A Different Christmas Story

I have a Christmas story to share: my Christmas story. Or rather, God's Christmas story in me. This story didn't start this way. Only afterwards did I realize its meaning, deep, deep down.

Growing up in a Mennonite Christian home, God was a household name. He was everywhere: at school, at church, at home, and at my friends’ homes. However, at thirteen years old, I didn’t understand Him or His call to become a Christian. In fact, I refused His call because I didn’t recognize it. But something quite indescribable nagged and festered in the back of my brain. I could almost imagine it away. Almost. Except when I couldn’t.

Sunday sermons and kindly parents mentioned the call of God. He calls for entrance to your heart. He calls everyone. It isn’t an audible call, but a call of the soul. In a sense, it’s a terrible call because it is far from peaceful. Why, that’s exactly the way I felt. But surely not. I had heard how to accept the call many times. Pray to God. Tell Him you’re sorry for your sins. Ask Him to forgive you. Ah, but that didn’t really make sense. I didn’t think about my sins much. I wasn't that bad. Besides, who said God was calling me?

Something was wrong. I was unhappy and didn't know why. Falling asleep betimes was more of a nightmare than sleep itself. I was depressed and horribly hollow. So I gave in. I couldn't rid my soul of its turmoil, so I asked Mum to help me. With her, I prayed to God for mercy and peace. It wasn’t a “correct” prayer. It was a crude and confused prayer. Somehow, I accepted God's call. Somehow, He entered my heart and soothed my soul.

It was a miracle. Even retrospect can't figure it out. However, morning came, and with it, the real world. What sort of dream had I had? What figment of my imagination had conjured peace? It must have been a farce. My heart seemed a fountain of confusion. Weren't my troubles supposed to melt like mist in the morning sun?

What I thought was a once-and-for-all transformation turned out to be the first step of a life-long sanctification. Through His church and the Holy Spirit, God started teaching. He showed me salvation is simple: just believe. He showed me His presence isn’t an emotional high but a sustaining strength suited for real, everyday life. He showed me that it isn't His plan for my troubles to disappear. Rather they remain so He can reveal the Solution. Most importantly, He showed me what grace really is. He showed me the stark truth: I am a sinner. He showed me that I deserve to be shot dead; only His grace has freely given me life. He showed me and keeps showing me that it’s not about what I have done, but what’s been done for me.

And that is God's Christmas story in me.

How Long?

I was wandering through the moonlight a couple nights ago. You know those power poles with the cross bar on top? It's shadow stretched across my path and caught my eye. There, in the silvery light, I saw a cross as I'd never seen one before. I wish you could have seen it too. It was ugly. It was menacing. Yet beautiful, all at the same time. Sometimes I wonder if I even begin grasp the slightest idea of the greatness of God's love.

I keep coming back to this poem ever year. :') It's so poignant.

“How long must I put up with you?” 

Jesus’ actions answered his own question . . . 

Until the rooster sings 

and the sweat stings 

and the mallet rings 

And a hillside of demons smirk at a dying God. 

How long? 

Long enough for every sin 

to soak my sinless soul 

That heaven will turn in horror 

Until my swollen lips pronounce the final transaction: 

“It is finished.” 

How long? 

Until it kills me. 

Max Lucado 

from A Love Worth Giving

Emmanuel's Coming - The Other Perspective

We know the story of Jesus' birth by memory. The stable, the angels, the shepherds, and the wisemen. I have grown up assuming that Jesus was born on a beautiful night. It was wonderfully clear, so you could see the stars. The wind was calm and the air was comfortably cool. The stable, warm and cozy, was a rather neat place for a baby to be born. The animals all around were lowing, or cooing, or making some sort of soothing sound. Baby Jesus slept peacefully in a manger filled with soft, sweet-smelling hay. Plus, he was wrapped securely in swaddling clothes. And we mustn't forget the shepherds. They were nice people - another part of the story.

How deeply have you searched the scriptures for details? The King James Version Bible doesn't give many details - at least not as many as I wrote above. So what would happen if we would peel away the gloss? What would the night of Emmanuel's coming be like when viewed through the opposite perspective?

Neither Matthew nor Luke mention the weather in their descriptions of Nativity. Hardly surprising, since they weren't there. Perhaps it wasn't a beautifully clear night. Perhaps it was a very black, stormy night with a howling wind. Maybe it was cold - abnormally cold - and pelting rain. The shepherds might have at first mistaken the angels' song for the wind shrieking through the trees. No wonder they were terrified.

If Bethlehem was bustling with travelers, what about the stable? No room in the inn likely meant little room in the stable. So the barn wouldn't only have been jam-packed with animals, but, to put it plainly, it would have stunk like crap. How many barns have you been in that don't reek of manure? Then add more animals than there should be...

