While Tending

Shock of green parakeet
in two-toned foliage
outside Chicago

Lance of raptor stare
upon refilling
the bird feeder

Perot overbite
in ornamental pear

Hawk's talloned clench
round chipped red railings

Our flocking concerns, and yet
the tremors of
a heavenly host


 

December Pictures

 

 

Consider the Christmas Cactus

At the end of flat columns
of beetle-ish leaves,
an Advent swell
of pale buds.

* * *

After all this waiting (a month or more!),
a crinkled tip of petal, like an egg tooth,
at the blossom's farthest end.

* * *

Full unfurling--
a snapping of sails, a whole flock
of mythical birds--wings over wings
in the many-wavéd light.
 

Evening before Christmas Eve

Sunset, after storm

December Rain

Dog and Manger

Christmas evening,
tan shed smells
of livestock and straw.
Four goats crowd
around sweet hay flakes.
Annie--Pyrenees/Anatolian cross--
stalks toward the manger,
takes one straw,
nibbles with her flock.

Christmas Cactus 1

Under an east window, my mother's Christmas cactus blooms every Thanksgiving. The plant rests on a highchair that held my grandpa when he was an infant. The gray paint on the chair's skillfully carved wood is alligatored in places, the odd confluence of age and infancy creating the perfect place to house winter flowers. And what flowers they are! Each double-tiered, coral-red and pearl-white blossom suspends from the tip of a flat green branch like an exotic bird taking flight or a tropical fish floating in a hidden nook of ocean.

Mom claims no green thumb for fussy house plants, and this remarkable specimen appears to thrive with minimal tending, so these twin facts encouraged me last year to pick up my own small Christmas cactus from the local Aldi. I brought it home and poured a generous bottle of water over its soil, which appeared parched from adverse grocery store conditions. To my disappointment, the few promising pink buds soon shriveled or dropped from my plant's green arms. I began to suspect this plant required more than I originally assumed.

Trusty google soon revealed my mistake. Deeply watering a Christmas cactus in bud results in the buds dropping off. Also, Christmas cactus plants have a number of preferences and requirements in order to thrive, and especially, to flower--requirements which Mom accidentally met. A saucer of water nearby to make the surrounding air moist? Grandpa's highchair sits by the kitchen sink. Strong, but indirect light? The east window is sheltered by the back porch, and other windows nearby keep the kitchen sunny. Plenty of darkness at night with no artificial light? The miles of fields outside the window won't interrupt the natural shortening of daylight that brings on blossoms.

For people in an Urban environment, the internet advised, it is necessary to put the plant away in a closet at a proscribed time each night, so that lamp and street light don't effect the cactus's rhythm. This sounded like too much to me, at the time. I did vaguely hope, at least, to keep my little plant alive until such a time as I got my life into enough order that I could manage to put a plant to bed every night. I entertained misty visions of of long strings of tranquil evenings where I steadfastly followed a routine of tidying up, reading, tucking the plant into its perfect spot in the closet, and going to bed in good time myself.

A few weeks ago, I noticed small green growths at the ends of several of my Christmas cactus's dusty arms. It seemed to be growing, at least, in the midst of my less-than-perfect conditions. As the growths continued to swell, they took on decidedly bud-like proportions. A hint of pink appeared at the tip of the largest bud. It was actually a tiny, curled up blossom! My plant is trying to flower! Despite my shortcomings, this scrappy bit of joy is bringing its own gifts to my home this Christmas. I find this wonderful. I take it as a sign of grace.

Wondrous Absurdities

By the last red candle's light,
I ease the Christmas tree's
clutch of remembrance:
painted glass balls, holy family
and angel with her string of peppers;
adobe papoose, heavy as a paper weight;
and thin snowflake, fearful in fragility.
The white teddy has toppled, again
from its red rocker, and landed
among the sparrow eggs.
The spirit mouse soars on stubby wings,
pure bliss beaming from improbable features
as he hugs a broken violin.
Clothespin nativity goes in last,
and I leave the bead baby
in Mary's pipe cleaner embrace.
The manger looks too cold
for a whole year's wait.

Times like this, I miss
my mother's "flight to Egypt" figurine
and the red locust thorn reminder
that life and death and life go on.
Instead, I touch my tree with a spring
of paper butterflies and wonder
about God growing up,
about the boy and the man
and life spinning inside death's cocoon.

Luke 1:76-79

"And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people in the forgiveness of their sins,

 because of the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace." 

Luke 1:76-79

 

 

After Salvation

 My heart's no palace.
 It's odd that You are here
amongst manure and chaff
in my particular stable.
All my life (it seems)
I've been afraid of blocking You,
"hindering fellowship,"
not being good enough to know
that You are happy here.
Begun by the Spirit,
now I think it's up to me
to finish the good work.
Somehow, in all my trying I forget
that April, also, is Christmas.

