Merry Christmas

Welcome to Our World-by Chris Rice

Tears are falling, hearts are breaking

How we need to hear from God
You've been promised, we've been waiting
Welcome Holy Child
Welcome Holy Child


Hope that you don't mind our manger
How I wish we would have known
But long-awaited Holy Stranger
Make Yourself at home
Please make Yourself at home


Bring Your peace into our violence
Bid our hungry souls be filled
Word now breaking Heaven's silence
Welcome to our world
Welcome to our world


Fragile finger sent to heal us
Tender brow prepared for thorn
Tiny heart whose blood will save us
Unto us is born
Unto us is born


So wrap our injured flesh around You
Breathe our air and walk our sod
Rob our sin and make us holy
Perfect Son of God
Perfect Son of God


Welcome to our world

On the knee of Santa

Sitting on the knee of the Saintly One many years ago, I fumbled over my fears and shyness and asked for a gift. I needed the Fisher Price Farm set, and from what I had been told, If I asked the Jolly fellow sitting in the big chair...he would probably deliver. After a few "Ho...Ho..Ho's" and belly jiggles, he looked at me directly in the eyes. As I noticed his bushy black eyebrows, he then leaned closer and whispered to me, "Have you been a good boy this year?"
Without missing a beat, I looked upward, put my hand on his and replied..."Yes, Santa...I have been real good." I jumped down from his lap, and he gave me a candy cane. I ran to my mother, still beaming. What a moment for a red headed little fellow. Simple...Pure...magical....dreamlike...Santa was my friend.

A few weeks later, he delivered the Farm set. I played with it for a brief time, until I realized that the grain silo could also be used as a urinal. Thus ended the possibility for grain storage for the winter, the little people of the village died, and the set was chunked into the trash.

Years later, three plus decades to be precise, I wonder about what I should ask Santa for this year. If his knee could hold me, and if I could answer his loaded question about my behavior without blinking, just what do I want him to bring. I think I would be better served offering a prayer to God instead.

1-The willingness for me to listen more and talk less.
2-The ability to use humor in a non-abusive manner.
3-The ears to hear the pain of others.
4-The courage to see myself as "who I really am."
5-The eyes to see needs around me and the heart to care.
6-The energy to exercise and take care of my body.
7-The courage to move into areas that God leads, even if it seems scary as hell.
8-The comfort to say,"I don't know, or I can't."
9-The guts to say, "No" when the need arises.
10-The vision to see Christ, at work.
11- The heart that breaks when I see suffering.
12- A heart that is thankful.
13- Whirled Peas
14- The diligence to work on this writing interest, even when I don't care to.
15-The desire to stay in touch with family, and being fully present during conversations.
16-The ability to be a true friend, a great husband, and a Super hero Dad.
15- A silo with non cardboard walls that holds urine.
16- The wisdom to push when needed and wait when I am impatient.
17- The ability to begin to heal over the loss of my dad, and start to believe that I am finally beginning to truly live.
18-The self assurance to see myself, as God sees me.
19-The hands to reach out and touch someone...even a male, if they need realness.
20-The knowledge to understand that this list will never, ever, ever end.

Father Christmas....I have been good all year! Would I lie to you?

Shhhhhhhh!

December marked the beginning of our yearly ritual. My sister and I would get our sleeping bags and lay them across my King sized bed, and burrow down inside to keep warm. She was cocooned in a green sleeping bag that was redeemed by sending Kellogs box tops back to Battle Creek, along with 9.99. Tony the Tiger, Dig'em (the Sugar Smacks Frog), and Snap, Crackle and Pop were her devoted bedmates for quite a while. My sleeping bag had been bought for a summer camp experience, which I hated, and was plain blue with a plaid lining. She and I would laugh and cut up until time for bed each night. I do not really know who came up with this idea, but I assume that it was me. Usually, I am the one that has the better ideas!


This seemed like a rather boring event, but it was here that I began to develop the gift. In the darkness of a room with yellow shag carpet, and wood grain paneled walls, the gift of storytelling was born. Each Sunday, from the pulpit, I tell a story or two, but on the night before Christmas, my sister asked me to tell her a story.

Thinking about what she might like, and how I may be able to make her laugh, I began a story about a king. The ruler of the kingdom of diphtheria was a gracious and funny man named King Souvlaki. He had a difficult time ruling the kingdom of diphtheria, because people were afflicted with the disease of no laughter. Eventually, the curse was broken because the townspeople could not pronounce the kings name, and he would become so upset that he would yell and scream in a loud voice. It was out of his despair, and aggravation, that the people would laugh at his silly behavior.

Near the end of the story...We both heard a "Squeak"...then another and another. The story ended abruptly, as we were sure that Santa was downstairs. "Is that Him", she asked. "Shhhh..Go to sleep, Santa is here!" was my reply.I could feel my heart racing, as I thought of my sister finding out the Truth about Santa. We both said our quick goodnights and the world of dreams quickly overtook us.

