Christmas Grit

A holy hush spills over the room. A solitary candle illuminates the figure of Mary on the donkey, large with child, making her way toward meager accommodations. Eyes shine with the reflected flame.

Then, the preschooler tries cutting fire with safety scissors, at least one child gets up for a snack, cereal grit mars the Insta-worthy Advent photo…and it took two minutes of listening to the Advent devotional song to realize it was sung in English, not Latin.

It’s a tough thing to soldier on sometimes. Oh sure, sometimes it wells up in us with a fit of inspiration and an (un)healthy dose of comparisons on the side. Because we do that, don’t we? We cram ourselves into a mold we were never designed to occupy. To add insult to injury, we then berate ourselves for the ill-fitting mold chaffing our souls.

I’m not an Elf-on-the-Shelf, bake-All-The-Things kind of mom. We have a Shepherd on the Search…who we have never named…and who gets hidden all over God’s creation by whomever happens to find him first. We adore him, but this daily moving and creating magical scenarios is not my jam. Our nameless shepherd got the raw end of the deal when he entered our lives. Sorry, little fella.

In fact, any daily “thing” proves a challenge for our family. Can I get an “Amen?” The days are unpredictable, and more often than not, something goes a little sideways. Nevertheless, good intentions continue to pave the way.

Which is why I finally bought an Advent wreath I’ve been eyeing for a gazillion years. Makes sense, amiright? Has trouble sticking to daily plans…purchases expensive daily wreath. BRILLIANT. It arrived. I opened it reverently and packed it back up until its appointed inauguration. I ordered candles to fit the wreath. And forgot Advent began on November 28^th this year. We were behind before we had even begun. The all-natural, golden beeswax candles were delayed in shipping. No problem. Jesus had a manger for a bassinet. We can make do. On December 2^nd, I plunked a boring white tealight candle on the wreath and slogged through an Advent devotion I Googled right before summoning the children. Friends, learn from my folly. We disbanded after an awkward attempt at enthusiasm and I sat staring at that obnoxious silver candle. It didn’t fit. It wasn’t pretty. And the devotion was bleh.

God has a way of chiming in when we are ten shades of bleh. As I checked my email after staring down that horrid non-Adventy candle, a dear friend had sent a delightful Advent study to me. It combined artwork, poetry, scripture, music, and a devotional. In short, it was the thing missing in the equation (besides the dern candle).  

It’s been a beautiful thing to gather amongst the cereal crumbs, interruptions, and miscellaneous craft projects (I’m looking at you, pile of highly flammable paper snowflakes). The beauty isn’t found in the perfect devotional or the perfect table setting. It’s not in beeswax candles or even in the spendy wreath. True worth is in the gathering. God’s people, now more than ever, huddle around intimate tables, grit and all. Jesus is folding His people toward tables and pews and halfway houses. He is stirring the heart of His Church.

This Advent season has all the earmarks of being bleh. 

Ongoing pandemic? Check! 

Explosive politics? Check! 

Strained budgets? Check! 

Fill in the blank…check, check, check! 

We’re stretched to the breaking point.

Then God.

He pulls you and I into the grit of Christmas. We rub elbows with the nativity story and wonder anew at the simplicity and intricacy of the Christ Child’s humble beginnings. And it’s really the only mold we’re designed to fill.

With a week left in Advent, I just discovered my beloved beeswax candle order was canceled weeks ago. Apparently, it pays to check emails from Amazon. Who knew? A fresh set have been ordered and are due to arrive January 4^th…in plenty of time for the Lenten season.

Blessings,

Cynthia

In the Shadow of the Tree

The one who lives under the protection of the Most High dwells in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the LORD, “My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust." 

 Psalm 91:1-2

  

    The palo verde tree is the kitchen of our backyard; it’s the gathering place. Everyone gravitates toward it for shelter, community, and nourishment. Spiritual nourishment is the goal, but typically, a cereal bowl (or two) wind up attracting ants. Highly spiritual. Camping chairs straddle the tree’s meandering roots, dodging ground squirrel sinkholes. We aren’t fancy people with actual patio furniture. Swings grace two sturdy limbs. Bicycles topple like dominoes. Goats nibble as far as their lips can possibly stretch, and boy howdy can they stretch. And here I sit, idly taking it all in from the shade of its vast branches. We can call it, “relaxed parenting,” but I remain seated not because of any parenting ideals. I just don’t want to lecture someone while the sun is dehydrating me with each passing second. It’s hotter than blazes, my friends, and I don't drink enough electrolytes for that nonsense. I’d much rather pop a question off from my chair than follow the offender to a place in the heat. I call this, “parenting smarter, not harder.”

