Lessons Learned

Tough times come to us all, and this year has been especially tough on many of us, but as the saying goes "Every cloud has a silver lining." Personally, I believe we learn our greatest lessons through adversity. 

Not that I'm wishing adversity on anyone.

We learn to come together in times of crisis, and to be more considerate of one another. In a world that operates at the speed of light, we have learned to slow down, take a deep breath, and absorb life. We have learned again, what we knew as children - that the joy of life is in the details. We have learned that life is fragile, but lives, bound together by commitment and love are strong. And we have learned that helping those who cannot help themselves is a source of immense satisfaction and joy.

Those in need, whether of substance or understanding, are always among us, but to paraphrase the alms collector in Ebenezer Scrooge's office: At Christmas time, "Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices." There are many outstanding passages in Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," but the following may be my favorite:

"But you were always a good man of business, Jacob," faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.

"Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing his hands again. "Mankind was my business! The common welfare was my business! Charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence were all my business! The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water, in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"

Jacob Marley, knowing the folly of his own life, visits Ebenezer Scrooge in the hope of turning him from a similar fate. We know the ending to this story, but I have often wondered if, by giving such a gift, Jacob Marley found redemption as well. I hope so. 

Adults almost universally see Christmas as flawed -- somehow a shadow of its purer form. Each year we find ourselves longing for a Christmas that calls to us from some vague and distant memory. It is often the Christmas of our childhood, regardless of the generation. It is not the recovery of the decades we are seeking, but of innocence. 

As we grow into maturity, the wonder and magic of a childhood Christmas gets left along side the pathway of our lives. We plunge ahead, into the larger world, into its darkness and confusion, believing that we are the better for it. Experience and wisdom gained as adults are their own blessings, but innocence is neutral ground, where once we leave, we never can return. 

At Christmas time we find our emotions bittersweet. No matter how many halls we deck, or trees we trim, or carols we sing, there is an emptiness inside, where the joy of a childhood Christmas once was. But Christmas is more than magic and wonder. It is a celebration of selflessness and sacrifice. Christmas is about giving. 

It is a popular Yuletide tradition to decry the growing commercialism of Christmas. It seems each year the push for your Christmas dollar gets louder, starts earlier and costs more. But, without making excuse for brashness and poor taste, it should be remembered that today's highly valued gifts are the modern equivalent of gold, frankincense and myrrh -- rare and precious (and expensive) gifts from long ago. 

Such gifts have their place at Christmas time, but we should recall that the men who bore these gifts, on that early Christmas, came to honor a child with a greater gift. The birth of the Son of God, His life and His teachings, His death and resurrection -- his Atonement -- is a gift without price. It is a gift of sacrifice and service. It has done for us, what we cannot do for ourselves. 

I hope that we can follow this greatest of examples this season. Find a group or a cause or an individual, and give them a priceless gift -- your time, your talents, your understanding, your effort -- in a word, yourself. 

In this life, we miss only that which is lost to us, stolen form us, or given grudgingly. The thing is never missed which is willingly given. Such a gift, whether of money or substance, or of time, is replaced by the warmth of genuine love. You will find that your capacity, both to give and to love, is deeper than you have imagined (remember, when the old Grinch learned to give, "his heart grew three sizes that day").

In the end, even Ebenezer Scrooge discovered this and: 

"He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew...and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. 

May that truly be said of us, and all of us!"

What the heck...IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!

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A Decade

It's been ten years since the worst day of my life. 

My dad died December 18, 1998. But, I didn't find out until 7:00 am Saturday morning, December 19. I remember that moment so vividly. It is interesting how time can slow down. It was my uncle Randy on the phone -- my uncle had never called me before -- and I knew, as he began to speak, that something was wrong. He got out the words "I'm afraid I have some bad news..." In a fraction of a second, my mind ran over the possible scenarios. My first thought was that something had happened to my grandmother, but even as that thought came, I immediately knew that if that was the case, this would be my dad on the phone. Then I knew. As he spoke the words, I was already speaking them to myself: "Your dad passed away last night." 

He wasn't sick and this was not expected. The blow was as though someone had fired a cannon ball through the middle of me. I felt hollow and cold. 

My dad and I had never had an adversarial relationship, but neither had we been close -- until the last five years of his life. My marriage in 1994, and the birth of my daughter in 1997 changed him. It changed us. We finally became close. I think it had something to do with having some girls in his life. He had only boys, but he thought of my wife, Sharon, as a daughter, and Jordan absolutely melted him. He LOVED being a grandpa. 

We had spoken on the phone three days before, and we talked as we had rarely talked before. We made plans for Christmas. He had rented a suit, and was looking forward to playing Santa for Jordan. He asked me why, growing up, my brother and I had never woken up my parents on Christmas morning before 7:00 am. I told him it was because we were told not to wake them up before 7:00 am. He said he used to lay there in the early darkness, and wonder why we were not coming in. It was a revealing conversation -- the kind of talk that was coming more and more frequently these days. 

