Out of Christmas, Into Routine

Things can change a whole lot in the span of a month. It wasn’t quite a month ago that I wrote of picking out a Christmas tree at a Christmas tree farm and starting a new family tradition with our family. With great anticipation we brought the tree home. There was a lot to look forward to.

Today we took the tree down. There was no fanfare, no Christmas music playing in the background, no remembering which ornament came from which year. No, just the task of getting everything taken down, boxed up and put away for next year. There was with all of this a certain let down—that the events of the past month had come to an end; that the daily routine which had been interrupted with shopping trips, Christmas parties, Christmas movies, Christmas concerts, Christmas meals, family gatherings, and the like, was now settling back into just that—the daily routine. Nothing wrong with routine. I kind of like routines. I just wasn’t ready for the daily routine to come quite yet.

As my son and I carried the tree outside and readied it to be taken to a recycling center, I wanted some sort of fanfare, some sort of festival. We speak with excitement about “putting up the tree.” Should we not also have a similar excitement as we “take down the tree?” Perhaps we build up the season a bit too much. Could it be that in all our excitement to get to Christmas we really do make it out to be something it was never meant to be, and for which, with all our decorations and gift-giving and receiving, will never be? Are we looking for a perfection we simply can never expect to find?

If I read the Christmas story from Luke there was a lot of routine stuff happening. Some miraculous things too, but routine stuff as well. Take for instance the taxes. Mary and Joseph go to Bethlehem to be registered for a tax. I paid property taxes and car taxes this month. And come January, I’ll be getting ready to file income tax returns. It happens every year. Pretty routine.

Luke continues. Bethlehem is busy and there’s no room in the inn for Mary and Joseph. I don’t know what inns were like in those days, but I know when sports events are happening in certain cities, you couldn’t find a room if you had to. That’s pretty routine.

Mary gives birth to her firstborn, a son named Jesus. It hardly fails when I am in our local hospital that I hear the lullaby melody signaling the birth of a new baby. Again, routine.

But Luke reminds us in the midst of such routine, people encountered God. Remember the shepherds keeping watch over their flock by night? In the midst of routine, God.

So we are back into a routine, or soon will be. Maybe we try so hard to encounter God through the upstaging of Christmas, that we never can hear or see God. Maybe it’s in the routine after all, if we pay attention, open our lives and our hearts, that we will hear God.

Christmas Cookies

The sweet aroma of Christmas cookies filled the house as our guest opened the door to let my daughter and me in. Though she had not been baking all day, she had baked long enough for the smell to permeate the halls and the rooms of her home adding more Christmas cheer to our visit. We were delivering a gift from my daughter and son for her. Mostly it was my daughter’s making but my son managed to get his name on the gift as well.

She invited us to sit as she opened her gift and offered us a gift of her own—freshly baked cookies. These were not your ordinary pick-off-the-grocery-store-refrigerator-shelf-and-pop-into-the-oven type of cookies. No, these cookies were clearly hand made from scratch with years of experience behind them to yield the perfect Christmas cookies.

Each of the cookies were a different shape, size, texture, taste, and smell. But all were great. She explained which ones were the favorite choices of some of her family members and would encourage us to try them as she told us about them. One in particular I remember was what she called a “thumbprint. Roll out the dough, place it on the cookie sheet, press your thumb in the middle, and then place some strawberry jam in the middle. (My mouth is watering just thinking of it.) But while the process sounds simple enough, it was evident these cookies were made by one whose expertise could be matched by few. Not just any one could create such a treat.

Some cookies had sprinkles on them, others had powdered sugar, some were plane but made in unique Christmas shapes like stars, candy canes, and ornaments. We tried each kind—I’m sure of it!

Kate and I both agreed we were glad we had stopped by when we did. What a treat! Ah, but there’s more to the story that makes it even more special for me. Our guest, Maria by name, and some of you will know her, told us that the recipes she used had been handed down from her grandmother. She told us how she remembered as a child growing up in Germany and how her mother and grandmother would make them each Christmas. There was a glint in her eye and a glow on her face. That was a special memory for her. I’m glad she shared it with us.

I could tell that continuing this Christmas tradition for her own children and grandchildren, and friends, was just as important to her as the memory she held in her heart. My mind began to imagine what it must have been like to grow up in Germany and celebrate Christmas. Just the thought added to my Christmas celebration. When it came time to leave she sent us on our way with a hug and a bag of cookies to share with our family.

Creating special memories can easily happen at Christmas. Sometimes they come at unexpected times. But if we let them, those memories will bring peace, hope, joy, and love to our Christmas celebration each year.

Traditions

The day after Thanksgiving has traditionally been a day when my family eats leftovers from Thanksgiving Dinner and decorates for Christmas. We may visit a local store for their holiday sales, but never really take much time indulging in Black Friday. This year we added a new element to our holiday preparations.

