The memory had been thrown overboard 75 years ago to lighten the load carried by the ship of life. Driving through the neighborhood today to mail a letter it was washed ashore, more clear and vivid than I thought possible.  In the 5th grade, Mrs. Boudreaux (you already know I am from South Louisiana) gave us each the assignment of chronicling a tree near our house until April.  Following pages that named the kind of tree and gave some scientific details about it, we had to make dated notations twice a week about it through the winter. One entry was our relationship to the location of that tree and one page was our artistic endeavor to portray its appearance.  I chose a Black Willow on the Hebert’s property next to a fence, boxed in by our garage and a chicken yard.  It was secluded enough to be a private place to read or play.

In April, the 18 of us made a circle and talked about our tree.  Most of us had been aware of that tree all our lives. The houses and yards were old enough that landscaping had been done years before.  As we shared, we were amazed at the differences we had never noticed.  My tree was mid-sized and had been bare twigs in the winter.  Sonny’s live oak in his back yard was just then pushing off old leaves from its canopy of branches. Pat chose a crepe myrtle with branches squished together and bark peeling back as the tree grew. I made a cover for my offering, got a decent grade, and threw it out in June.

The winds and tides brought that memory to shore on Sunset Bouvelard when I inched past a tree-cutting service removing a large oak covered with ball moss that I guess had finally suffocated it.  The neutral ground across from the house had a pile of branches.  In front of the house was a a large log that had been the trunk and several circles from higher up.  It had the appearance of a war zone with piles of rubble. The loss of this tree made me breathless as I thought of trees around me I had taken for granted. They provide the much needed shade for Houston and the larger necessity of filtering pollution from city air. Half the houses on my block are wood and wood pulp is the basis for my morning news.  They were given to earth to be a provision for man and his needs. As retribution for my years of inattentiveness, I plan to put into action the words, “Hug a tree.”

For there is hope for a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that its shoots will not cease.  Job 14:7

I was between a somewhat older first cousin and her two sons.  That made me just the right age to be not exactly a “sitter”, yet the adult when we were a group by ourselves.  The younger of the boys was always sure of himself and what he planned to do.  Assigned a New Year’s theme in the sixth grade of what he wanted to change about himself, his two sentence answer was this. “I don’t want to change anything.  I like me the way I am.” Yes, begrudgingly, he did have to write it over.

I have thought often of his answer, especially in my eighth decade and at New Year’s.  In my life I have used this time to make resolutions for improvement or set goals for completion.  Twelve months later the review is usually,”Humph, baby steps.” This year I am listing choices for a small time.  I don’t need a major project that adds stress to my life. I plan to look at wants and possibilities and hours available. Over a period of time, I would like to master a few more Spanish words and lay aside the pressure of carrying out with ease my half of a conversation. Some days, demanding as it may be, I need to pull out the checkbook and balance the numbers. A design lurks for one more quilt.  If I only get it half done, the pleasure of daily seams will be sufficient. A trade off for gym exercise is digging out nut grass and oxalis, always there and waiting. Ah, a rainy day will provide time for reading a book in bed, and no one will know but me.

Paying attention helps good choices happen.  This person is a good friend.  Have I called, or written, or even had lunch?  Did I slow down enough to say thank you to the clerk in the grocery store who helped me find brown sugar? Can I put aside thought out lesson plans to just listen to a first grader tell about taking his dog to the vet?  When we brought our first child home, my daddy said, “There’s always time to rock the baby.”  At the end of the year, what we’ve chosen each day is what matters.

Therefore, choose life.  Deuteronomy 30:19b

Journey, join, gather, together.  Those, too, are words of Christmas.  I’ll Be Home for Christmas is almost as poignant as While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night. I went over the list of you few faithful, and only one that I know of will be away from the home house, yet even he will not be without someone to share with. An eager person was waiting at the airport to take your bag for the last leg. My mother heard the car that had driven 308 miles hit the front of the oyster shell driveway and was standing at the back porch door to say, “You’re here,” as she reached out for the nearest child.

