A Christmas Tree

Got your tree up yet?

Everyone has their own way of decorating a Christmas tree. My mom always insisted that the baby Jesus ornaments be in front and that the wise men come from the east. My sister-in-law wraps each branch separately in strand after strand of white lights. My best friend loves to bring home the tallest tree she can find and has to hang the highest ornaments with the help of a ladder and a long pole.

As for me, my goal is usually to fit on as many ornaments as possible. We have boxes and boxes of a mishmosh of home-made and school-made and memory-laden little doodads, and I want them all to hang on the tree, whose branches seem to quiver with fear as the boxes are opened.

It’s fun to dress up a tree and make it sparkle, to cover it in lights and ornaments and tinsel and garland and stars and angels and clothespin reindeer.

But when the day gets dark and the room lights go off and the tree lights go on, something magical happens. The ornaments disappear, and suddenly you can see, in the mini-wattage glow of three hundred tiny twinkling lights, a tree. In the middle of it all, under the glittery and sequined frippery, is a beautiful, fragrant, quietly distinguished tree.

Ornaments are nice, and tinsel is fine. But what really matters is the tree.

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I try to decorate Christmas, too. Every year I think that I have to find a way to make it special. I want to serve the perfect meal, give the best gifts, and somehow make sure that my family experiences all the warmth and joy of the holiday season.

And I want the day to be more than just a special day, of course. It is, after all, Jesus’ birthday. I try to keep myself focused on the meaning of God’s coming among us, to re-tell my children the Christmas story and remind them of the true basis for our Christmas celebrations. I try to remember that Jesus is the Reason for the Season and to Keep Christ in Christmas.

It’s a lot of weight for one day to carry, and every year, as nice as our Christmas day might be, I can’t help feeling that I haven’t done it quite right. I couldn’t quite manage to make it fun, festive and all about Jesus.

It would be nice if, as we look at December 25, we could turn off the lights, plug in the twinklies, and let the ornaments disappear. It would be nice to look past all the attempts to make it special and see what’s underneath.

What’s under all the stuff, when the lights are off, is a lovely, simple, quietly distinguished manger, wafting up the scent of hay and forgiveness.

The true meaning of Christmas does not depend on my plans and preparations – the true meaning of Christmas is there, at the center of things, without any help from me at all. I don’t have to keep Christ in Christmas. He’s already there.

From the cut-tree manger to the lonely tree on the hill, Jesus came for me, lived for me, and died for me, no matter what kind of a birthday party I throw Him. Nothing I do, or don’t do, will take that baby out of His mother’s arms. No ornamentation or omission of mine will change the fact that God’s Son was born to live to die to rise to conquer death for me.

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My best tree-decorating memory is from a few years back, before we had kids. I believe it was Pastor who started it – from the comfort of the recliner he reached into the ornament box, drew out a puffy fabric candy cane, and flung it at the tree. It stuck. We spent the next half an hour sending stars, reindeer and angels soaring through the air, giggling like schoolkids and cheering when we scored a hit. The finished tree looked bizarre, but I thought it was beautiful. I was reminded that year that decorations are nice, but they don’t really matter.

What really matters is the tree.

First published in The Alpena News, December 14, 2013

In Their Footsteps

Something breaks. I think to myself, Dad would know how to fix this. I reach for the phone. And then I remember.

Oh. Right. Dad died.

For all the saints who from their labors rest,

Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,

Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest,

Alleluia! Alleluia!

All Saints Sunday.  It’s the day when we remember those who have faithfully served the Lord

and gone on to be with Him. Like my mom. And my dad.

Hardest church service of the year. Why is it that I look forward to it with such eager anticipation, even though I know I’m going to cry through the whole thing?

I belt out the lyrics of the beloved hymn, swelling with pride as I envision my dear loved ones among the saints of the ages. The verses tug at my heart, leading me on a journey of memory and loss and love.

O blest communion, fellowship divine,

We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;

Yet all are one in Thee, for all are Thine.

Alleluia! Alleluia!

A sudden swelling of anger lumps in my throat. Anger that they are there and not here. I know they are happy where they are. Mom is back to the way she was before cancer stole her sunshine. Dad’s knees work right again, and his migraines are gone, and he doesn’t miss Mom anymore. They wouldn’t want to come back to that pain, to the pain of a sinful world.

I don’t care. I want them here. I need them here. I need them to take care of me. I need them to come watch their grandchildren play in the band concert and help me decide what color to paint the kitchen. I need those people, and it is not fair and not right that they have been taken from me.

Those cheerful alleluias make me furious.

And when the fight is fierce, the warfare long,

Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,

And hearts are brave again, and arms are strong.

Alleluia! Alleluia!

The fight gets fierce. I want to bend, concede, huddle in a corner.

And then I picture my mom’s busy fingers, never stopping to rest as she gently nudges me to where wisdom lies. I hear my dad’s voice, telling me what I need to hear even if I don’t want to hear it.

I hear them from a distance, calling to me from the past that is part of my present; be strong, my child. Be courageous. Follow in our footsteps as we followed in those of our Savior. You are not alone.

And I raise my head and press on.

