Rox and Roll

Christmas by Night

As I tucked in my children tonight, I read to them from the book of Matthew, reminding us all of the birth story that begat today's celebrations.  Though it is the story of the joyous birth of our Christ, it holds in it some rather dark elements.  King Herod sends his wisest men to locate this newborn baby, whom he perceives to be a threat to his authority; Herod intends to kill Jesus, but the wise men -- wise to his plan -- do not assist him and, likely putting their own lives in jeopardy, never report back.  Joseph, Mary, and Jesus flee to Egypt, returning to Israel only after Herod's death, remaining in fear of the son who ruled after him.  In some ways, the New Testament could read like a mystery novel, one in which forces against Jesus try and try again to bring him down.  (Of course, they eventually succeed -- but we do not need to go there, as Easter is months away.)

What parallels this story has to life right now, whether my own personal story or that of the goings-on in the world.  When I read this piece by Max Lucado -- one of my favorite kids' authors for his fables with a strong moral message -- my heart grew at once heavy and hopeful.  Lucado writes, "Oh, Lord Jesus, you entered the dark world of your day.  Won't you enter ours?  We are weary of bloodshed.  We, like the wise men, are looking for a star.  We, like the shepherds, are kneeling at a manger.  This Christmas, we ask you, heal us, help us, be born anew in us." 

In a world where violence is ever present, where children are being taken in what ought to be sacred and safe space, how profound is that message: we are looking for a star.  We seek a light.  We search for a way out of the darkness in which we could drown if we closed our eyes and let it consume us.  We hope for a better world.

I found the light this holiday season -- or, rather, it found me.  It came to the sound of a gentle knock as a friend placed poinsettias, a wreath, and doormat on my stoop -- alongside a delicious dinner.  It continued with another friend with whom I shared one of the best child-free meals out and deepest conversations I have had in a long time.  It kept going as holiday card after holiday card arrived addressed to me in my own "original" name, some with the kindest letters and notes of support I could have ever imagined.  It grew with the arrival of my "big sister" from Sweden, a former exchange student whom I adore who traversed halfway across the globe to be with us for just a couple of days.  It blossomed in the Christmas pageant, where my heart beamed as my angel Gabriel (Petunia) and my little shepard (Dash) delivered their lines with such joy.  And it kept on rolling right through this Christmas day, when my greatest gift came in the form of a visit from a dear college friend and his lovely family; nothing can make a home glow quite like a two year-old and a six year-old, alongside my own twelve and seven year-olds, with an unlimited cookie supply!

Plus, of course, there were the lights -- literally.  I stepped out of my front door one afternoon to find myself surrounded by them, from my handrails to my doorway to the gables of my roof.  A friend had sent a light-hanger to be-Christmas my house.  I think the only tears I shed this season were while watching my kids' eyes as they saw them light up for the first time.  Awestruck does not even cover it!  It was as if I got to watch them getting infused with the Christmas spirit -- a special and magical event that I could never replicate if I tried.

Most importantly -- most impressively, perhaps -- aside from those few tears of joy, I spent this holiday season waiting for tears that never came, waiting for ache that I never felt, waiting for the hurt that I anticipated -- waiting, in a sense, to suffer.  What a shame that I wasted that time during a season of such joy.  What a shame, really, that I thought I should suffer at all.  It is as if I lost my own light.  It is my great fortune that others see it and shine it back at me when I am in my times of greatest need for that reminder.

It has been a dark year, likely my own darkest ever.  And yet, I sit here by a glowing fire, warmed even more by the love of family and friends, knowing that I have chosen to emerge from the darkness unbroken and whole into a world that I will continue to refuse to see as dark, and, poignantly, one in which I refuse to accept suffering as the norm.  The Zen proverb says "Pain is inevitable.  Suffering is optional."  I choose to be strong.  I choose to remember my inner light that comes from being secure with who I am and with what I need, and especially with how I act and interact in the world. 

Max Lucado is right, Jesus was born in darkness -- and yet, a Star lit the path of all who sought Him.  My Christmas prayer this year, for myself and for all who have struggled of late to make sense of the world, is that when we are lost, we find the light -- whether it is the Light of God or the light within ourselves that reminds us of why we are here: to love each other and to be of good use to one another.  And I give extra thanks this year for the friends who shone that light on me when I refused to find it myself.  A new year lies ahead, and I am excited to begin anew.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

How many times have I grabbed for my laptop over this past week, only to being writing a blog post and then to cast it aside, for my words have lost their meaning and my feelings cannot be described adequately no matter the font or the intonation.  What does a mother say about twenty lost children?  Oftentimes when my own mother would hear of a tragedy, she would remind us that she regularly asks God to take her five minutes before He takes any of her children.  She did not feel that she could live through that kind of loss.  I understand her fear.  Birthing children is like removing part of one's heart, sticking arms and legs on it, and trusting it to walk about the world unharmed, still beating, still a part of what gives a mother life.  Yet I cannot live in fear for my children's safety.  I have to believe that they are safe in order to keep breathing myself.  I know that they know how deeply they are loved.  I know that the twenty children lost in Connecticut knew that, too.  And I know that, like mine, some of those kids were probably rushed out of the door in a harried fashion with cries of "we'll be late!" and "hurry up!" and that things were probably just so normal that morning, and that is what aches my heart he most.  When I have mornings like that, I always think: "we'll do better tomorrow," because I believe that tomorrow will come.  I cannot imagine a life with no tomorrows, no more chances, no more life. 