Going forth and arriving are strong parts of the blessed story.  A authoritative edict called for taxation, so Joseph and Mary had to go from Nazareth to Bethlehem where the birth of her special child had already been prophesied to occur. Maybe the Christmas miracle is her covering those miles while 8 months 25 days pregnant and making it to a stable before the baby came. Shepherds never considered going to town. They were unkept and had a job to do.   Yet, staff in hand, they went to see if what they were told was true.  How many people saw the star bright in the night sky? Only Wise Men discerned its import, pestered an ornery king, and arrived after the fact. Their gifts may have been needed for the Holy Family to move on again to Egypt.

Hopefully, some coming or going put you in a place with a special group to share the celebration yesterday.  It may have been a larger family, partly unknown, that made itself as one on Christmas Eve. It may have been with some bleary eyed participants around a tree to open gifts.  A time probably arrived when all joined around a table.  The food was sustaining both for body and soul. Now is a time to move on, remembering and sharing the specialness of this occasion.

The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen.

Luke 2:20

 

I had a friend who worked retail one December.  She would come home in the afternoon and find hard rock on the radio.  Music is the sound of the season, yet it is more than the playlist of a shopping mall.  How can I stay focused on either Christ’s birth or purchase when Chestnuts Roasting or 12 Days of Christmas is coming around for the umpteenth time. I have never roasted chestnuts on either an open fire or a skillet.  12 Days  is sung by me when I need a motion song to entertain wiggly children.

These affirm the time for me.  Truly I enjoy children’s programs.  In spite of nose rubbing and pulling at robes and waving at parents, their smiles and delight in what they are doing pulls me into joy. The songs flow.  Something akin to Jolly Old Sant Nicholas may start the program.  At an appropriate point they warble Away in the Manger, hopefully pitched high enough that they don’t hit the cellar midway through. I feel disappointed if they don’t end with We Wish you a Merry Christmas.  Because of their enthusiasm, the words come out, “We Swish you a Merry Christmas”  with a toss of their heads to be emphatic.

For quiet background, I have some carols I can rest in.  You make your own list and can check mine on the ever ready net.  Years ago I was introduced to Alfred But’s carols which he wrote for his family and friends each year.  If I am busy, I am drawn to We Dress the House with Holly Bright”  staying rushed until the last verse, “and ye who would the Christ Child greet, your heart also adorn.” Some special ones remind me of the rusticness of the manger like No Golden Carriage.   Mighty ones invigorate me like Mary Had a Baby moving through the list of names until a soprano clearly says, “My Lord” and it drifts out before it dies away.

At Christmas Eve services, songs need to involve a robust congregation and a capable choir.  Processions to O, Come All You Faithful make a good start.  Somewhere in the middle For Unto us A Child is Born focuses me on this night.  Candles and quiet harmony everyone seems to know in the iconic Silent Night lead toward the day after the night.  Luke 5:13 is translated “saying.” Heretic or not, I want a multitude of singing heavenly host.  At the grand finale, that is what happens when all fall down before the Child who becomes the Lamb.

and they sang a new song.  Revelation 5:9

 

I never was a whole Grinch. Now, though, I don’t have to be enthusiastic about all activities  I no longer have small children whom I want to delight at this time of the year or who are very aware of what can be theirs on Christmas morning.  Cookie baking is in doable batches.  I don’t have parties most of the calendar days. A big move occurred, and I have pared down what counts as decoration to what “I really love” as the current trend setter preaches.

So I can confess with impunity I’ve never really liked Christmas trees.  It slipped up on me gradually.  We lived in the country and my daddy like hiking into the woods, booted and axe in hand, to bring home one of a perfect shape.  The tree did look purposeful with gifts piled under it. Even at age four though, I realized the lights required constant attention.  Improvements have come; however, at that time when one went on, all went out, requiring a laborious search to find the dud and replace.  Then there was the checking of the color sequence after the replacement.  “No, honey, that leaves three reds in a row.”

