God Came Near...Merry Christmas!

Do You See Him?
by Max Lucado

IT’S CHRISTMAS NIGHT. THE HOUSE IS QUIET. Even the crackle is gone from the fireplace. The last of the carolers appeared on the ten o’clock news. The last of the apple pie was eaten by my brother-in-law. And the last of the Christmas albums have been stored away having dutifully performed their annual rendition of chestnuts, white Christmases, and red-nosed reindeers.
It’s Christmas night.

The midnight hour has chimed and I should be asleep, but I’m awake. I’m kept awake by one stunning thought. The world was different this week. It was temporarily transformed.
The magical dust of Christmas glittered on the cheeks of humanity ever so briefly, reminding us of what is worth having and what we were intended to be. We forgot our compulsion with winning, wooing, and warring. We put away our ladders and ledgers, we hung up our stopwatches and weapons. We stepped off our race tracks and roller coasters and looked outward toward the star of Bethlehem.
It’s the season to be jolly because, more than at any other time, we think of him. More than in any other season, his name is on our lips.

And the result?

For a few precious hours, he is beheld. Christ the Lord. Those who pass the year without seeing him, suddenly see him. People who have been accustomed to using his name in vain, pause to use it in praise. Eyes, now free of the blinders of self, marvel at his majesty.
All of a sudden he’s everywhere.

In the grin of the policeman as he drives the paddy wagon full of presents to the orphanage.
In the twinkle in the eyes of the Taiwanese waiter as he tells of his upcoming Christmas trip to see his children.
In the emotion of the father who is too thankful to finish the dinner table prayer.
He’s in the tears of the mother as she welcomes home her son from overseas.
He’s in the heart of the man who spent Christmas morning on skid row giving away cold baloney sandwiches and warm wishes.
And he’s in the solemn silence of the crowd of shopping mall shoppers as the elementary school chorus sings “Away in a Manger.”
Emmanuel. He is with us. God came near.
It’s Christmas night. In a few hours the cleanup will begin—lights will come down, trees will be thrown out. Size 36 will be exchanged for size 40, eggnog will be on sale for half price. Soon life will be normal again. December’s generosity will become January’s payments and the magic will begin to fade.

But for the moment, the magic is still in the air. Maybe that’s why I’m still awake. I want to savor the spirit just a bit more. I want to pray that those who beheld him today will look for him next August. And I can’t help but linger on one fanciful thought: If he can do so much with such timid prayers lamely offered in December, how much more could he do if we thought of him every day?

Pink Saturday - Childhood Christmas Memory

Visit Beverly to read about many other wonderful holiday memories!

My seventh Christmas was the most memorable of my childhood.

My dad was typical of depression era men.  He moved us to Michigan from Tennessee in search of work.  Dad worked in a steel mill and often took on a second and even third job to make ends meet.  I've often been reminded of Dad's selfless work ethic and commitment to family during times my husband and I needed to do some finagling in order to make ends meet, especially when we were younger and had small children.  My mother was a stay at home mom, then known as a "house wife" - yikes - not really a very attractive term, is it?  It doesn't quite describe what most moms do, whether they work outside the home or not.  My mother was a fabulous success in her career.  She kept an immaculate house, she managed four children and all the activities that go with them, she baked like Betty Crocker, she sewed all our drapes and many of our outfits, and she decorated our home beautifully with what was available or she could make. I was a lucky little girl. 

When I was seven, my sister was ten and my brother was four.  I remember our house as clearly as if I were in it now.  We had a tan VINYL sectional sofa - WOW, is all I can say about that, but it was the height of fashion in 1959!  At that time both my parents smoked, children of the south, and they had the coolest ash trays - pottery on a stand.  I can still see Dad rolling his own cigarettes on old crank machine.  There was a farm house type kitchen with an attached "utility room" - what we would now call a laundry room.  Mom's laundry room was always in action.  My sister and I shared a bedroom, fully decked out in pink ruffles, compliments of Mom's sewing machine.  My bed was next to a window and just outside it was a huge old lilac, thus began my life long love affair with lilacs. 