We visited a Christmas Tree Farm. Our artificial tree had seen its better days and we disposed of it last year. This year we knew we wanted a real tree. We just weren’t sure where to get it. The big box stores or nurseries had been our preference in the past when we have had a live tree, but we were never completely satisfied. I located several Christmas Tree farms in Lexington. We chose one and made a visit there this afternoon.

To say that the farm with rows of beautiful Fraser Firs of varying was breathtaking may be an understatement. We were given instructions about how to pick out a tree and where to look. The man told us to let them know which one we wanted, they would cut it and put it on the truck. They gave us a 10 foot pole so we could judge the size of the tree we selected.

David, Kate, Jennifer and I looked for several minutes. Then we found just the right one. We took some pictures of it, including some of the kids around it for a Christmas card. It was a beautiful sunny day and the air was frigid adding to the sense of the approaching Christmas season. There was even some snow on the branches of the tree from the night before.

I’m not sure who among the four of us had the most fun. One thing for sure, I was as “giddy as a school boy” to use a line from “A Christmas Carol.” We finished the afternoon by enjoying a meal at our favorite burger joint, “Five Guys and a Burger.” Then we did some quick Christmas shopping and returned home.

The tree sits in our family room filling the house with its fragrance and its beauty. We’ll enjoy it the next several weeks as we celebrate the Christmas season. It goes without saying, but this is indeed “the most wonderful time of the year!!”

Lunchtime Blessings

Each month I have lunch at an assisted living home in our community. The folks there are gracious enough to allow our church staff to eat with our members who live there in a quiet room together. It’s a wonderful chance to get to see these folks on a regular basis and to catch up on what’s been happening at church and in their lives.

Our conversations are light and almost always include a lot of laughter. They sometimes regal our staff and me with stories from their past—their first love, the secrets to a long life, what happiness looks and feels like, the friends who have died, visits from grandchildren and great-great grandchildren, among others. It is always a refreshing time spent with some very special people.

I chuckle at times at how opinionated they can be and how easily they share those opinions. Then I remind myself that one day I may be just as opinionated. At other times I simply grateful that they are still with us and I wonder how much longer we will have them as the blessing they are.

I marvel at how much they have been through in this life and how resilient they are to the changes they have witnessed over the years. I wonder if I will have the same resiliency.

There is much they teach me every time we gather. But perhaps the greatest lesson is one of thanks for dear friends who have blessed my life.

A Clean Garage and a Clean Heart

I cleaned out the garage today. All the other tasks for a typical Saturday were done and I was in the mood for cleaning the garage. It has been on my mind for several weeks now, reminders from my childhood when my dad implored me to be sure to put everything away after I use it. I really do try to do that but I am so busy after all, leaving something on the workbench or a shelf for a week or two can’t be all bad. And I’m sure I won’t lose whatever it is I sit there.

So with a determination I set forth on my task. My wife reminded me to be sure to sweep the garage out good because we are tracking all that junk in on her clean floors. I think she has forgotten we have a teenage son who often brings four other teenage boys to the house, and a daughter who is in and out. Not to mention our 112 pound yellow lab who thinks (let me correct that—who is) part of the family and never wipes his feet (I mean paws) when he comes in, even though the rug at the door clearly says to do so.

Now to be honest the garage is not in that much disarray. Extension cords needed to be put away; tool chests needed to be arranged and cleared off; trash—most certainly left by those teenage boys who are in and out—put away; and recycling boxed up and hauled away, even though our dog relishes in carrying every single bit of it out to the yard as if it were his own special play thing.

Within a couple of hours the garage was neat and clean—not sparkling because I don’t have the epoxyed floor or the nice walls, but clean nonetheless. Of course as we came in this evening I found another one of those cups from a fast food restaurant that I’m sure one of those teenage boys had left again after I had cleaned the garage!! No, wait, that’s right, the teenage boys haven’t been here all day. Oh wait, it was my cup from where we had gotten something to eat earlier this evening. Seems my memory is not what it used to be. Anyway the garage is clean.

Now it's time to let God work on the stuff that's in my heart that needs to be dusted off and cleaned. I am reminded of what the Psalmist writes, “Create in me clean heart, O God.” (Psalm 51:10 KJV)

I think I'm off to a good start!

Sweet Memories

This weekend our family enjoyed a great meal that has renewed a great deal of sweet memories for me. I fixed peanut butter fudge, chocolate fudge, hot fudge sauce, homemade ice cream, and fresh blackberry pie with blackberries picked from my small patch. My next blog post may need to be on gluttony for sure!

The sweet memories (no pun intended) were focused around the homemade ice cream, hot fudge sauce and blackberry pie. As a child, my family loved homemade ice cream and my dad could make the best I have ever had. I can recall the summers, whether at home or at my grandparents when we enjoyed some of dad’s homemade ice cream. We all helped, my brother, sister and I. At least we all got to sample it and give our opinion as to whether the unfrozen mixture was rich enough. There’s nothing quite like the taste of that mixture.