Family decorating lacked the festive feeling with three of us.  We had moved and had to buy a tree which didn’t guarantee that all sides were equal.  Before decorating even began, twisting and viewing took place to present the best view. Lights went on first, still a slow process that began with untangling. Finally, the box with real glass balls wrapped in tissue paper could be opened. I could only reach so high.  The balls I carefully hung in my chosen space were always being removed to a spot nearer the top of the tree. Why bother?  Then the stress of completion: unnumbered strands of icicles.  My mother was a placer one by one with a deliberate motion.  I maybe made it to ten that way, and then I was a throw and clump decorator.

Onward to a jumble.  It turned out I married the man who was neither a cutter of a tree nor one who  went forth to choose.  I got it home, and we did get it up.  Again no joyful family decorating.  Each child had personal ornaments, and then they wandered off. One year it was in a play pen to keep the cat at bay.  Needles fell and water leaked. The one year we tried cutting our own, the truck got stuck in mud and a local tractor owner had to pull us out.  My non-Grinch half enjoyed semi-darkness and twinkling lights, yet the almost time to go back to school half got up December 26 and started taking it down.

I am at peace now.  For several years I have had a small artificial tree already strung with lights.  This year the strand burned out, so it sits in a corner with some of my rocking  horse ornaments on the visible side. It is topped by the angel who has always been with us from a time we had to hold up a child to tie her in place. In spite of her Scotch-taped wing, she sings, “Rejoice, glory to God in the highest.”

And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host. Luke 1:13

I enjoy Christmas.  I LOVE  Advent.  The word directs a 180 degree turn from commercialism. Its option was not even offered to me until the 1970’s when our church first did an Advent book.  I grew up in a small Baptist church.  December was carols in the church, a program at school, a tree in the living room, a bought gift and a Santa surprise. The word was not capitalized. Advent was the noun that designated a change as in Upon the advent of the Industrial Revolution, the need for a laboring class was restructured.

The words that go with it are so foundational and individual.  As a part of the church year, the time was not designated liturgically until 380 A.D.  (I am not a C.E fan) Candles are the symbols of coming light. Throw a dart at the board and select four from these offerings and make a theme for the four weeks before December 25:  Hope, Peace, Faith, Joy, Prophets, Shepherds, Magi, and tack on Love as a ultimate comment.  To really ice the cake, add a thick white candle Christmas Eve to affirm what the waiting of Advent is all about,

I am most drawn to Advent because it is what I make of it. No holiday patrol checks what I’ve cooked or how I’ve decorated. When the possibility of focused celebration was offered options poured in: a plethora of wreaths, scented candles, windows to open to help children count days, and, of course, a book to guide one’s thoughts, and then another book for the next year.  I come out with a cup of tea, a LED candle, maybe music and a small nativity, and the gospels.  The stories are old and treasured, yet a new thought is sometimes revealed.  When Gabriel tells Zachariah that his prayer is heard, he doesn’t even say.”Which one?” I could have gone through a numbered list.

In your way, walk though this beginning of a new happening.  Focus on what was and what will be changed, and how you can be a part of it.  This time is the culmination of thousands of years of waiting that we have distilled into four weeks. Be alert.  Don’t miss the import of the moment when it arrives.

But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth His Son.  Galatians 4:4

Aw, come on.  Did you really think I would finish the demise of this holiday by ignoring it one more time?  The material world moved from a token October 31 to Christmas lights and pleas for early shopping. Even though it is an American holiday with more legend and fake news than a recent newspaper, it’s to be cherished for food and place and sleeping arrangements.  Those portions are only the surface.  The heart part goes deeper.

Food is in three sections:  those who prepare the meal (or slave depending how they view it), those who know where to purchase a whole meal and maybe even manage to give the cost of purchase to the poor and needy, and those who eat whatever as long as it is served at a time not to interfere with the football game. I’ve never had to prepare a whole Thanksgiving dinner all by myself.  Until I was twenty-five, my mother put together and presented the feast from HER kitchen.  I could set the table and once stirred the gravy. When I entered the Smith family, the turkey was already assigned. I just had to bake pies.  They were easily transported from Houston to San Antonio.  At times in some families, the meal can vary from traditional dishes, and the words around the table are still, “Pass some more of the….”