Ten steps lead from the upper level to the basement of our Lake house. That morning, after waking our parents (they sure looked tired), we bounded down and looked under the tree. After playing with many different toys, opening the stockings, and looking at the half eaten cookie on Santa's plate, we heard a "Squeak". My dad had a puppet that was my sisters, and was playing with it. The frog puppet had a tongue that would fly out and make a squeaking sound. We told our parents about hearing that noise during the night. They looked at each other, smiled and laughed. "Santa must have stepped on it when he was going for the cookies and milk", my mom replied convincingly.

Sometimes truth is greater than fiction. May we all be warmed by Truth this Christmas season.

Thanks Mom!!

Today I spoke to a great friend who is in Scotland, working on his Ph.D. He is one of my favorite people, because of his sharp mind, quick wit, and anti-establishment spirit. We talk 2 or 3 times a year, I wish it was more often, but he is too busy writing poetry and listening to Van Morrison. To be honest, I am jealous, as I would love his life of books, writing, travel, and nice hair.
His mother died last year, and each time we speak, conversation turns in that direction.

From my last post, you see that I usually give my mom a hard time, and ask if she would be interested in seconds. Nakedness, or intimacy, does not come easy for me, as I hide a great deal of my "heartbeat" behind the mask of laughter. As I reach below my chin and yank upward to remove the rubber characature away from my face...listen as I tell you what my Mom has done RIGHT!!

1-Have sex with my dad..(sorry--Mask is back on)
2-Sit up with her son when he was sick
3-Teach her son to read
4-Beat her son when he needed it
5-let her son watch Sesame Street, Captain Kangaroo, and Mr. Rogers
6-Pushed Academics
7-Played Cards with her son
8-Prayed for her son
9-Equipped her son to be independant
10-Introduced her son to Christ
11-Told her son when he was full of it.
12-Active in PTA
13-Active in Church
14-Let her son drink coffee at young age
15-Taught her son to ride a bike
16-Taught her son to drive a car
17-Provided love and stability always for her son
18-kept family together after death of my dad
19-embraced my friends
20-made a house a home
21-Encouraged and Supportive Always
22-Loves my wife
23-Adores my son

The following article by Isaac Bailey, a local news writer, says a lot about my mom:

MOTHERS ARE BEST GIFT OF ALL

A mother. So important she can't be adequately described.
Because she cooks and cleans and hugs and kisses and reads and debates and studies for her doctorate in education or her master's in child rearing and holds the family up when it wants to fall down.
A mother. She is stay-at-home and out-in-the-work-world and step and divorced and married and adoptive and single and foster and even childless, because she would give her right arm and left eye if God would bring her little one back or grant her the ability to get pregnant - just once - to become ...A mother.
She wonders and worries. She's patient and impatient and everything in between. Because she loads the dishwasher and washing machine and dryer or hangs clothes on the backyard clothesline, then folds, then scrubs the toilet and repacks the toy box and vacuums and tries not to forget it's time to begin preparing dinner all while finding five minutes here to read a book to little Johnny or two minutes there giving in to the screams for attention from Little Susie ... knowing she'll have to start all over again in the morning and the next and the next, without receiving the $131,471 salary.com says she'd receive if she were paid for all she does.
A mother.
She's beautiful, radiant, but doubts she is. Because her breasts don't hang quite right. Because her backside hangs more than ever. Because she doesn't have time to jog five miles a day. Because her husband's eyes no longer light up as they did on the first date. Because the women on TV keep getting younger and thinner and prettier. Because she's told she's too fat. Because she's told glamour has long pulled away from her station.
A mother.
She's strong but wonders: ``What's it all for? Will they grow into well-adjusted adults because of or in spite of me?'' Because sometimes she feels tired, sometimes can't listen to another ``Mom, I need'' without wanting to scream.
Because sometimes people stare with judgment when Little Johnny and Susie sometimes act like brats in public.
A mother.
But she loves it, wouldn't trade the world for it, because though it doesn't always bring her happiness, it always brings her joy.
Because somewhere deep within she realizes - and she knows everyone else knows even when they are reluctant to admit it - that there's no greater gift than ... a mother.

Because the American Poet in Scotland shares his hurt over the death of his mother...I appreciate mine more.

Thanks mom...for everything.

For the One who has everything

Christmas Eve of 1990, I glanced under the Christmas tree and noticed three boxes that were exactly alike. Each one had an attached name tag that meant the unknown treasure inside belonged to myself, and my siblings. Mom had each of us open the gift at the same time, which in retrospect, was not a good sign. As we tore thorough the wrapping with joyful glee and a hint of apprehension....we completed the task and awkwardly stopped. We each held forth a sweatshirt, but not just any sweatshirt, but one that had a picture of a cocker spaniel emblazoned on the front. A great gift for my sister, but a lousy gift for red blooded macho men such as Jay and I . Where could we wear these tokens of my mother's love? Absosmurfly nowhere!! Mom felt terrible, as she realized that we did not share her love for our puppy, and wish to display our emotions proudly for all the world to see.

