An Advent Triptych - Advent 2021

 I.

I am sipping broth while savoring the winter sky.  Making broth is a family ritual taught to my younger self by my Grandmother, who's birthday comes soon after the day that lives on in infamy.  To remember which came first, I would tell myself first the war, then the party.  Sigh.  My young mind framed more truth in that mnemonic than I understood at the time. Grandma continuously relived the war, and every loss, pain and disappointment that ever came her way.  It was as if a deep rut was etched in her psyche that kept her stuck in pain and disappointment her whole life.  Trauma specialists now understand why that happens and can help people get unstuck; but that help didn't exist for Grandma.  Her only relief was through distraction, and cooking was one of her favorite medicines.  That and walking in cemeteries.

My Mother had no interest in cooking, so Grandma was happy to have me to mentor in the kitchen.  By today's standards she was clearly no foodie, but she could whip up basic farmhouse meat and potatoes cooking like a pro.  Once a year, for my Mother's birthday, she'd make her signature "fancy" desert - ice cream pie.  My Son cringes as I describe the store-bought graham cracker crust (or chocolate cookie crust) filled with a whipped concoction of strawberry jello and vanilla ice cream - topped with a spray of Redi-whip whipped cream.  My Mom looked forward to whenever Grandma would make it for her (which wasn't every year, because she'd only make it if she wasn't mad at my Mom).  Mad at Mom birthday dessert was a square devils food cake with buttercream frosting.  Draw your own conclusions...

Making broth was a religious experience.  First you make a meal roasting whatever poultry would be used for broth (turkey twice a year, but otherwise it was chicken).  Once you enjoyed that meal, the carcass was put in the soup pot with just a few extras (if it was a good chicken you don't need much else), and the remaining meat was used for chicken 'n biscuits or shepherd's pie later in the week (using some of the broth that was about to be made). Grandma's electric stove was huge - a 1940/50's 40" double oven with a deep well (the left back burner dropped down into a well, and there was a soup pot that fit perfectly inside it.  The broth would simmer all day, and in the evening we'd have the most delicious golden broth with thin egg noodles added just before serving.  Grandma would take the meat that was left from making the broth and turn it into chicken salad, which was served on saltine crackers.  Most of the remaining broth went into the freezer so it was ready when someone (usually me) got bronchitis.  When the coughing started, out came the broth along with Grandma's concoction of fresh lemon juice, whipped egg whites and honey.  I would get a teaspoonful of the lemon stuff every half hour during the worst of the illness.  It never seemed to help, but it tasted good.  The broth, however, always made me feel better.

I've been coughing now for over a month (trust me - now is NOT the time to be coughing in public).  COVID PCR tests are negative, and it feels like the normal tantrum that my lungs have this time of year.  The usual medical interventions have only quieted things down a little, so it was time for a BIG intervention - broth.  And the process of making it came close to Grandma's birthday, which was a blessing.  With my grandparent's and parent's generation long gone, birthdays and anniversaries remain bittersweet.  Sometimes I mark the occasion by enjoying a food they particularly liked.  That is hard with Grandma, because she loved boiled ham sandwiches on wonder bread with Bison chip dip instead of mayo (and sometimes with potato chips in the sandwich)!  That is one memory I'm in no hurry to eat.  But the broth - well, that is another story.  I kept Grandma's stove until I couldn't move it anymore (I loved that soup well), but notice that the "vintage" stove in my current home does slightly resemble it (but alas, no soup well).  Now I make stock in the crock pot and it turns out fine.  I'm not sure Grandma would approve (she did not like change of any kind under any circumstances for any reason what so ever)!  I imagine she would sip the broth and, given its questionable provenance, give me that look that says this is good but I'm not going to tell you I like it because you did it wrong.  Along with the look she'd make a huh kind of sound that you'd also have to interpret kindly lest your young soul get dashed on the rocks of disapproval.  It took me decades to understand that she was who she was - lovely and damaged and so tragically complicated - and that despite her flaws she was able to give me enough love and care to turn me toward the light that she herself could not see or feel.  And that is a miracle if ever there was one!

I sip this broth and think of her.  And I smile.  Advent brings memories of childhood and family long gone, and invites me to forgive what they were, accept that they were often not what I wanted or needed them to be, and celebrate what they were able to do with their complicated lives.  I hope my family can do the same thing with their memories of me one day.  

Is it the broth that promotes healing, or the soft eyed remembering and gratitude that heals the heart?  Perhaps it is both.

II.

My Advent is not going as planned.  To anyone living in 2021, this should be a foregone conclusion.  But as is my bent, I made plans - simple plans given the year, but plans nonetheless about what I hoped to experience in Advent.  And I looked forward to - anticipated - what Advent would be like this year.  But nothing - nada - zip - zero has gone to plan.  My beloved 100% beeswax candles that I get from a special shop in Canada that I place in my equally beloved Advent wreath - lit once since the eve of Advent 1.  Once - that has NEVER happened before.

And yet my mood is light.  My heart is open.  My spirit sings within me.  Despite the news surrounding all of us and the umpteenth surge of this @#$# pandemic, I feel an inner contentment that defies circumstances.  I should be MISERABLE because of the state of humanity right now (and not doing what I love to do during my favorite season).  And yet...and yet...and yet...