Gathering for Thanksgiving is not as stressful as when to be where for Christmas, yet it does need to be considered.  For a one generation nuclear family the choice is easy.  As exponential comes into play, decisions arrive. Does the farthest away group always have to do the traveling? What about the cousins who have to be back at work on Friday? I always picture a map of the needed area with little cars being moved along to a convergence point.

When  greeting and feasting is over, hopefully someone preplanned sleeping space. A niece of renown is the one who creates a spread sheet and makes pronouncements. Couples can have bedrooms as long as space is available.  Sometimes assignments are by sex groupings, and the next step is figuring out who gets the children. One relative told another this morning, “I have two grandchildren in a closet.”

Bottom line:  Enjoy the day.  Give the baby to whoever has the rocking chair. The people in the kitchen will catch up on family news while loading the dishwasher. Cries of despair or joy will come from men around the television. In all the history of Thanksgiving two words stand out.  The first is survival.  A group of 102 shrunk to half. An entirely different group helped the weakened settlers provide for the next year. Together they celebrated the second word, thankful. Through each year we struggle, lose, and come together again. Edward Wilson, chronicler for the Pilgrims said it best.

“And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want, that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.”

Not the one that merchandising is touting right now. This is the one that especially Texas men are planning their week-end around. It’s white tail deer season or, for some, mule deer. Trucks are heading out from the city to various areas to”prepare the lease.”  It may be one they have rented for three weeks or a small acreage they have bought for their own specific use. Stories result out of any exciting week-end with non-shaving men and guns, and these are the ones that are part of my life.

My daddy and his brothers grew up hunting.  Their success provided venison to supplement the chickens and pigs that were home grown. They lived in the woods near Zwolle.  The Z stands for the end of the alphabet and the end of a road in mid Louisiana.  My real memories were the trips from Hammond to the swamps out from Manchac near Maurepas Swamp.  The hunting outfit was the always the same:  khaki shirt and pants that were tucked into almost knee high lace up boots.  An oiled jacket kept the cold at bay. A brimmed cap topped off the outfit.  It too was khaki and somehow said hunting instead of baseball.  Whoever was in charge of the hunt took each man to his stand with directions to stay put. After all were settled, the dogs were released. You listened to the baying and the direction of bushes being pushed aside.  Hopefully, a buck passed your way, and you got a good shot.  You field dressed the kill and stayed at your stand until noise subsided and the truck circled to pick you up.

Then I married into the Smith family with a decade of tradition in the hunt to West Texas in the Davis Mountains.  All gathered at the family ranch near Boerne for Thanksgiving. Four adult men left out early the next morning to get to the Powell Ranch before dark.  This was a horseback hunt checking out canyons and hoping you got your shot at the top instead of having to climb down and get your kill back up.  All wore chaps to keep from tearing up legs and pants. Sometimes you were out all day and heading back in guided by the light of the fire in the cook shed.  Field dressed deer were hung in a row from an A-frame pole and hunters lined up for a picture. Supper with tales and sometimes teasing and a friendly game of poker wrapped up the day.My husband had the lease for several years and invited grandsons and friends and their sons to enjoy the hunt.  Our boys even learned to butcher and pack, so meat could go home ready for the freezer.

 

Families cherish what may be the most expensive meat of the year. I had fourth graders cook a pioneer meal and sent word to parents that I needed ground venison.  Enough was always forthcoming. From the beginning, we were a hunters/gathers civilization.  Traditions evolved to prepare for the hunt and celebrations affirmed success.  Orion the Hunter stalks the night sky. Daddies pass on skills to sons from handing a gun to respecting the hard decision to pass up a shot. A small mounted rack in our possession has a labeled picture of a pre-teen beaming proudly:  “One bullet, one boy, one buck before breakfast.”

“Now, then, take your weapons, your quiver and
your bow, and go out to the field and hunt game for me and prepare for me savory food.”