In 1959, all I wanted for Christmas was Chatty Kathy. Kids weren't inundated with toy advertisements on television then like they are today so the really great toys that were on TV commercials were a big deal.  When I saw Chatty, I knew she had to be mine.  A big Christmas for kids in average working class families in the '50's would have been a three or four gifts each.  But Chatty girl was all I needed.  I was so excited that Christmas morning when we got up and sat around the Christmas tree in our jammies.  Of course the tree was real and it was decorated with those big, hot multi-colored bulbs that every kid burned their fingers on at some point in childhood.  The gifts were passed out.  I remember three.  A tiny box, a soft, tissue wrapped package, and a large box.  As we opened our gifts, I saved the large box for last, hoping it was what I thought it might be.  I remember Mother wanted my sister and I to open our identical tissue wrapped packages together, so we opened those first.  How I wish I still had that sweet gift.  Mother had made us matching gray wool flannel poodle skirts.  The poodles were pink - I always have been a pink girl, you know!  Karen and I both wore our little skirts for Christmas day.  The tiny box contained one of the most precious gifts I've ever recieved.  My father had saved his money and gone by himself to buy sweet little gold bracelets for my sister and I.  I believe my brother got a little car to ride in that year.  I had already received two wonderful gifts but I had my eye on the larger box.  When I opened it my seven year old dreams came true!  Chatty Kathy sat in all her glory, dressed in a sweet little pink striped dress and white pinafore. 

Christmas in 1959 brought lovely gifts and happy memories for a life time.  The years have flown by and this mother and grandmother of 57 (I will be 57 on my birthday tomorrow) realizes the real gift my parents gave me.  I never knew of the times my parents struggled to make ends meet.  I thought all daddies worked three jobs.  I thought all mommies made their children's clothes and bedspreads and scrimped to make groceries last.  My childhood was one of security and the knowledge that I was loved and wanted.

What more does any child need?

Lellow's Gone

From the moment I found out I was going to be a grandmother for the first time I had a deep bond with that precious baby girl. I was born to be a grandmother! I've always known it - even when I was a young mother. So imagine my joy in March 2004 when my dream come true was born! Sydney was a preemie and had to be re-admitted to the hospital when she was home for just a few days. Our daughter was just in miserable shape with a kidney infection so my husband and I convinced our son-in-law to take our daughter home to recover in bed and we stayed with our first precious grandchild for the first couple of days she was back in the hospital. She nearly died. She couldn't be admitted to the nursery because she had already been released. She was placed in a tiny room alone. Sydney had very little body fat so she could not maintain a healthy body temperature. I'll never forget how hot it was in that room! The temperature was set at 90 degrees in order to keep her warm enough, even though she was under a couple of lights to treat her jaundice. This poor baby was the most fragile thing I'd ever touched - it was like holding a bag full of marbles...all skin and bones. She was born before the sucking instinct is fully developed so she couldn't bottle feed very well. We were told we could not speak near her or touch her except for at specific times when the nurses unhooked her from some of the things attached to her in order to change her diaper and to have a bottle feeding lesson. They wanted her to have total sedation and rest in order to recover. So "Papa" and I sat in that room watching over our little baby bird for two days.

Sydney never opened her eyes or responded a single time - until the second night. The nurse asked if I would like to change and feed Sydney - you know I jumped at the chance! As I held her to my chest as tightly as I dared, two precious blue bird eyes opened up and met mine in a deep, knowing stare. Both my husband and I melted in a flood of tears. We KNEW at that moment she was ok. For the first time we could see life in that sweet baby's face. I said to Sydney, "there you are, Love" and she gently closed her eyes and slept in my arms. That moment remains one of the most precious, cherished moments of my life!

Now five years later, we celebrate Sydney's 5th birthday. She has grown to be a healthy, bright, inquisitively, busy little girl and we are so grateful to God that He brought her into our lives!

Sydney now has a PRECIOUS little sister whom Mimi also adores, but that's another story for July!

Oh! I almost forgot...about lellow. Sydney's favorite color has always been "lellow". I LOVE that she said lellow. I asked Sydney on her birthday what her favorite color is, just to hear her say it. And she said YELLOW. Oh, my...lellow's gone. Darn it, now it'll only be a week or two until my little blue bird wants a lellow car!

Here's a poem I wrote for Sydney as her first birthday approached.