Bad Gifts...there are loads of them out there. Examples are: Golfball Monogrammer, steak brander with logo of your favorite collegiate team, argyle socks, and any type of appliance for cooking, cleaning to be given to your wife. The only thing worse would be to give her a treadmill, a year long membership to Weight Watchers, or a girdle. Mistle toe would not help the love life in any of these situations.

So... Imagine how the wise men felt. What do you give someone who has it all. What if we were to draw names this Christmas, and instead of your lazy uncle Jack (that never works, and belches at the table, and has an opinion about everything and exhibits ignorance in each) you draw the name of Jesus.

What on Earth do you give him? Probably not a trivial pursuit game, or the latest U2 album, or a Honey Baked Ham, definately not kosher.

Perhaps we should give him something broken, worthless, and beautiful. Ourselves...that is the only gift worthy to give a King...our subjection, honor, worship.

Now...I need to go find a refrigerator box...and some Mickey Mouse wrapping paper.

Ambiguously Clear

Today has been one of those odd, off kilter, never quite feel at home in my skin, days. I came home from work and flipped through the channels on the Boob Tube and saw Jerry Springer. I usually do not watch this show, as I save my brain cells for things that are important, such as South Park, The Daily Show, and Sports. However the title of this episode of Springer made me wonder if I was really alive. The title was..."I was a Lap-Dancer for the CIA. " In high school, when I was taking the assessment to determine my potential career paths, or areas of interest...I would have loved to have had the option of Lap Dancer for the CIA. I guess the teachers felt that I was not equipped for this important task for my country. Great...now I have guilt over my lack of...er..patrioitism.I seem to notice oddities. Instead of half-full or half empty, I seem to see the finger print on the side of the glass. In Wal-Mart today, I saw a fiber optic Christmas toilet seat cover and I tilted my head. One...who thought of this? Two...who would buy it? I guess those ladies that wear those festive holiday sweaters. I don't know about you, but nothing makes me festive like a toilet seat cover that lights up or a lady with a reindeer bouncing across her chest. Whatever makes 'em happy...I guess.Last week when we were unpacking our Christmas stash. Our son pulled out his Fisher Price Nativity set and placed it on our table. He placed each part, as he wished them to be, and left them as a reminder of the activity of God. After our halls were decked, and our eggs were nogged, we glanced down and were amazed. Neatly arranged was a worship scene from the heart of a child. I wonder, if you see yourself here...as I do? The lamb is in the picture, but seems to be a little out of place, a little timid, a little afraid or unsure of this babe in the manger. Today, I am that Lamb, as I am in the area of worship, but still feeling unworthy. There are sooo many struggles that grasp and choke, that take my focus off Christ. I wish that I could remain focused, but I am often miserable. I preach faith, hope, and love..but I practice doubt, fear and hate. As I struggle with my worthiness, I am reminded of the love that Christ has for me. In his shepherding, He leaves the 99 to come and get me. He wraps me up and leads me back to the fold. As he places me in the pen with the unlocked gate, he says...I am the One that makes you worthy. It is not what you do...you are wearing my brand, my name is upon you. I have bought you, so rest here for a little while.

Vocation and Dreams

A friend of mine recently wrote about the struggle in finding vocation or calling in life. Today, I have been cranking that idea around in my cranium, and as usual, memories come. I have no recollection of what I wanted to be when I was young, but I am sure that "A Naked Preacher" was not what I was working toward.My sister is almost seven years younger than me, and it was always interesting watching her grow and seeing her become who she is now. At a young age, she had her life planned out. She had chosen the job that would make a big difference in the World. Most young ladies aspire to be a teacher, or a nurse, or something of the like, but not my little sister. She had the hopes and dreams of becoming a .......

Solid Gold Dancer. She would put on her leotard and leggings, and dance through the den with great vigor, style and precision. She enrolled in gymnastics, and just as things were looking up for her to be there, shaking her bootie beside Adrian Zmed, or Dionne Warwick...the show was cancelled. The music faded, and we no longer heard.

Solid Gold - Filling up my life with music

Solid Gold - Putting rhythm in my soul

There's song that's unreeling

To fit the way that I'm feeling

My head keeps spinning to music; spinning to gold.

I've come to discover that music's a lover.

It's heat keeps me warm when I'm cold.

The beat starts to bend me.

The melodies send me.

And everything melts into gold

...and sadly her dreams died. Now, she is a mother to two beautiful children, who keep her dancing faster than she ever did in the eighties. She is also a great wife and a wonderful daughter. I could not ask for a better sister (unless I could borrow money a little more often). I love you, and am so proud of you. So, her initial dreams have not come true, but I feel that she wouldn't trade her life now for the chance to dance. Perhaps God didn't have a beef with disco music, maybe he was weaving a solid gold dream for a girl in a leotard and leggings. And the neatest part of all is that her daughter is enrolled in dance classes.To stop dreaming, hoping, and believing is to stop living. In the words of the prophet, Steven Tyler, "Dream On!"