Genesis 27:3

The lower case d wasn’t a mistake.  It was a reminder of having space in mind before you start.  In 43 degree weather I have two men digging up my front yard for the first step of a plan.  Sometime last week I read, “A plan is what’s between nothing and a dream.”  Some part of me is always a gardener  Both dads grew things from rows of corn to tomato plants to hills of beans.  Back yards or vacant lots next door were tended in early morning or late afternoon, and something always needed care or picking. My mother kept a bricked bed for pansies or prolific Shasta Daisies to bring color to the bowls of ivy that were indoors all year. A gigantic hydrangea thrived in east to west sun on the far side of the driveway.

I had beds like I wanted them at our Rice house.  When we moved to Swift, the yard and the sun were different and I had other calls on my time  Something was missing  Last fall I just stepped forward.  I dug out grass in half of the front yard and laid out some dirt.  I invited neighborhood children over one Sunday afternoon, and we scattered and stomped wild flower seeds…and waited.

This half planned idea was beyond my anticipation.  From March to late August plants blossomed through a spectrum of colors following their cycles.  One month only the white bloomed, giving way to reds, and yellows were the triumphant ending.  I could sit in my living room and watch the helical flight of butterflies. Begrudgingly, I cut back at the beginning of September.

For the gardener, there is always another spring.  I called my yard lady.  (Other women have fashion consultants.) On a piece of paper to scale is the plan that will take my nothing yard to a dream come true. Enough perennials are added to keep dormant from being synonymous with death. Paths and lighting are included and a bench to sit on at needed moments and, perhaps, to be the place to envision the back yard for vegetables.

The flowers appear on the earth and the time of singing has come.

Song of Solomon 2:12

What gives validity to a person?  I was named, raised, and identified as belonging to a family.  A graduation certificate verified that a female of that name completed course work  Sometime before starting my first job, I applied for and received a Social Security card, the nine digit number that supposedly could be tattooed on the toe of every U.S citizen given them rights and privileges and finding them if they broke a law or didn’t pay taxes. I did change the last name when I married.  Dutifully, I updated documents and went on my way.

The first almost erasing came when I needed a passport in my late 20’s. I was adopted at 18 months – a story in itself.  At the time, participants could just go to the office of the local judge, state intent, receive one of the “henceforth” letters and move on with life.  I appeared at the passport office with my birth certificate and adoption papers and was told no.  No one had carried out the next step process. I had to go back to Bureau of Statistics of Louisiana and get the right names on the right papers. Hurdle number one was conquered.

For fifty-six years, a name of first, maiden, and last, that “social” number, a passport, and a driver’s license allowed me to move through all business transactions that came up.  I had my mother’s maiden name as a back-up proof of identity.  Who else would know that?  Then my husband died, and in 2017 I became a shadow of suspicion for the IRS. Evidently, a vast group of people claim to be the survivor of a joint account.  Even though my 2017 tax return was prepared by a capable firm, I received a letter in January that I needed to validate my identity with a list of number and letter documents that would facilitate this happening. I had a phone call with a deep voiced agent who reminded me this was my one chance to prove I was who could claim that tax return.  The river was crossed, yet the government shut down for two weeks, and I was lost in the flood waters. Finally in August, 2018, a body floated to shore and resuscitated with a check.

I thought all would go smoothly for 2018.  Silly girl!  I filed in October. A week later the letter came with the same requests of proof.  I went to the office of my CPA.  We tried doing proof on line.  My house and car are paid for.  I do have a credit card.  The deal breaker was a company we own carries my cell phone, so it is not in my name.  Back to talking to a strong voiced man. My CPA could give document information, and only he could speak. I felt myself becoming a ghostly shadow like an unanswered e-mail  Some sweat drops later after being put on hold, he came back to say I was who I was.  I am now in a list for a refund. Whew!

Even during those days of doubt, I was known and cared for.  My first graders called me by name and came for a hug.  I signed checks with my name, and they were cashed.  Parts of family visited to go to a quilt show and take care of house chores for me. The essence of who I am remained rooted and grounded on a sure rock.

How great is the love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God.  And that is who we are!  1 John 1:30