Then we began the process of freezing the ice cream. I remembered today that we didn’t use bagged ice. We usually froze water in plastic gallon milk jugs. Then we would bust the ice on the concrete or use a hammer. Dad would pour the ice into the mixer and we would watch with great anticipation as the motor churned the mixture into a frozen delight.

My aunt would often make hot fudge sauce and would bring it to our home, especially if she knew ice cream was being made. Funny how something as simple as homemade ice cream could bring families together.

When it was all done the ice cream and the hot fudge sauce was a grand treat. I can’t taste it still and picture those moments in my mind. To say that we ate ‘till we could barely move would be accurate.

We didn’t have blackberry pie, but we always had blackberries from my grandparents. They made the best blackberry jelly. For years I thought it was odd that people would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with some other kind of jelly.

I can remember picking the blackberries and getting pricked by the thorns, and nearly devoured by the chiggers. But the cost was well worth it once I had a jar of blackberry jelly for my morning toast or biscuits through the years.

I often tell people that memories are a gift from God to remind us of a life lived and a love shared. It’s true. Those sweet memories that linger in my mind are a gift for which I am grateful day after day.

Now, time to get another bowl of homemade ice cream!!!

Pawleys Island 2010

Our family recently returned from vacation on Pawleys Island in South Carolina. It is a wonderful place that provides us with a sense of rest and relaxation that we so long for during the summer. We have been going there for a number of years and all four of us have grown accustomed to the local scenery and establishments.

Each year we have a tradition that begins with a walk out on the beach before unpacking. Feeling the sand between our toes, hearing the ocean waves crashing upon the shore, watching the birds swoop down, and smelling the sea air all fill our senses with the realization that we are indeed on vacation.

After we unpack it’s off to the Piggly Wiggly to get our weekly groceries, or at least enough for a few days. Stops at the Pawleys Island Hammock Shop, the Pawleys Island Mercantile, the Pawleys Island Golf Shop, the Island Shops, and the Lazy Gator are just a few of the stops we look forward to during our time there.

And each evening we enjoy eating out. We have discovered some great restaurants that we visit each year—the Litchfield Beach Fish House, Nance’s Creekside Restaurant, Sam’s Corner (famous for their hot dogs), and the Sea Captain’s are some of our favorite. We added two more to our list this year—Russell’s Seafood Grill and Raw Bar, and River City Café (great hamburgers).

We also play putt-putt at Tupelo Bay and Mt. Atlanticus. David and I usually get in a round or two of golf and all of us enjoy time spent on the beach looking for shells, getting in the water, and enjoying the time away.

There is always the family picture on the beach that reminds us of what a great time we had. So until we are able to get back, I’ll be satisfied with the memory of the sounds of the ocean waves, the feel of the sand, the smell of the sea air and the taste of great food.

Mother's Day 2010

As Mother’s Day comes to a close I have the chance to reflect on all its meaning and significance in my life. Today is a work day for me, a minister. As I began this day and led in worship, my mind was attuned to the necessary elements that had to be carried out—roses and bibles for baby dedication, appropriate remarks for mothers, being sensitive for those whose mothers had died and those who want desperately to be mothers. In over twenty years of ministry many Mother’s Days were spent without me seeing my mother, but always calling her.

So this evening I remember my mother. This is now the fifth Mother’s Day since her death. I miss hearing her voice and reassuring words. I miss her smile that always told me I was loved. I miss her hugs. I miss seeing the thrill in her face when her grandchildren visited. I miss trips to O’Charley’s Restaurant after a doctor’s visit. I miss conversations about what was going on in life and her advice and wisdom that she would offer. I miss her stories of times growing up in a coal mining camp. Most of all, I miss having her around.

There are many stories I recall of my mother—stories that reveal grace, humor, joy, and sadness. I have and will continue to share those stories with my family and friends, especially her grandchildren. Though they knew her for only a few short years, through those stories they will truly know the wonderful mother she was.

So on this Mother’s Day I share a part of an essay written by John Killinger. I have used it for several years and no long remember it’s source. I dedicate it to my mother, Dolores Valentine (1929-2005).

I believe in the love of all mothers and its importance in the lives of the children they bear.

It is stronger than steel, softer than down, and more resilient than a green sapling on a hillside.

It closes wounds, melts disappointments, and enables the weakest child to stand tall and straight in the fields of adversity.

I believe that this love, even at its best, is only a shadow of the love of God . . .

And I believe that one of the most beautiful sights in the world is a mother who lets this greater love flow through her to her child,

Blessing the world with the tenderness of her touch and the tears of her joy.

--John Killinger