something that neither I nor my children get dirty or contaminated with germs. I like places that I can put in the same two hours a week and get in my clean car and drive home while patting myself on the back for my work.

But many times, the places where God is working are hot and have germs. There are dirty people there too with germs. Sometimes they take longer than my allotted two hours and they get in my face. And things are rarely predictable and calculated. Usually it takes a long time to see results too.

In her book, "If", Amy Carmichael writes this: "If monotony tries me, and I cannot stand drudgery; if stupid people fret me and little ruffles set me on edge; if I make much of the trifles of life, then I know nothing of Calvary love."

well said

It is easy to think you have a heart for orphans on the other side of the world, but if you spend your time at home resenting the imposition your children are on you, you do not. You cannot have a heart for the gospel and a fussiness about your life at the same time. You will never make any difference there if you cannot be at peace here. You cannot have a heart for missions, but not for the people around you. A true love of the gospel overflows and overpowers. It will be in everything you do, however drab, however simple, however repetitive.        

(from "Motherhood as a Mission Field" by Rachel Jankovic)

Many people have said to me, 'What a pity you had such a big family to raise. Think of the novels and the short stories and the poems you never had time to write because of that.' 
And I looked at my children and I said, 'These are my poems. These are my short stories. '

- Olga Masters

In regards to this quote, I will never presume to think that I have some amazing journalism skills (like Olga) that are somehow locked up just waiting to be released as soon as my last child is off to wherever children go so their parents can be successful. My skills were just good enough to fill a reporter's job for just short of 2-1/2 years at a very small town newspaper (because no one else applied). By the grace of God, I finished college, got married and attended journalism institute before I brought children into the world. And mercifully, I got my need for employment fulfillment outside the home before my own offspring arrived.

But what I love about that quote is that for Olga her children were much more of a valuable investment of time than those years of writing would have been.

Back in my short years at the newspaper, there was always something to discuss in polite company. Pipestone has some colorful characters, some in dark shades and others in more uplifting shades. By default, I learned a little about a lot of different things and I could converse. People are interested in current and local events.

Then there's raising children. They need food and diaper changes. They need help knowing what is really dangerous, like walking across the road into the neighbors yard and climbing tall ladders to see if they can do it. Like they have since time began. Nothing done in the course of 24 hours is written in publication. At least, for most of us the goal is not to make an appearance in the police news column. And really most people aren't in the least bit interested in the new recipe you made for supper or hearing that you got all the clean clothes put away in an afternoon with not too many interruptions.

More entertaining is hearing about what is going on in the real world.

But several others have done taken up the responsibilities I held at the Star since I left. I was replaceable, completely. But as the mother of my children, I am not replaceable, at least not as easily. That is not to say that many others could be far more efficient with the laundry, food preparation and cleaning. And many more would be far more effective at effective discipline measures regarding sleep and chores.

Still, somebody must be responsible for raising my children. They aren't like house dogs or hogs in a pen that just need to be fed on a regular basis. And oh what a weighty assignment it is!

Sin drenches every part of this life. Temptation to pursue what feels good lurks commonly. And I, as  redeemed but oh so prone to wander, attempt to direct my children away from what causes me and them to stumble, while tripping frequently. I cannot ensure that my children will never make mistakes. But if living a more simple life, doing my best to maintain the communication between my Father and my children's father, lets us release them into adulthood with a minimum of emotional baggage, I will humbly consider that success.

It is essential to have style when one is scraping paint.

growing things

Morning glories gathered in the ditch on Anneka's fourth birthday...

Humid jungle weather the last several weeks have grown the beans large in these parts...

Anneka's birthday bouquet and her new dress

non-professional photos

Anneka's senior pictures at 3-1/2

The tire swing

Grandma and some of the girls

Sam and Ell

Sam and his senior picture

Priya posing for her picture

different times

We think we have it rough when we run out of milk.

We also frequently make fun of the previous generation for their frugality.

We don't have it rough, with our poor living perhaps in some cases, with more than we who pay for all our goods, services and wants out of pocket.

My aunt, into her eighth decade, recounted today after dinner, when my uncle was young, growing up in the Great Depression.

While living in South Dakota, his dad was promised a job in Idaho. With three kids, they put their belongings in their car and drove there. I think I need to pack more than that for a few hours away from home. There was a job in Idaho. There was no housing. So they lived in a chicken coop with a wood burning stove.

They started attending church in their town and soon the pastor and a deacon asked to visit their home. Tony remembers his mom making simply hot water to serve because there was no coffee. Mercifully, the church did what the church should still be doing instead of the government: they helped Tony's family out with, at the very least, some coffee for their hot water.

Another memory Aunt Jo remembers Uncle Tony recalling is fishing in hard times. He didn't have a hook, so he'd lay on the bank with his thumb just under the water. When a bullhead would start to nibble, he'd fling it up on the bank. He would have fish to take home to his mom to cook.

As the generation, who endured simpler yet harder times, slips into their 80s and 90s, I want to gather the stories and rehash them a thousand times to anyone who will listen.

