Homesick Christmas

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So. Being an army brat; homesickness was a big issue. Nothing in the routine ordering of life’s calendar evokes greater nostalgia, more intense pathos than the hoopla of American Christmas.
It can make us feel homesick.

But none of it is real. All the flashy lights, saccharine music, bubbly party dresses in the world cannot begin to fill the void of the solitary manger.

We need that baby.

We need Him because He is hope. He is the inexplicable star in an inky dark sky. He is our Ransom.

And all we do to “celebrate Christmas” can make us feel that much more shipwrecked if we don’t cut through all the noise and plastic.

And push toward the quiet winter manger. What God in His right mind puts His Son in the arms of a girl in the smelly dark of a stable?

Jesus was born homeless
Because He is our home
And we are sick without him

December 3

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Imaging a group of shepherds, young, poor, smelling a bit gamey.

They are discussing something in a rushed, exhilarated way

S1: so it was night and things were quiet and then there was a….

S2: no, no, no…it was night and things were quiet and then…then there was a

S3: an explosion!

S4, s1, s2: yeah!!! An explosion!

S5: freaky man!

S2: yeah…and then there was a…

S1: an angel!!!!

Tomorrow–the chick flick version:-)

December 2

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I am stealing this conversation from my daughter.

She was at a youth camp and she overheard a conversation among some boys about her age. It went something like this:

B1: so then the car hit the…and there was an explosion….

B2: no, no, no, no…then there was an…explosion!!!!!

Overlapping with the other 2 boys–

B3, B4, etc…
No!
No!
No!
Then there was an….
Explosion.

End of part one.

December 1

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Yesterday was the first day of advent and I am catching up.

When I was in China I remember the lights. Many little (delicious) restaurants adorned their awnings with Christmas lights. These lights, like the ones that adorned the outdoor dance floors or the western-style clubs were festive but unconnected to Christmas.

And there were tons of Christmas cards, hundreds of images of Santa Claus. The imagery of a de-Jesused December holiday coexisted benignly with a government anxious to attract foreign money and commerce.

Without our mad rush for slankets and computerized ear warmers, where would China be?

But that story? The strange one about the God-king’s infant son born in a barn?

Never heard of it.

Christmas Stories

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I truly believe Christmas is the hardest season of the year. It is a characteristic of humans–our ability to make the most joyful event in human history into a frenetic, stressful, lonely race for the trappings of glee without the core of joy.

So this month I am giving myself the gift of stories.

My favorite storyteller was my paternal grandfather whom we called Papaw. My favorite thing about Christmas was his stories, his kitchen. For a nomadic military brat, his house, his kitchen was home.

Flawed, aging, ordinary home. But something about the combination of warm food aromas–coffee, pinto beans, brisket, pies–still comes back to me through all these years.

Home. The very place Jesus left to save us.

Cover

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It is a simple enough word
Cover
A blanket over me
The cleft of a rock
A bit of plastic tenting
as the storm blows in
.
These angels,
Fierce angels
Stretch wings of splendor over our history of blood

Turn your head to the side little girl
To the past where we both came from
And imagine for a minute
A world without cover
The shadow of majesty
Passing over us
Leaving us all
alone

The Standard Predator

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He worked with children in a job that was focused on children.

He worked with child advocates or at least people who have been educated to educate children.

He hid his sexual preferences/behavior.

He has never admitted he molested children.

He is not Kevin Clash.

He is a (former) coach and trainer i know who molested at least half a dozen children in conjunction with his job/coaching.

His victims have told the truth about abuse. He still denies everything.

Sesame Street needs to face this one straight. Let’s talk about child sexual abuse (allegations) and what it does to all of us.

Now.

Message in a Bottle

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Once a very wise person lost a child. Maybe children. He mourned because he loved them. so he came up with a plan. Put fire in the sky to guide them at night. Put smoke in the sky to guide them by day. Give them rules on something durable to keep them safe. Tell them from the beginning that you have a plan. Don’t worry, a plan of love.

Send messengers to remind them. Send someone like a son to find them. Document who you are and who they are. Leave a record of your love. Do everything because they are everything to you.

Understand that the story they are told about you may not be all true. Understand they may not want you in the end. Understand that no matter what no matter where no matter how, you will always love them. Because you are their dad. Because it is your nature.

Oh yeh, and write a book. Tell them in the book how much you love them. Pray they read it. Because it means everything.

If what i do ever seems a little crazy, remember that I am following that guy, that Wise Guy, so that one day I can tell my daughter face to face…

I have always loved you.