I Always Knew You

As long as I can remember, I have waited for you.
I knew you would be the one to fill the garden,
To clear the clouds always from the sun,
To overflow the cup of joy.
The moment I was told you were coming, I knew you would fill any vacant place…
A baby button picture held my heart in it’s grasp.
Tiny shoes waited for your feet.
As I watched you emerge from your mother,
As I sat by your bed those first tenuous days and nights -
I knew it was you, as I watched and waited.
The moment of true recognition, of knowing, came as a gift in a dark, hot hospital room.
You opened your eyes, then deep pools of gray, and looked directly into my own tired weepy eyes
As if to say, “Yes, it’s me. I’m here. I’m your heart.”
At that moment, my heart continued to beat only because of the gray.
“There you are, Love” I answered aloud.
Our two hearts swirled and danced together as one,
In that ancient miracle of bonding between grandmother and grandchild.
It was a rare moment when the world stood still while a single bud opened to full, instant bloom - A moment of clear recognition, who you were at that moment and who I would be to you.
You, the one who would cause the birds to sing, the sky to be blue, the rose to smell sweet,
And I, the one to share them all with you.
You awakened the grandmother always in my soul.

The first year has nearly passed, just as the pages of a dearly loved book are turned.
Slowly at first, the story laying its foundation in a tiny body, a first smile, a giggle.
Then building intensity, sheer delight, as each page becomes more enticing than the one before.
Your head full of dark hair turning to corn silk,
And the gray pools which first held my gaze now dance in a melody of bright blue surf.
Your trade mark baby cheeks have softened to the delicacy of a tiny girl.
Arms and legs, once weak and helpless, are now strong and determined…
Climbing, crawling, standing, pulling, ringing, clutching, clapping, patting, wiggling -
Living.
Dancing to your own rhythm, demanding to be you.
Inquisitive play, excited chatter, a toothy grin, endless pat-a-cake, soft drooling kisses.
The pages of our book come alive each time you see me for the first time and your face electrifies.
A double toothed grin spreads your face to sheer delight,
Your eyes sparkling with yet unspoken baby-heart love, the story always holding me bondage!

New tales of wonder will read from a new chapter…
A second year prevails.
Days of sun and shells, perpetual motion, captured hearts, independent ringing.
It will all be laced with familiarity.
Because as long as I can remember - I waited for you, I wore you in my heart.
My girl.
And I always knew it would be you, my Sydney Bell.

Mimi & Sydney at the beach last summer

Happy birthday, sweet girl. You're my sunshine!

An Interesting Obituary From The London Times

I recently received this from a friend and I thought it was thought provoking even though it is presented in a humorous essay. I hope you enjoy it too.

An Obituary printed in the London Times:

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.

Common Sense will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:
knowing when to come in out of the rain
why the early bird gets the worm
life isn't always fair
maybe it was my fault

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

Common Sense declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student, but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.
Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust; by his wife, Discretion; by his daughter, Responsibility; and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers:
I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim

Not many attended his funeral - few realized he was gone.

Carrots, Eggs, and Coffee - An Interesting Perspective

A friend recently sent this to me in an e-mail. I thought it presented an interesting perspective of managing life. I hope you enjoy it too.

A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up; she was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.

Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil; without saying a word.

In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. Turning to her daughter, she asked, ' Tell me what you see.'

'Carrots, eggs, and coffee,' she replied.

Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard boiled egg

Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, 'What does it mean, mother?'

Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same
adversity: boiling water. Each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak.

The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened. The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.

'Which are you?' she asked her daughter. 'When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?

Think of this: Which am I? Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?

Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become harden ed and stiff? Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?

Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you.

When the hour is the darkest and trials are their greatest do you elevate yourself to another level? How do you handle adversity? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?

The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything that comes a long their way! May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy.

The Legend of the Flawed Pot

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots. Each hung on the ends of a wooden pole which she carried each morning across her shoulders to retrieve water from a stream. One of the pots was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water to the old woman's kitchen. The other pot was cracked and at the end of the long walk from the stream to the kitchen, it arrived only half full.

Day after day the woman filled the pots to overflowing with water at the stream, yet arrived home with only one and one half pots of water. The perfect pot was very proud of its accomplishments. The poor cracked pot was very ashamed of its own imperfection and miserable that it could only do only half the work it was created to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, the cracked pot spoke to the woman. As she knelt by the stream, the cracked pot said, "I am ashamed of myself, because the crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house. I am a failure."

The old woman smiled at the flawed pot. "Haven't you noticed that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other side? I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path. Every day as I walk from the stream to the house, you water them for me. For two years now I have been able to pick beautiful flowers to decorate my table. If you had not possessed the flaw you so despise, the beauty of the flowers would not grace my home. I gladly accept you as you are."

Appreciate the flowers on your side of the path and realize your irreplaceable beauty in the garden we create together!