Would my generation know how to function without central air conditioning in 90 degree-90% humidity? Do they know how to improvise and save and reuse, with the environment obsession aside, only for necessity? How about not having any convenience food at all - not even cream of mushroom soup or box cereal? Could we make our own entertainment without the aid of 749 cable channels, a smart phone and a myriad of other technological devices that have complicated our personal and public relationships. No, we'd die. In droves. With no ingenuity to create or improvise to get survive. Probably bloating in front of the television.

In a time in history when it is a big deal when a state's (Minnesota) efforts to balance their budget require cuts to government vouchers disallowing its recipients to use those vouchers for alcohol and cigarettes, we've fallen very far.

It probably does not require that we try living like a past generation. Air conditioning and indoor plumbing and electricity are nice touches.

But it might require passing on the stories.

It does demand that we turn off whichever device for a bit to connect with the real world (fellow humans).

It would require a listing of gratitudes and often.

motherhood

Rachel Jankovic writes this in her article on motherhood:

Live the gospel in the things that no one sees. Sacrifice for your children in places that only they will know about. Put their value ahead of yours. Grow them up in the clean air of gospel living. Your testimony to the gospel in the little details of your life is more valuable to them than you can imagine. If you tell them the gospel, but live to yourself, they will never believe it. Give your life for theirs every day, joyfully. Lay down pettiness. Lay down fussiness. Lay down resentment about the dishes, about the laundry, about how no one knows how hard you work.

Stop clinging to yourself and cling to the cross. There is more joy and more life and more laughter on the other side of death than you can possibly carry alone.

Hmmm...that puts this disastrous living room I'm looking at, into perspective, perhaps. And certainly more than just the disastrous mess.

rain apparel

(older sister hand-me-down raincoat)

seasoned love

The best romance is inside the marriage; the finest love stories comes after the wedding, not before. ~ Irving Stone

I found this quote on a wedding congratulations card last week. I wonder if it shouldn't be mentioned at every wedding. Maybe I should have bought all the cards they had that day, except we are invited to only three weddings this summer.

Two of those marriages I have confidence in their longevity. The third not so much.

And I have some theories about why. Two of these marriages have original parents still married to each other. That is huge, although not a guarantee of success.

More importantly, two of the three couples will go to their weddings not having shacked up together, to put it bluntly and crudely. The statistics I've read show that living together narrows a couple's chance of not divorcing, to about 20%. And sadly, it is not an unrealistic to assume that most people have lived together before their huge lavish (sham) weddings. Yes, I have strong opinions on the matter.

Here's how it works for most: the girl badgers the guy to give her a ring, the girl and guy move into the same dwelling space, then they set a wedding date for two years hence.

Really, then, why plan a big old wedding bash? The pizazz is over by the time the invitations are ordered. Is it just for the benefit of the elderly relatives who have still have morals? Why bother with a dress, flowers and taking up the sanctuary of some church? Save time and money: run to the justice of the peace in your shorts and tube top and get busy planning the drunken party to entertain all the friends.

And etiquette were up to me, wedding showers for co-habitators would be uncouth. Because you've been playing house for a while now. A shower really just looks like a cheap-wad way to get some nicer loot. And wouldn't we all like that once in a while.

Can you tell I hold strong opinions on these matters?

Because watching people might be one of my top five hobbies, I even watch people in church. We have the most squirrely children, by far, at our church and so other people's kids don't intrigue me nearly as much as older people. More specifically, older couples.

One couple, who must be pushing 80 or more, came in as we were. (in a rare moment, we arrived when the greeters were still welcoming people). She was more spry than he. He was hunched over quite a bit. They walked together. Sam and Priya held the doors open for them. How many of my generation will still have someone to walk to church with in fifty years?

The other folks, I noticed, were maybe twenty years younger. They held hands the whole service. Maybe they were a product of the some golden agers singles dance. I hope it was because they still liked each other after forty years.

Young love is what moms and grandmas get all teary-eyed about. But is it really love? More like infatuated or desperate? But I would ask, it is really love? Because love doesn't let a promising career and a masters degree rot a marriage, does it? Does real love get wandering eyes that maybe, at middle age with rolls and wrinkles and varicose veins and a nest full of children, there is someone better out there? Does love just tolerate the person they made their life with these past decades, amusing themselves with hobbies, each ridicules the other about, so they won't have to love, much less interact?

Honestly, there is nothing more discouraging than middle aged people snipping at each other and grouching about each other. Really, who arranged this marriage? Didn't you choose each other? Why was he or she such a hot item 10 or 20 or 40 years ago and not now?

But there is nothing more encouraging, to my marriage, than seasoned love. Love with wrinkles and respectful teasing and several decades under their belts. Love with no scorn over the others interests or habits or quirks.

Interestingly, Irving Stone was eighty-something when he died with the same wife he started out with. His wife, an editor before they married, edited his books. Apparently he knew about romance and love stories from experience.

the week at the lake

the paddleboat...

the swimming...

the fireworks...

the morning kids projects...

the fishing off the dock...

LJC...

the fishing...

and the fishing with dad...

riding the torpedo...

the plays directed by Madison...