Then came that damned phone call. 

We buried him on the 22nd, to try to put as much distance between Christmas and the grief as possible. That was a crystal clear, and arctic cold day. I was twenty-six, and this was the first funeral I had ever been to (at least that I recalled -- my older brother had passed away when I was two years old). I had to tell my little brother. The funeral service was so hard, I didn't think I would make it. What got me through were the dozens and dozens of my dad's friends who filed past -- some I knew, some I did not -- each of whom told me what a great man and a great friend he was. They told me the wonderful things he had done for them. I was touched beyond words. I hadn't always thought of my dad as a great man. 

I miss my dad terribly, and often when I look at my kids, it breaks my heart. He knew Jordan, but we were going to tell him that Sharon was pregnant with Matthew, for Christmas that year. Matt would have been his only grandson. And I suspect that Emma might have been his favorite of all. None of them know him. None of them remember him. That is the greatest source of pain for me. 

I was keeping a journal at the time, and the entry, on the day of the funeral, ends with the line "I don't know how I can heal from this." 

But I have. 

The anger and the debilitating sadness are gone. I wish he were still here, and I've thought about him every day for ten years, probably more than I thought of him during his lifetime. During the last conversation I had with my dad, he asked me if I could pick up a few presents for his wife, and he would pay me back. I got a letter in the mail from him, three days after his death. His handwriting was unmistakable. Inside was a letter saying thank you, and a check reimbursing me for the gift shopping. I hadn't intended to charge him, but I never got to tell him so. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say I love you dad. 

This has affected me in many ways. I learned, as early as the funeral, that life goes on. After the dedication of the grave, we all met back at the church for a luncheon. Three days later it was Christmas. Both events were enjoyable experiences. At first, I felt guilty for being happy, but life is for the living. You have to move forward. I mourned and I cried (I still do), but the joy and love of my little family kept bringing me back from despair. You cannot prepare for a sudden death like this, and I've decided you shouldn't try. Take the gift that is each day of life, and embrace it. Make life meaningful, and love it. 

I believe my dad still lives. I dream about him. Two or three times a year, I have very vivid, lifelike dreams about him. Early on, in these dreams, he seemed very confused about what was going on. He seemed sickly, and distracted, and apologetic. We didn't talk much about what had happened, only that he was gone, and shouldn't be. We were face to face then. Over the years he has grown healthier looking, more at peace. We no longer face each other, but walk side by side. We talk about my kids, and my family. He seems proud. I always wanted to make my dad proud. 

 I have no idea if these dreams mean anything or not. But they mean something to me. 

I miss you and I love you dad. 

Photostory Friday: Light

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

It's one of my favorite moments of the Christmas Season: we turn off all of the other lights in the house, and light up the Christmas tree, for the first time. The house is bathed in reds and greens and golds. 

The lights of Christmas are soft and subtle. Candles and stars. They are different from other lights. They seem to illuminate only what is important. They are not exposing, they are revealing. Everything looks prettier, lit by Christmas lights. 

In the early morning hours of December 13, she dons the simple white robe and red sash. Upon her head is placed a crown of candles. She leads a procession of younger children through the darkened homes, bearing light and nourishment, to those within.

She is Santa Lucia. The Queen of Light. 

In Sweden, December 13 is St Lucia's Day. Legend says that Lucia was a Christian martyr of the fourth century. How this beautiful, Sicilian Saint (and in predominantly Lutheran Sweden too) came to be associated with the far, northern lands of Scandinavia, is something of a mystery. But there may be a clue in her name -- Lucia. It is derived from the Latin word Lux, which means Light. 

In the ancient Julian calendar, December 13 was the night of the winter solstice -- the end of the long journey into darkness. The return of the light. Today, in the those northern latitudes, darkness comes in the very early afternoon. 

Light is precious. 

My family is of Swedish decent, and we began keeping the tradition of Santa Lucia when Jordan, my oldest (and inheritor of all the Scandinavian genes) was very small. We modify it slightly. Traditionally, Lucia carries coffee and saffron buns, but we're not coffee drinkers, and have you seen the price of saffron?!? So, it's usually hot chocolate or wassail, and cinnamon rolls or cookies, at our house. 

We also like to tie it in to the larger celebration of Christmas, as well. After all, isn't that really what Christmas is all about:

The Light, which pierces the darkness. 

Behold, the Handmaid of the Lord

Mary. A very common name. 

Scholars tell us that in ancient Judea, one in three Jewish women was named Mary, or Miriam in Hebrew. They also tell us that she was young, likely very young. Jewish girls were often married by the age of fourteen. A common woman, with a most uncommon calling. 