The ferocious wind would have found every hole in the place, sending chilling drafts everywhere. The wild weather certainly wouldn't have calmed the animals. Instead of standing quietly, they would have been stomping and snorting and uttering all types of unearthly sounds. And the hay. You might like the smell of hay, but since when is it soft? It isn't. It is prickly and pokey, and that's from my perspective, not from the perspective a newborn with tender skin. The manger wouldn't have been sanded smooth and coated with child-safe paint. It made a lousy crib with the possibility of slivers, as well as gaps where a baby could fall through.

Enter the shepherds. Not just shepherds, but shepherds. They cared for sheep, but they weren't refined. They worked hard. They were rough and tough and stank of BO. Socially, they were about as far removed from royalty as could be imagined.

Into this setting, the Majestic One was born.

Perhaps it wasn't pretty. Perhaps to humans, it was degrading. Perhaps it was uncomfortable. Who said Jesus was any more comfortable when He came into this world than when He left it? Perhaps the first noise Jesus made was a cry from the cold, or damp, or noise, or pokey hay, or all of them combined. But He did it anyway. He has been there, done that. The Most Holy became the Most Lowly so He could redeem us from sin. And that shows how much God loves us. Only it is just the beginning; just the tip of the iceberg.

While writing, I have found an interesting correlation with the shepherds. People often wonder why God chose them. Perhaps the key was their humble, unpretentious hearts. Perhaps God used them to showcase His boundless love for everyone, especially those that humans judge as inferior. Whatever the reason, this is what I have found: The first people to hear about the Good Shepherd's birth were... shepherds. 

Working in the Light

I did something new yesterday. I wandered around telling people about the One who "came to touch the hardness of our hearts." I didn't approach it without apprehension, but as I'm finding more and more, the little fears never materialized. As the bundle in my hand shrank, the bundle in my head expanded. Have I ever said that my mind is bursting with thoughts? Nah, I didn't think so.

It could hardly have been a more beautiful day. I used to think nothing was prettier than a sunny summer day. That was before I tasted the vibrancy of dusty clear day of Indian summer. And when you mix in some twilight too... Which is why I went walking with a friend a couple evenings ago. The sights and sounds we discovered! A pumpkin cat sitting silently on a fence. Geese honking, wings whirring, floating blackly on a pale sky. Trees blushing at their reflection on still water. Lights glowing and beckoning through the dim. However, I have a question. Why do beautiful things hurt?

If Indian summer was a beverage, what colour would it be? Perhaps light blue with wisps of white and swirled with orange. Or maybe layered yellow, orange, and red. The only problem being if the colours mixed completely, you'd end up with a lovely brown hue. Appetizing! Or what would it taste like? Dying leaves? Dirt? Apple cider? Apple cider! I think it would be sweet and tangy and bitter. But no matter what, a shot of twilight would top it off perfectly. I wish I could fill of bottle with this delight and savour it year-round. Except I'm afraid the secret to its sweetness is its scarcity.

Changing

Every day is a miracle. Today it was the drive to work. If I would have imagined hard enough, I could have pulled back gently on the wheel and floated up to tumble though the clouds. Mystical, magical, majestic clouds. Into a world of mixed contrasts: light and dark, sanguine and melancholy, stormy and calm. Willow-y wisps caressed towering grandeur. But today I was earth-bound. So I explored the clouds' footprints and watched them play cloud-games and do the hula laugh. Through the aged sunlit fields, under the arching burnished trees. The light and shadows drifted here and there, ever changing as they went. Dynamic-ism!

All the foliage was tired. But, strikingly, it didn't care. Rather it reveled in its ancientness; enjoyed it, even.  How? People always seem to dread getting old. They loose their beauty; but perhaps they're blind to the new beauty ancientness has given them.

Less Is More

I admire people who can say much with few words. Simple is profound. And now I shall likely disregard my preferences and ramble for awhile. When someone speaks simply and succinctly, their thoughts stay with me. When they don't, on the other hand, I have to sort and sift to find the point, and in the mean time, I've forgotten what they've said, and do you suppose this would be considered a run-on sentence?

I thought I was looking forward to winter. Apparently I was deceived.

I was rummaging in my closet, and suddenly, quite un-biddenly, a winter glove jumped out and plopped onto the floor. Shudder! I closed my eyes to the hateful thing. I've really enjoyed summer, and I'm ready for autumn , but please, no winter quite yet! By the time the snow starts flying I'll probably embrace it whole-heartedly, but just think of bundling up every time you head outside...

