This is a two episode mini-series. At times I know what each word means.  At other times the line blurs and people change sides and identifying words no longer fit.

Family first.  We all come with at least two sides from father and mother.  In my growing up, specifics counted. Without blinking I could rattle off first cousin, first cousin once removed, second cousin, my uncle’s wife’s sister.  Family appeared in person and spent the night or had a meal on the way to. Those who didn’t appear often were still familiar because they were identified and discussed when two or three others were gathered.  The shift for me was a cousin who moved to the closeness of a sister and to the long time intimacy that one has with a college roommate. Her house was my safe place as a new teacher in a far city.  Her husband took me fishing.  Her sons were my boy sitting charges at one time and later became call on the phone to check up on friends.

My in-laws, though dear, are not blood to me, but they are to our children.  The ten cousins, spanning fifteen years, moved wherever the group was like a swarm of locust.  We have several pictures of them lined up in order. When our daughter married, that was the wedding picture she specifically asked for.  My husband’s family has an enumeration.  The newest is 95. Outside of the tumult of large gatherings, I began to have conversations and sharing moments with various ones of the group that have tied us beyond the title that identifies them.  Even if they were not family, I would choose them to be with.

“He (or She) has no family.” is indeed sad.  I want to flip that coin later and affirm that friends can fill that empty space.  For now, I bask in that inclusive feeling God meant when he called all of us children and family who gather in various places and under diverse names to be His.

I bow my knees to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ from whom the whole family in heaven and on earth is named.  Ephesians 3: 14-15

Choose what your hear.  Granted, a great deal of loud or obtrusive noise exists in the world.  The fire engine blasting down the street certainly makes its presence known.  Jack hammers breaking up concrete are like a never ending dentist drill on a giant’s teeth.  That doesn’t cover the neighbor who mows at 7:00 on a Saturday morning or blows every leaf into submission. The hot-rodder car with windows down and the air vibrating makes me wish for a quick light change. Those sounds seem unfortunately a part of life,

Headphones and earbuds provide different types of protection.  On an airplane, a good pair of headphones can preserve your sanity when the cutting voice four rows back is giving details of  invasive surgery. Earbuds channel your favorite music or audio books as the only sound invading your private space during a walk or sitting at a bus stop. In some cases, though, they create a zone of no-contact with those around.  I have touched the shoulder of a teen bopping distractedly to some music and about to step into a street as the light changed. Giving instructions to a child with headphones and an i-pad requires getting to face level and believing they can lip read.

Some quiet sounds are to be cherished.  Children pass my house on the way to school, leaving chirpy words in the air.  Thunder rumbles in the distance at times to precede needed rain drops. The thump of mail being dropped off creates anticipation, and the click of a key in the lock draws me to welcome an awaited for love.

A friend and I drove her 4-wheel drive to a parking spot in Canyonlands and walked to the edge of a mesa to look down on the confluence of the Green and Colorado River. Without spaces to cut its speed and create a whistle, wind circled us without making a sound.  Very faintly we could hear the water we saw below meshing and blending and flowing on as two became one. Silence can be the ultimate of sound within you, one you have waited for and suddenly hear.

Go forth and stand upon the mount before the Lord..a strong wind…an earthquake..a fire. And after the fire, a still small voice.  1 Kings 19: 11 – 13

The Houstonian Smiths have had their five days of intense winter.  The trip to Steamboat involved family bonding and eating.  Those who came for the sport went skiing. All of us at different times burned the eating calories with a snowshoeing trip.  The excuse was the dogs needed exercise. I was able to rise early alone, except for the dogs.  Frija assumes the guard position while Millie likes warmth under

my feet.  Nothing is more illuminating than the sun rising almost imperceptibly behind the V in a mountain while above and surrounding all is still dark

All of the above were expected. Mixed in were three amazing blessings I hadn’t factored in.  For the twenty years of visiting, I have heard of Alpenglow.  Like Northern Lights, they do appear, yet not on command.  The sight is considered an “optical phenomenon.”  Just as the sun sinks, the top of the mountain and clouds above are bathed in breath catching luminous light.  Maybe a minute and a half is your viewing chance. Mike had the camera at ready alert.

I have always wanted to flash my boarding pass on my phone instead of unfolding a piece of paper.  The tech granddaughter made it happen.  She downloaded the United App, went through necessary steps, and assured me I could make it work.  I messed up at the check in counter, yet I did it to board the plane.  I think I should write it in my baby book.

Ah, the last is my favorite.  Every trip to Steamboat includes a trip to the library.  It has everything from a coffee bar to a children’s area to easy to access stacks to amazingly helpful staff.  I, who live miles away, was able to sign up for a library card.  This means I now have three libraries I can search for electronic books. This helps the organizational problem I mentioned last week.

The trip was planned.  All else was lagniappe.

The blessings of the Lord make rich.  Proverbs 10:22

 

 

I quit being judgmental when I realized that for every yin there is a yang and for every zig there is a zag.  That means no one is exactly like me (thank goodness!) with a flip side being that I don’t have to be exactly like anyone else.  My mother not only knew where everything belonged, she put it there, and then remembered where it was.  She did her best to mold me.  Truth is, I just have a different way of keeping up.  You have two visible sayings this week.  I keep thinking if I re-sort, like objects will end up together.  I also believe that important papers in sight will be found more easily.  Sometimes this works; sometimes not.

 

DNA may not be the reason.  Just the act of moving on is probably more responsible. In the midst of some grand scheme, a squirrel ran by.  It was time to put clothes in the dryer, or run a carpool, or finish a chapter in a book. My justification for walking away is that I would get back to whatever it was later.  Then company would come and all would have to be swept up, piled in a box, and shoved in a closet.  Several days later I could ponder over now what did I do with.

I have a theory that occupation, parenting choices, and my habits led to organized disorganization.  Have you ever known a teacher – well,, maybe one- who wasn’t flipping through a stack of papers trying to find the right one? I also liked children to entertain themselves which involved Legos and stuffed animals in various places.  My own sewing projects seemed to spill over next to the nearest chair. Again, excuses make everything all right.   When finished, this project said it all.

But all things should be done decently and in order.

I Corinthians 14:40

 

 

This date occurred on January 9.  One more action closes the year, and I don’t know the special day it will happen.  Thursday the 9th I was home after a medical procedure tied to age and not fatal, yet requiring naps and rest.  As I felt better, the task began.  I took the box decorated with a Metropolitan Christmas angel and began sorting and labeling Christmas notes and cards to do the refrigerator museum for the this year.  I had already removed last year’s offerings to create open spaces for new memories.

Now they are in stacks.  One is family generations.  Nieces and nephews and their offspring to even the great-great group. These remind me of the life I have lived.  One grandmother was almost four at our wedding.  She earnestly looked at me and said, “What were you and Uncle Davo talking about up there?” I’ve managed to meet some of the new additions while #s 86, 91, 93, and 95 are identified by the family they are pictured with. A treasure is a cousin I have not seen since I was six, and yet, this is our contact.

Friends are a diverse group.  One couple has been ours for it seems like forever.  Their children and ours were matched one and then another and grew up in various activities. Blessed ones were once young women who were my peers in teaching and still keep in touch with their growing families. A college roommates and I are in phone contact , and her picture has the cheerful smile from years past. A few came sideways as friends of our children, yet they care enough about me to send a card.

A mystery book quote says, “Measurement is interaction.”  Looking at each face is a measurement of a time together.  A favored uncle sent only Biblical cards.  At the center of all these cherished people is an art project from a school where I taught. Each scotched taped memory speaks to this verse.

 

 

 

 

 

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