...I am embarrassed by my good mood.  Surprised by the joy I am finding in the simplest of things.  I shared my confusion about my good mood with a soul friend yesterday, lamenting the Advent that wasn't. As I talked, my focus shifted from what I wasn't doing to what was actually happening.

The candles have not been lit every night - the devotionals by the wreath have not been opened - O Come, O Come Emmanuel has only been chanted once - the Christmas tree is still not decorated - but...

...but every night I stop work around 9 pm, unwind and head to bed to read.  When I moved here and realized that, given the size of the bedroom, a twin bed would make the most sense,  I purchased a nice bed that would be comfortable - memory foam and adjustable.  I get into bed, pop the oxygen on, position myself so that I'm in no pain, and take a deep, cleansing breath.  I look up at the east wall where my icons rest, and greet my posse.  I look at the north wall where favorite artwork hangs, and smile.  I look at the west wall where my favorite pictures hang under my very high windows, and smile.  And I reach for the few devotionals that I'm reading this year, and sink into sacred reading.  I'm not reading what I thought I'd be reading.  Instead, I'm reading what I must need to be reading now because the other devotionals remain closed.  This selection of nighttime reading includes a favorite devotional I read each year, a new one that is okay, a new one that is INCREDIBLE and will be read again after Advent*, and my daily devotional that I use for Morning and Evening Prayer.  

When I finish with my reading and prayers for the night, I close my eyes and sleep peacefully.  And I awaken with joy in my heart, despite external circumstances that should keep me weeping 24/7.  Every trip to the newspaper should keep me weeping for a week.  And I do weep for the devastation, polarization, loss and lies that are such a part of daily life.  But at the center where I feel that pain, I also feel a lightness.  A joy.  No wonder Philippians calls it a peace that surpasses understanding- it makes no sense! But there it is, burning brightly in my heart - it is my Advent candle!  Joy/sorrow.  Both/and.  Wow.  

It appears that God meets me where I am, not where I think I should be or might want to be.  Even in an adjustable bed in a small room.  Oxygen concentrator whirling away.  Presence - joy - peace.  Wow.  

I wonder sometimes about what the last wee bit of my life will be like - will I end up in a small room, in an adjustable bed with the sound of the oxygen concentrator in the background (and hopefully not with a roommate who blasts the TV all the time).  But if God meets me here, God will meet me wherever I am.  God comes to me where I am, not where I think I should be.  And even when there is suffering and sorrow, God's presence also brings joy and peace.  Both/and.  Advent light.

Amazing!

III.

It started first as an idea that came from that burning brightly place in my heart - a quiet invitation to make a cup of tea and sit quietly in God's presence.  No words - no petitions - no musings or complaints or suggestions.  Just sit.  And sip.  And be.  One cup of tea, once per day, shared with God.  Each day I feel the invitation.  Each day I get too busy to act on it.  Busy doing good things - worthwhile things.  Things that need to get done.  And still I hear the invitation - come and share a cup of tea with me.  And still I keep busy and don't make the cup of tea.  

Why?

It is a perfectly lovely invitation.  God isn't asking me to learn coding or be on another committee or sit through a long Zoom meeting; God is inviting me to be still and share a cup of tea.  I love tea - I love God - this should be a no brainer!  And yet I don't accept the invitation.

I wondered at first if my resistance was due to the Mary/Martha dichotomy.  I am very much a Martha - I get things done.  In the world of horses I am a workhorse, not a show horse.  I'd be a clydesdale pulling the cart or plow and not at a fussy dressage event (with apologies to lovers of dressage).  Doing is always something I've understood; being is a growing edge.  And that may be part of it, but the other part is harder still to admit.  I confess, with some embarrassment, that I like being in charge of my relationship with God.  I pray when I want to pray, worship when I want to worship, and God meets me in those moments and all is right with the world.  Now God is offering an invitation that we try something different; sip a cup of tea - wordlessly - together.  Not my suggestion.  Not what I've always done.  Instead, I'm invited to respond and join in an activity proposed by one who is acting more like a friend or partner than a sovereign requiring deference or a fierce judge who invites fear. 

I note, with interest, that it is only recently that I could hear the invitation...and recently that the burning brightly place in my heart caught fire.  Only recently that I felt joy present among the many sorrows.  There has been a shift - a change.  And it appears to be connected to the commitment I made this fall to seriously embrace compassionate self-care.  My team was right - when you engage in compassionate self-care, you begin to heal from the inside-out.  There is more space for love, and service flows from a place of grace and abundance.  And isn't it just like God to issue an invitation that is, at its core, good for me. 

I wonder how long it will take the resistance to melt so I can make that cup of tea and share it with the source of my life, my love, and my joy?  That may be the most important question in my heart this Advent...

...an Advent like no other.  Advent 2021.

What invitation has God given you this Advent?  If you haven't received one, stop and listen for it...

With love,

Kim

__________

* Music of Eternity:  Meditations For Advent with Evelyn Underhill by Robyn Wrigley-Carr - tremendous!