Catching Up

Oh, oh, where to begin! And what to write! Soon August will stop "laughing across the sky" and the "still September fleetness" will begin. I think I'm ready for it, too. 

Our vacation was wonderful; we even came up with a motto for it: houseboats rock! Actually, for a few days after we returned to land, everything rocked. I have to say it's the oddest sensation to be sitting in a restaurant, but feeling like you're bobbing about on the water. Kind of creepy! 

Big Little Orchestra

You don't have to pay a penny to hear it; just a bit of your time. Until this year, I had no idea that the big little orchestra didn't start until late summer. Since it's that season now, though, I hear it all the time: while sitting and reading, while driving in the evening, or while dozing off at night.

"A stream of tender gladness,
Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies;
Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies
In mystic rings,
Where softly swings 
The music of a thousand wings 
That almost tones to sadness."

     E. Pauline Johnson

The verse above is from the poem "Shadow River: Muskoka." The italicized lines mention the big little orchestra: big in the area it covers, little in the size of its members. This verse scatters delicious chills all over my skin... The second verse, not shown here, points to the future, to a time when I will "float upon a sapphire floor." I can hardly wait.

Encounter with Water

Water. Lots of it. More excess than you can imagine. Enough to submerge yourself until its cool watery-ness flows over you. It stretches on and on, farther than you can see and glows deep blue: a reflection of the sky. It constantly moves; flows, ebbs, swoops, drops, and splashes. What a unique substance! Thicker than the sky, thinner than the land. Playful and menacing at the same time.

We went to the lake in the middle of the day yesterday, which we don't do very often. The wind created some waves for once, and I could have spent all day bobbing up and down on them. But I didn't. Thank goodness I didn't have to swim for eighteen hours like a pilot did recently after his small aircraft ran out of fuel! 

Did you know that if the water from Lake Superior was spread out evenly over North and South America, these two continents would be covered in 30cm (1 foot) of water?

The Coming of Power

Travel back to Easter. The crucifixion of Jesus, the fear in His disciples hearts at the time. Think of what has all transpired in your life... April seems so long ago already. Many incidents have come and gone. And yet, in A.D. 33, Jesus disciples had been cowering from the public all this time. They'd seen Jesus in person after he rose from the dead, but to them, even that must have seemed like a long time ago. Until today. You can read all about it in Acts 2. Pentecost, the might rushing wind, the tongues of fire, and most of all, God's power resting within them. But why the wait? For months, the disciples might have felt that God had forgotten them. He just waited. But when the glory of the Holy Spirit come on them, I don't suppose they would have wished for any other way! 

In The Shadows

I am sailing to the leeward, 

Where the current runs to seaward
Soft and slow,
Where the sleeping river grasses
Brush my paddle as it passes
To and fro.

On the shore the heat is shaking
All the golden sands awaking
In the cove;
And the quaint sandpiper, winging
O'er the shallows, ceases singing
When I move.

On the water's idle pillow
Sleeps the overhanging willow,
Green and cool;
Where the rushes lift their burnished
Oval heads from out the tarnished
Emerald pool.

Where the very silence slumbers,
Water lilies grow in numbers,
Pure and pale;
All the morning they have rested,
Amber crowned, and pearly crested,
Fair and frail.

Here, impossible romances,
Indefinable sweet fancies,
Cluster round;
But they do not mar the sweetness
Of this still September fleetness
With a sound.

I can scarce discern the meeting
Of the shore and stream retreating,
So remote;
For the laggard river, dozing,
Only wakes from its reposing
Where I float.

Where the river mists are rising,
All the foliage baptizing
With their spray;
There the sun gleams far and faintly,
With a shadow soft and saintly,
In its ray.

And the perfume of some burning
Far-off brushwood, ever turning
To exhale
All its smoky fragrance dying,
In the arms of evening lying,
Where I sail.

My canoe is growing lazy,
In the atmosphere so hazy,
While I dream;
Half in slumber I am guiding,
Eastward indistinctly gliding
Down the stream.

E. Pauline Johnson

This poem came to mind while canoeing yesterday, and sums up everything perfectly. Except for the part about September. Instead summer ending, it's just beginning! Isn't "Where the very silence slumbers" a beautiful line? I think so.

How Long?

“How long must I put up with you?” 

Jesus’ actions answered his own question . . . 

Until the rooster sings 

and the sweat stings 

and the mallet rings 

And a hillside of demons smirk at a dying God. 

How long? 

Long enough for every sin 

to soak my sinless soul 

That heaven will turn in horror 

Until my swollen lips pronounce the final transaction: 

“It is finished.” 

How long? 

Until it kills me. 

Max Lucado 

from A Love Worth Giving