From earth's wide bounds, from ocean's farthest coast,

Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,

Singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

Alleluia! Alleluia!

I’m sure Dad’s deep, booming voice and Mom’s gentle alto blend beautifully with the heavenly choir. But it seems heaven must encompass so much more than singing. I picture Dad shaking hands with Noah and cracking jokes with Martin Luther. Mom would be chatting with her former students and giving my best friend’s mom a hug.

Heaven is such a fascinating mystery. It could be anything, really. We know only that it will be joy in the presence of our Savior. And joy can wear so many faces.

The golden evening brightens in the west;

Soon, soon, to faithful warriors cometh rest.

Sweet is the calm of Paradise the blest.

Alleluia! Alleluia!

I was driving out in the country one day when my oldest child was in preschool. He bounced in his seat and pointed out the window with excitement. “Mama, look! There’s heaven!”

We were passing a cemetery.

Where do people go when they die? A cemetery. But oh, my son, there is so much more than that. There is more than a hole in the ground. There is life beyond life, untouchable, unfathomable. I believe it. I want you to believe it, too, son. There is more. Because of Jesus, there is so much more.

Grandma is there. And Grandpa, and so many other people I want you to meet. Separation is not forever.

It feels like it sometimes. When I long and hurt and weep and ache, that emptiness they’ve left behind feels like it will never be assuaged.

But they are there, safe, content. And we, here, can wait. With joy in the waiting, forward-marching, following in their footsteps. And then…..

And then we’ll see them again. Because of Jesus.

Alleluia, Alleluia.

Stanzas quoted from “For All the Saints” (Public Domain)

From the version by William W. How, drawn lovingly from The Lutheran Hymnal

First published in The Alpena News, November 16, 2013

Two Sides of a Hill

The Lord makes firm the steps of the one who delights in Him; though he may stumble, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with His hand. Psalm 37:23-24

I walked up a ski hill last week.

My husband and I were at a pastors’ conference at Boyne Mountain near Petoskey. I had an hour of freedom, so I thought I’d go for a wander up a hill.

It was a lovely walk at first.  Scrubby crabgrass tickled my ankles.  Dry brown grasshoppers popcorned in the afternoon sunshine. Behind me a small lake had come into view, surrounded by rolling hills of russet and gold.

By the time I was half way up the slope, though, my heart was thumping in protest.  My legs wobbled and whined, and my stone feet begged me to stop.  I wanted to make it to the top, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

When I finally took the last aching steps up that long, long slope, lungs heaving, arms tingling, head light in exultation, I discovered...two guys and a pickup truck.

They raised their heads in surprise as a middle aged lady in dress clothes came huffing up over the crown of the hill.  I gave a little wave and turned around to check out the view.

The top of a ski slope, it turns out, isn’t too exciting.  But that’s okay.  The important part of the story isn't the top. It's the climb.

Life is full of hills. There’s the good stuff of life, and there’s the bad stuff of life, and it’s all hills.

However easy a hill may start out, by the time you get halfway up, you’re going to be tired.  And you’re probably going to want to stop. Sometimes the best you can do is to plod along, one foot in front of the other, and keep aiming for the top.

Of course, the top of a hill isn’t always what you expect.  Sometimes you just get two guys and a truck.

But we look back and see the struggle to get there, and we realize that it didn’t matter what was at the top.  The value was in the climb.  The holding on, the not giving up, the grasshoppers along the way.

From the top we can look back down the hill and remember that Someone climbed another hill for us.  We can watch the feet of our Savior as He plodded along, dragging a cross all the way to the top. And we can witness the love that gives meaning to our every little struggle up every little hill.

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I met Marissa in the ladies’ room at Boyne Mountain.  We exchanged pleasantries, but when she learned I was there with a group of churchy-types she started telling me her story.

It hurt to listen to it.  And it hurt her to tell it.  But she couldn’t stop pouring out the details of the difficulties she and her family were enduring.  She told me of unfairness and heartaches and mistakes and betrayals.

Every moment I expected her to lash out at our group of cheerful Christians, to bring them to task for filling the world with false hope about a God who did not take care of His creations.

And then Marissa, crushed by her world, looked at me and said, “I still believe in Jesus Christ.  But even Jesus Christ wouldn’t put up with this life.”

She was so hurt.  And so sad.  Her hill was so steep that she didn’t know if she could make it.  But Marissa, with every reason to give up, clung to her Savior.  This strong, fragile woman with rebellious eyes and defiant chin chose to claim as her own a name that she might just as well have used as a curse.

There in the middle of a bathroom in the middle of a church worker conference, God was using the strength of a stranger to show me something I needed desperately to see.  He showed me how to make it up a hill.

And you know what?  She was right.  Jesus wouldn’t put up with the hurt she was facing.  He wouldn’t see her wounded heart and do nothing about it.  Love wouldn’t let Him.  He picked up a cross and carried it….up a hill.  For Marissa. For us. For the sake of all who climb hills of hurt, who need something to hold on to.

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Hills, hills.  Looming large and frightening. Leaping with joyous grasshoppers. We go up them all, one foot in front of the other…our Savior by our side.

First published in The Alpena News, October 19, 2013