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

The church I passed on the way to the plant shop said in all capitals,: “FALL FESTIVAL FOR CHILDREN.”  The next line explained the first: “We are a church and don’t believe in Halloween.”  For the next mile and a half, I thought about what was my verb for Halloween.  Does a holiday require a belief to make it to the calendar? If celebrate means take part in activities of the occasion, I’m for that.  If I have to mix in extreme terror or paranormal activities, count me out.  Enjoy became my best choice.  I just enjoy Halloween.

I like when it comes.  Just the word October is pleasing to me.  My favorite colors are the orange, yellow, brown spectrum. Mornings are crisp.  The air smells smoky. The sound of Halloween to me is giggles and running feet and knocks on a door. After so much activity, this night is a herald toward Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a settling in for winter before awaking again to action.

My elementary celebrations were rather plain.  I think just being disguised was the most important part, so we wore masks.  Those 16 of us who inhabited two blocks were turned loose with a paper bag to go to houses we knew and have the adult say, ” Now who are you?  Oh, I’d never have guessed.” Some pre-chosen house had a soup pot of cocoa. Other adults drifted in while we poured out our candy, sorted, and traded.

When our family had children, they went on both sides of the block, alone.  I made good ghost costumes and then the boys created their own.  One liked pirate motifs, and the middle one was always a hobo.  That selection might not be politically correct now. It was very cheap though, and only required an old shirt and dirty face. They took their younger sister just one year.  After each house she wanted to come home to show her stash. That slowed down the process.

My most important reason for liking Halloween is my daddy loved it.  He carved a pumpkin to be next to the door and left a welcome light on.  He believed heaven was a front yard full of children, and they were all his. Halloween was when those children came to him. He would go to the bank and get rolls of new nickels.  He  visited with each child, chuckling over their costume and discussing what they had in their bag, and then he would hand them a shiny, silver coin all their own.  As they walked down the porch steps, high voices would say, “Thank you, Mr. Joe.”

Halloween is not a time for begging.  We are welcomed and gifts freely given. Smiles and good wishes follow us down the sidewalk.  The completion of the encounter is in our last word.

Thanks be to God for his inexpressible gift!  Romans 9:15

I tried to choose a different topic this week and just couldn’t do it.  A friend and her son had their names in the Monday paper as shopping for more Astro’s shirts.  Her boss had said they could wear orange all week, and she had to add to their wardrobe. I was in a fabric store and a line of women was waiting for cuts of four (!) different selections of our home team fleece.  Were these to become sweatshirts or toss blankets or just a memory of this hyper fan week?  Our choir director is hoping polishing a November 2 program will take will push through various games.

I have never been a sport enthusiast nor very competitive. I really hope the home team goes all the way, yet I usually find out about the game the morning after.  I was 5’9″ tall in the 8th grade without a coordinated bone in my body.  Arms flapped in various directions, and I could trip over blades of grass.  Proverbially the last one chosen was my calling on playing fields, and the camaraderia and cooperation of a team was not for me. The nearest I came to playing basketball was having a crush on the center.  I carried a lawn chair some spring afternoons to walk with my daddy to the college field and watch a  baseball game which lasted some time this side of eternity. Even watching track and field events from 4:00 on to see my daughter do whatever and whenever her dash was announced required faked enthusiasm.

However, I am a good listener.  Those talking don’t really care if I contribute.  They are engrossed in tossing out names and recounting plays.  A certain frisson of excitement builds as each win leads to a more breathless hope of success.  Strangers in the grocery store comment, “Can you imagine trying to get a ticket to a home game,” as we are picking over apples together. Last night’s loss definitely created a crush mode.  I begin to feel for those players whose lives are publicly involved in the sport.  Over this month they have taken the field one more afternoon or night to accomplish something by endurance and strength that is their gift to those who watch.  Ongoing support and a roar of approval pouring out of a stadium may carry them to extra effort.  Even I have to say, “GO, ASTROS!” Edited, the admonition of Hebrews counts as an encouraging word for their lives and, maybe, for ours.

Therefore, seeing we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses,….let us run with perseverance the race set before us. Hebrews 12:1

My Christmas list always included books, yet I don’t remember being read to.  My substitute for a printed page was sitting on my daddy’s lap and having him read and explain the panels of comic strips.  I chuckled when he did, even if I missed the point.  The Katzenjammer Kids and Li’l Abner have moved on.  Prince Valiant has married, had children and three different creators and still appears every Sunday in his 82nd year. Each day I turn the pages of disturbing news to snuggle into a time with old friends.  Dagwood comes in with his funny haircut and a need to snack.  Peanuts is a reminder of the gentleness of Charles Schulz, and the Phantom lasts to yet another generation.

I have a green folder with a collection of my favorites.  An unfulfilled dream is to teach a class, give a lecture, or guide a roundtable discussion on perceiving humor.  What makes it hit and why does it miss? The most understood ones are those that touch where we live. (If you don’t subscribe to a paper, you can check the most recent of these on line.) The family in Baby Blues is to the point.  It has a mother for whom disaster looms dealing with a bossy older girl, a loud and troublesome younger son, and the baby just old enough to draw on the walls. A colleague of mine would come to work some mornings still chuckling over ZITS for the day.  He is a teenage boy who eats all the groceries he is unloading on the way to the kitchen.  Luann has survived high school and unrequited love to now deal with college demands.