I think about Mary a lot this time of year. Though she is a constant presence at Christmas time, our focus is often -- and understandably -- on the Savior. But, what of this most uncommon of ordinary women? In the two millenia since the birth of Jesus, Mary has become the object of much veneration. She is Ave Maria, the Blessed Virgin. She has been a saint and a strength to, literally, billions of people. And rightly so, she was the vessel, the most worthy of women, chosen to play the most important role, in the most important birth in history. What a woman she must have been! But, I think, sometimes, in the adulation of Mary, we lose sight of her humanity. And Mary's humanity is, after all, her most important contribution to the life and mission of Jesus Christ.

What was it like to be pregnant with a Holy Child? What was it like to give birth to the Son of God? What was it like to be the mother, and to raise -- for she did more than simply give birth to -- the Savior of all mankind? Only one woman can answer these questions, but I'll tell you what I think...

I think carrying the Child of God in her womb was hard. I think her back hurt, from carrying the weight of a child inside of her. I believe she was anxious and nervous, this being her first pregnancy. I think Mary was probably ready to have the baby, long before the baby was ready to be born. Mary was the mother of at least seven children, and I believe that the birth of Jesus was as painful, and difficult, perhaps more so, as the births of her other children. She was highly blessed of the Lord, but that never means the path will be easy. 

I wonder how aware she was of the shepherds' visit that first night. Was she there to receive them and hear their miraculous story, or was she so overwhelmed and exhausted, that some of those things were a little blurry? I wonder if she ever saw the star, or if being up, often, during the night, to feed her new baby, made those hours of sleep precious, and left little time for stargazing? I think she checked on Jesus constantly as he slept. I believe that the baby Jesus cried. I think he cried when he was hungry. He cried when he was wet, he cried when he was hurting. I think, sometimes, like all other newborn babies, he cried for no apparent reason at all. And, through it all, Mary did what all mothers do -- she fed him, she changed him, she burped and bathed him, she cuddled and sang to him. As Jesus grew older, it was his mother who nurtured him, who cared for his bumps and bruises, who wiped away his tears and kissed his skinned knees. 

Mary knew what few others knew then, that this was the Only Begotten Son of God. His father was divine, but half of his inheritance was mortality. He could suffer. He could die. And, to fulfill his destiny, one day he would. But, from his mother, Jesus would learn of strength and compassion, and of unconditional love. Those are the gifts of a mother. 

When she was told by the angel, of the honor that was to be hers, Mary's response was humble and unequivocal -- "Behold, the handmaid of the Lord, be it unto me according to thy word."

 

I believe, because of the responsibility that she was asked to bear, that Mary must have had some foreknowledge of the mission of her son. But, I wonder if she imagined that she would live to see Jesus heal the sick and raise the dead? Did she know that he would be hated, that he would be betrayed by his friends, that all manner of indignity would be heaped upon him? Did she know that she would live to see the fulfillment of the Atonement? Could she have imagined, as she held her tiny boy that first night in Bethlehem, that three decades from then, she would watch the life spill from her son, upon a cross; and then see him reborn, as a glorified and perfect being? 

God, our Father, gave his Only Begotten Son, as a sacrifice, so that each of us would have the opportunity to return to His presence. Jesus Christ suffered greater than anyone in history, so that through his blood, and by his atonement, we might all be cleansed of sin. 

But, I hope that we never forget that Mary, the mother of the Son of God,  also gave her firstborn son, for the blessing of all mankind. 

 

It wouldn't be Christmas without...

Christmas is a time of thoughtful reflection. So, this year I want you to take some time and think about what makes Christmas meaningful in your lives. Here are a few of my own thoughts to get you started:

I love to read the Christmas story in the New Testament, but my favorite way to experience the words of the second chapter of Luke, is in the Charlie Brown Christmas special, when Linus takes the stage, to help Charlie Brown

 understand what Christmas is all about. 

I have to read "A Christmas Carol," by Charles Dickens, at least once each season. Usually three or four times. There is so much truth in this story, and do you want to know the greatest truth of all? Ebenezer Scrooge is me, and probably you too. The movie versions are (mostly) great, but you are missing much of the beauty of the story, if you don't read Dickens' own words. 

I love the first time that we turn off all of the lights in the house, and light up the Christmas tree. 

Ralphie's quest for "a Red Ryder, 200 shot, range model, air rifle, with a compass in the stock, and this thing which tells time," reminds me of my own childhood obsessions (Atari, anyone?), and leg lamps have spawned a minor cottage industry for me at Christmas time. 

I think about great food. 

I think about the warmth of a family party on Christmas Eve. 

I think about the joyful, sugar induced, hysterical chaos and anticipation of the Night before Christmas. 

I think of the wonder of that most magical of mornings.

I think how grateful I am that Christmas comes only once a year. 

Then, in the next moment, I wish it could be Christmas everyday. 

I think about how Christmas with my family becomes more meaningful and tender every year. 

I think about a humble stable in Bethlehem, where shone an Everlasting Light, which made all the rest of this possible. 

Your turn.

p.s. Keep checking back, I've got all kinds of things to say about Christmas. And I have absolutely nothing better I could be doing.