Anglican Prayer

A prayer from the Christmas Eve service tonight:

Father, in this holy night your Son our Saviour was born in human flesh.
Renew your Church as the Body of Christ.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night there was no room for your Son in the inn.
Protect with your love those who have no home and all who live in poverty.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night Mary, in the pain of labour, brought your Son to birth.
Hold in your hand all who are in pain or distress.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night your Christ came as a light shining in the darkness.
Bring comfort to all who suffer in the sadness of our world.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night the angels sang, 'Peace to God's people on earth.'
Strengthen those who work for peace and justice in all the world.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night shepherds in the field heard good tidings of joy.
Give us grace to preach the gospel of Christ's redemption.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night strangers found the Holy Family, and saw the baby lying in the manger.
Bless our homes and all whom we love.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

In this holy night Christians the world over celebrate Christ's birth.
Open our hearts that he may be born in us today.
Holy God,
hear our prayer.

12-14-2012

The table and the chairs are short, but I fit.
Teachers know how to fold into child-size.
I organize my paper, felt, and beads
because our children will still come--
full of chatter, zest, and growing pains--
oblivious for now of the children far away--
killed in school.

A coworker and I speak of it (waiting for the children to come)
in wondering, brief, numb attempts to understand.
I finish today's holiday craft: stick a bit of yarn fuzz
on the baby's bead head and lay him in a "manger."
Merciful Savior, there are no words for this--
only wailing.

Symbols and Celebration

I am haunted by the ice-edge of idyllic winter, the slip and shine of it, the beauty that can't be kept, the brilliance that is itself a splintering of light. What thin membranes hold life as we know it in place! How elusive the boundaries between the mundane and the profound--the Infant and stable and sword inextricably linked. There is much we cannot hold, and much--thank God!--we cannot hinder.

It is True

Imagine being a shepherd that first Christmas. Imagine going about your usual nightly routine--all the creature things one does to care for one's self and one's animals. Suddenly, one of God's angels stands on your hillside and the blaze of God's glory fills all the air around you and there is nowhere for a crumb of soul to hide. The glory of God! His power and perfection flow from infinity to infinity and every atom of your being feels them as they sear through the smudge that is you. And you lied just this morning. You wouldn't share your lunch. You've lost count of how often your sheep steal mouthfuls of farmers' crops in passing--you can't watch them all the time. Perfection is impossible. But in this moment you know--that is no excuse. You are terrified.

And the angel speaks: "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger." *

And you go and see. And it is so. It is true.


*Luke 2:11-12 NIV

Christmas 2009

Today began with sogginess reminiscent of Castaway Christmas, one of my favorite seasonal books. A sudden, drying cold turned puddles to ice in the afternoon and lined the pavement with powder as sprinkles turned to snowflakes. Wind-gathered, they snaked in shear scarves across the road as we drove half a mile to Grandma's house. Individual crystals lay in unthawed perfection on the dashboard.

I am sitting by the Christmas tree at the home place, my feet propped on the coffee table, our old dog's head bumping underneath my outstretched legs. It's so good to be home for the Christmas season! Last night, as I was thinking about coming home and the numerous gentle blessings God has helped me see lately, I sensed God's kindness in a special way. This poem came out of that moment. If you checked my facebook page then you've already seen it. If not, I hope you enjoy the reminder of the priceless love God showers on us!


Gift in the Night

Your kindness, Lord, surrounds us
like snow soft-piled on rooftops,
like great flakes filling the space
between heaven and earth,
Your silent extravagance in the streetlight falling
with gentlest finger brush against our cheeks.

*
*
*

Underneath the Stars

Today, Abi, our church's music director, sang a Polish carol for the congregation. She sang first in her native language, then in English. Before she began the song, she told us she remembered singing the carol with her large family in their home of two small rooms while Poland was still a communist nation. Despite poverty and strain, she said that in singing this song they knew that God's great blessing rested on their lives.

"Jesus Christ was born / Underneath the stars," her alto voice filled the sanctuary as her hands handled the keyboard with the grace and strength of gymnasts. "Underneath the stars" . . . In the first moment of hearing the translated words, they seemed anti-climatic against the lovely, lingering melody. Underneath the stars? Everybody knows that. Where else would He be born, considering that all of earth is underneath the stars?

How like one born underneath the stars, herself, to miss the glory of the thought through a fancied detection of cliché--to see something big as small, and something small as big.

Our stars are not so impressive here in the city. Fuzzy atmosphere dims them. Out in the country on a clear night, they people the sky, some bright, some so faint they are seen best when one doesn't really look at them. Standing by the hulk of the barn back home, I have admired the faintly misty band of the milky way curving over the sky and the brighter outlying slivers surrounded by blackness, "all the lights hanging up there," as my small group leader at church described them. But even in the country, the stars look small. We make children's songs about the ancient light that "twinkles" outside the window, sent from a terrifying ball of heat and light big beyond our comprehension. We illustrate the relative differences of size and distance between planets with peas and balls and yardsticks and city blocks, but we grasp only an echo of the reality behind our demonstrations. And beyond these familiar and companionable heavenly bodies, live stars upon stars upon stars--supremely beyond our comprehension or control. As God asks Job, “Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose the cords of Orion? Can you lead forth the Mazzaroth in their season, or can you guide the Bear with its children? Do you know the ordinances of the heavens? Can you establish their rule on the earth?" (Job 38:31-33 ESV). Obviously, that's God's job.

But Jesus Christ was born underneath these stars. The one who holds them together became a tiny child lying beneath them like any other human. This Christmas, may God help us glimpse the immensity of the truth of the Incarnation, even though it is beyond our complete comprehension. May He help us wonder anew that God Himself entered the smallness of our existence, and may we explore again why He did it.