    Heard often from me as someone starts off on an expedition is the phrase, “eyes and ears.” In the desert we have all manner of exciting surprises. It’s the world’s worst jack-in-the-box. “All around the creosote bush the rabbit chased the lizard...dadun-dadun-danununudun…POP goes a rattle snake!” Whee! Fun times. Eyes. And. Ears.

    Another common phrase uttered to the toddler is, “Stay in the shadow of the tree.” In the mornings, the shadows stretch across night-cooled sand. The aforementioned toddler prefers to explore sans shoes, running heedless of danger. The shadow of the tree falls on level ground with no obstructions to my view. It’s her designated zone of relative safety. Some days she’s content to abide within the boundary. Other days, the reminders roll out like red carpet for the queen. On one such red-carpet day, she bounded over to me with the assurance, “Don’t worry, Mama. I’m going to stay in the shadow of the tree.” There was something strikingly whimsical about hearing those words from her mouth. That's when the impact skittered across my mind. Like a skipping stone, the truth rippled.

Stay in My shadow, beloved.

    My toes stray to the edge, the fiery heat glowing at my soles…or maybe soul…? Abiding in the shadow of the Most High chafes against my sinful pride. My flesh seeks that which is outside His dwelling. Yet, His is not a darkened shadow; on the contrary, His shadow is ironically indwelt by the Father of lights, filled with every generous act and perfect gift (James 1:17). 

    The clock ticks and the shadows shorten. The toddler’s shadowy bounds are ever-changing, and there’s absolutely nothing to deter danger from breaching its borders (well, except perhaps the dull roar of children). Not so with Him in Whom there is no variation. His shadow is always and irrevocably anchored. To abide in Him is to be held with steadfast love. Love for you. He becomes your eyes and ears. And ain't nothin' breaching that.

Tucking In,

Cynthia

Sour Lessons

Like all good Americans, I’ve taken on the mysterious and fickle hobby of sourdough starter during this pandemic/quarantine/covid…thing. A plus with this little endeavor are the dozens of tangy, chewy bagels that appear in our kitchen. It’s a slow process. Anyone who has dipped their toes (hopefully only metaphorically) into sourdough starter knows that sourdough takes its sweet time to do All The Things. It takes weeks before you have “mature” starter. Mine is bubbly and smelly, which is typically a sign of immaturity in people. Not so with sourdough. It takes a day or two to produce what you hope will be delicious carbs. Sometimes the effort is wasted. Most of the time it’s rewarded.

But I digress.

I’m currently staring at bagels that are “resting” for another hour. Also note: Starting sourdough baking projects in the afternoon is a great way to guarantee you are going to be up past your bedtime. Feel free to pin that baking hack. The dough has spent the better part of the day sitting. What it’s resting from is beyond me. I’m the one who could use a nap, what with the sourdough-sitting gig

I can’t explain what the dough has been doing all day, but it’s been doing something alright. It’s not the same dough I kneaded with enthusiasm nine hours ago. It’s changed. I can relate. All day long things are happening below the surface. Growth. Subtle transformations.

Weigh the dough, roll it between floury hands, pierce the center, give it a good twirl around the ol’ finger for good measure (also, a master baker method, I’m sure). Rest, boil, bake. Repeat. Sounds familiar. Although I live in the desert, so anything that sounds oven-y feels applicable to daily life, especially this time of year.

The clock keeps ticking. I don’t know why I bother taking the time to poke a hole in the middle. It closes up by the time it’s finished baking. Besides, no hole would equal more surface area for important things like cream cheese. One person suggested, “The hole is so it looks more like a doughnut.” I’m sure that’s why professional bakers do it. Another person chimed in that perhaps the hole allows for even cooking. Hmmm…perhaps. But even if it’s not, it struck a chord. Perhaps Step One is laying the groundwork for Step Two, and Step Three, and Four. Perhaps the pressures and punctures of right now yield greater consistency later.

Sometimes what’s best for us pierces. Sometimes the process takes longer than we anticipate. Sometimes we begin later than we should have. Sometimes, the heat feels a little extra, well, hot. The sear of sanctification rarely whispers. More often than not, I go kicking and screaming into change. You too? Perhaps the hurt is ensuring the next step is more successful. Perhaps the heat allows us to rise.

Oh, and bagels have holes to ensure consistent cooking temperatures throughout the dough. So, I guess it’s not to mimic their fried cousin...? Who knew?

Learning Sour Lessons,

Cynthia