I have set my alarm to awaken me at 6:25 a.m. PST tomorrow, five minutes before the national moment of silence for Newtown.  I plan to spend those moments in quiet, meditative prayer, for the children, for their mothers, for their siblings and fathers and families and friends ... For the adults who lost their lives, including the shooter's mother, and for those in this country who are so ill that they could do this sort of thing.  I will pray for peace.  I will pray for an end to violence.  I will pray for love to conquer hate.  And I will pray for all of the tomorrows yet to come, that I will be patient and kind and loving and that I will not live in fear nor let my children do so.  I will pray for the peacemakers.  I will pray, because I can do that.  I cannot go to Newtown and hug and hold people, which is what I am inclined to do.  But I can hug and hold the people closest to me here and live for tomorrows that are better than these recent yesterdays.  I can pray for that.  I will carry on, trying to live a little better and love a little harder.  I will welcome my tomorrows, cherish them, and try to make them signify something. 

***

The title of this blog post is from Macbeth's final soliloquy, which has been raging in my head for this past week.  It is in response to hearing of Lady Macbeth's death, and some think that he shows some indifference toward her in this speech.  I think not.  I think that Macbeth is raging against the passage of time that he cannot stop, the do-over that he will not get.  In any event, this is far from a fitting tribute to Newtown in many ways -- and yet, it reflects, I think, the outcry of a world with too much violence handled in too little time and costing too many lives.  It is distress.  It is what I feel, even while I hunger for peace.  Here is the passage:

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing. — Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

The Holiday Post that Wasn't

I have written half a dozen holiday posts, and I have scrapped every one.  In them, I have tried to explain why I chose not to write a gift guide this year; and, while I can offer a hundred reasons, let's just stick to the declarative "I didn't write a gift guide this year."  (Click the "gift guides" category on the right of the screen if you would like to see past ones.  They're long, good, and still quite current.)  Meanwhile, I tried to write about plans made, new traditions forming, and, of course, the elephant in the room: celebrating the holidays for the first time as a single parent.  And I just cannot get a post out about any of these things.  My feelings are too personal, the sentiments too raw, and the most important reality is that, despite that elephant, I know in both my brain and in my heart that I am about to have another magical Christmas with my two superkids.  It is tempting to wallow in the negatives, but hey -- stirring up handmade soap in the kitchen tonight, watching Dash wrinkle his nose as he chose scents and seeing Petunia's caution as she dripped in the coloring and checked to see if the molds had set, I suddenly smelled something in my house, and do you know what?  It smelled a lot like a very Merry Christmas going on, right under my nose.  (Achoo.  Soap-making is not for the sneezy!)

And in that moment, I found my holiday spirit. 

It started creeping up on me in church today, when I led the teens' "bagels and bibles" session and recounted a lesson that I remember from my own Sunday School days: that of how people came to know Jesus.  The shepherds, told by an Angel to be unafraid, approached Bethlehem with curiosity, said one of my teens.  Herod, upon hearing the news of the birth of a new King, likely felt protective, threatened, and hostile, chimed in a few others.  The magi, ordered to investigate by Herod, approached with skepticism, suggested another child.  Upon seeing the newborn king, born in the humblest of circumstances to the most ordinary of people, the curious shepherds and the skeptical magi left full of wonder, rejoicing and praising God.  Herod never did get word of where to find the baby, for the magi never reported back on his location, aware, through divine intervention, of their boss's hostile intent.  This mirrors being a Christian today: there are some who go out into the world believing in and proclaiming the good news of our faith  There are those who are hostile to that message.  For a practicing Christian like me, what matters is in how I respond to that challenge.

Funny, then, that, as I settled in tonight to reflect on my day, with the house full of the smell of cinnamon-sugar and fresh pine, I realized that the lesson I shared with my teens today is exactly the message of Christmas (and life, actually) that I needed to receive.  I approached this holiday wondering how I will get through it, curious about how the kids will act and react to their life change amid holiday hoopla, and skeptical that I can offer something on my own that will measure up.  At times, hostility threatened, and yet, I refused to make room for it in my home.  We put up our tree, and Petunia hung the star.  Grandma strung the lights and swept up the falling pine needles again and again and again.

And, what do you know, something amazing happened: amid my humbler circumstances, a sense of wonder and rejoicing surfaced in a most unexpected way.  My heart became more full than ever, and I felt closer to my kids as well as to my faith.  That is the miracle of birth: a renewed sense of faith that life goes on, no matter what.  As our family of three looks toward 2013, I am full of hope that this sense of warmth, love, faith, and service that fills my heart today will take up permanent residence.  It is welcome, and I am ready.

Wishing you and yours a most blessed holiday season, a sense of fulfillment as this year ends, and your own renewal, should you seek it, in the next one.