 

At times, I have used a few strips to help teach 8th graders literary terms.  On of the most difficult for them is allusion.  First, we have to get past illusion to the idea of universal knowledge – generally.  This very morning ZIGGY was looking at elevator buttons labeled Up, Down, Hogwarts.  They would know Harry Potter and a magical way to get to his school.  Mother Goose gave a two for one understanding.  The animals are following a man in uniform asking if he has Monopoly, Trivial Pursuit, or Scrabble.  His answer is Nope, Nope, Nope. Their final reply is “Some game warden he is!” Step 1 – board activities.  Step 2 – protector of animals.

The upper levels are those sophisticated, sometimes caustic ones that look at politics and modern attitudes.  Doonesbury has held the top spot for many years, either poking fun or being too close to the truth.  No one or action is sacred.  Lately, I’ve been reading Pearls Before Swine, mainly because I like lisping alligators.  Check out the offering for October 14.  Potato casserole is offended because it is called left-overs instead of pre-eaten.  We are changing phrases every day to avoid appearing uncaring. Sometimes we are caught in an offensive backlash when we had good intentions.  My person problem is a geographical word that used to mean not from here.  Now it is a derogatory term for those seeking asylum, safety, hope.  The word they want to hear is, “Welcome.”

Do not oppress an alien; you yourselves know who it feels to be aliens.

Exodus 23:9

 

New is always demanding. Processes or relationships require paying attention to small details before habit or familiarity kicks in. Finally arriving at auto pilot is freeing.  Yet, that freedom can become stagnating. Fifteen trips to Peru require so little  focus on my part that I packed suitcase and backpack Sunday morning, did church, ate lunch, and left for the airport at 1:30 with everything I needed.

Yet changes have happened to the routine. I can print a boarding pass on line even for an international flight and only have to show my passport and check bag. White hair  allows me to wear jacket and shoes through security. The boarding area has been redecorated for modern times. Instead of comfortable chairs, I have to sit on feet hanging stools at charging stations with my belongings on the floor.

The location of our non-chain hotel is memorized. Bank Scotia on the corner is still a landmark,and inside the fence, the facade is the same. Each year welcomed improvements have been made. New rooms have been constructed. Warm blankets are under coverlets insteadof tattered quits. Most appreciated is the closing of air vents in the bathrooms which allowed all local noise of any kind to be shared with all three floors.

I am amazed that subtle changes have occurred at the mission site. Trash is lessened and swept to the end of a dirt street instead of piling in front of each house.  The one story house we bought as a base now had three stories. The inside is clean and  welcoming.  Local volunteers prepare the children’s lunches in new kitchen instead of on an antiquated stove in an area open to flies and dust.

The most affirming change is to people,  I am suddenly known by a name and can return the greeting to a once a year friend. Women listened to entreneurial classes. They make bracelets and baked goods to sell and add to family income. Dentists now clean children’s teeth instead of making extractions. A young man who grew up with a list of bad choices at the police station has a college degree and is back to help wh the community. Nothing happened in the twinkling of an eye. Just a few blinks, though, and a new normal is right in front of us.

Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it.

Isaiah 43:19

 

On the surface I have two degrees in education.. I read books, quote poetry, and can lose my attention to a whole lecture or sermon if the deliverer doesn’t use a possessive pronoun in front of a gerund.  Others in the audience don’t even know that was a requirement.  I am proud of a tee shirt that says I Am Silently Correcting Your Grammar. Scratch the surface and another strata appears.  I have a minor in Geography.

I can’t always share my knowledge at a dinner table, yet all that pertains to earth, both physical and political, sets off a frisson of excitement.  I cherish names of land masses and how they have changed over eons. That left over lava bed slowly inching down western Colorado deserves a detour on the way elsewhere. I may be at my best explaining latitude and longitude and earth tilt.  I have a picture of me on the Prime Meridian at Greenwich and astride the Equator in Ecuador. I know the importance of the Doldrums in exploration, and why there are Horse Latitudes.  Two of my favorite multisyllabic words are Vernal and Autumnal Equinox.

Which brings us to where we are now.  A few days ago day and night were equal at the equator  Imperceptibly until that moment of the Winter Solstice, changes will happen as the sun retreats to the Southern Hemisphere. Darkness arrives earlier and stays longer at the start of a new day. The iffy part is hopefully waiting for what the weather men call a cold front, and we in Texas designate as a “blue norther.” Weather from now on is conjecture.  Children have shed masks at Halloween to cool off and have also hidden the costume under coat and scarf to survive biting cold. Yet, this is a change for us,  a season that varies our year. Months ago we left the deadness of winter and moved to cherish the lushness of spring and on through the hot stickiness that cries summer. The advertised brilliance of oaks in full color may appear only in magazines.  Piles of leaves waiting to be raked serve as our reminder of a circle of a year.  We welcome the changes however they come and cling to the dependability that undergirds them.

Summer and winter and springtime and harvest. Sun, moon, and stars in their courses above. All I have needed Thy hand hath provided.  Great is thy faithfulness, mercy, and love.