Unfolding

 

I've been here long enough that the trees at my home are teaching me their pattern.  The silver maple on the northwest corner of the house is the first to start releasing her leaves - in August!  It takes her until November to complete her work, while it is late October before her sister (pictured above) even gets started!  This year the October silver maple created an absolute riot of colors, unlike her cousin across the street, who opted for a brilliant crimson-only showing.  The ground around her looked like a magic carpet of color - incredible!  Next for letting go is the young oak on the south side near the garage, helped along by the squirrels who are harvesting every last acorn (and burying too many in my potted garden)!  Finally, in mid November, the Japanese Maple begins thinking about letting go.  After severe pruning in 2020, her leaves this autumn were electric scarlet - proof that beauty emerges even after tough experiences.  She has yet to release her leaves, and they remain a source of hope and encouragement as I look out my home office window and gaze at her beauty.

Perhaps you really can find great visions of beauty right outside your window - right where you are.  And perhaps beauty can emerge after a time of severe pruning.

November 15th is the beginning of Advent for Eastern Christians (as well as those of Celtic origins and a few random European churches).  Advent has long been my favorite church season, and so I join my Orthodox and Celtic kin in beginning forty days of Advent today.  I do so with relief (beauty and familiar rituals!) - joy (silence and service) - and a little trepidation, for Advent is a season of many things, including a time for letting go to make space for what has yet to manifest.  Easier said than done!  The trials and losses of the past twenty-one months strain my ability to keep hands and heart open, especially when faced with the temptation to clutch and hold onto something to keep it from changing or going away.  Change and uncertainty have been amplified to an extraordinary degree, especially this past year.  I see that most clearly in the church I serve - we have made changes in the past year that, without COVID, would have taken at least a decade to accomplish (if at all).  Like my Japanese Maple, the severe pruning at church has opened up beautiful possibilities - and the possibility of long-term vitality.  But the transformation was not easy, and more than once I was grateful for my pastoral seatbelt and hardhat (and occasionally my fire suit).

The same is true in my personal life.  Along with stress, fear and uncertainty, this past year also brought the birth of my granddaughter and many other blessings for my son and his family.  A course taught through Cleveland Clinic on how to improve one's quality of life while living with an autoimmune disorder was an invaluable aid in helping me better understand lifestyle changes that make a world of difference (sleep really is important)!  And I have come to (reluctantly) accept that I cannot WILL this congregation through the pandemic without challenges.  They have shown such kindness, flexibility and resilience since this nightmare began, but I can see that they are getting tired.  We are all getting very tired.  The only thing that isn't showing signs of exhaustion is the pandemic itself!  

And so, one step at a time, we persevere.  Soon they will join me in Advent.  Until then, I listen and pray.  This Advent may we keep our hearts open to behold and celebrate a transformative love that caused God to enter creation as a poor, utterly dependent human child - born during a time of great political unrest - who soon after birth became, with his family, refugees. If Matthew 25 is to be believed, we can find the Christ child today with his family fleeing any number of horrible situations throughout the world.  We can find the baby Jesus in countless homeless shelters...in places where people are alone and isolated...or sick and afraid.  The question isn't whether or not Christ is present in the world - but whether or not we have the courage to stop and turn toward Christ-in-our-midst and respond with open hands and hearts filled with gratitude and love.

With love and Advent blessings,

Kim

PS (12.15.21) - My, did I ever get the leaf leaving sequence wrong!  The oak looked like it was losing its leaves before the Japanese maple, but the reverse happened!  The maple dropped all its beautiful leaves, and the oak - well,  I'd estimate that at least half are still on the tree!  I still have much to learn about my home...

Making Space for Joy

It has been a lovely New Year's Day.  I've always tried to honor the traditions of the communities where I've lived, and no one celebrates New Year's Eve  - Hogmanay - like the Scots.  Adjusting for the time difference, I tune into BBC Alba around 6:30 pm on New Year's Eve and thoroughly enjoy the traditional Scottish music (usually in the form of a céilidh, but this year they had to be more creative).  And okay, Western Isle Rock is not my cup of tea (with loudly shouted lyrics of we feed the sheep and cut the peat until the day we die).  But the traditional music - I love that.  There is always a piper to ring in the New Year as I sip a wee dram of Glen Garioch - distilled close to where I stayed in Scotland.  When Scotland was put to bed for the night it was time to worship with a wonderful little church in San Anselmo, California (it is near the Seminary where I did my DMin coursework and I would worship there for Vespers every Saturday night I was in residence).  And it was a lovely service!  I was able to sit and appreciate the many good things that have happened in this really awful year - a reminder that no time is all good or all bad.  And then it was off to bed to read until the fireworks shook the house.  My neighbors love pyrotechnics.

And in keeping with culinary traditions of NE Ohio, I made sure sauerkraut dishes were prepared for late last night and today!  A little good luck this year will go a long way, so I also lit my bayberry candles, which made my Mother and Grandmother smile.  I'm not a superstitious person by nature, but after 2020, I'm all in for a little bit of luck!

Today found me at the loom.  Exactly a year ago I wound a warp to put on LeClerc so I could weave something beautiful during Christmastide and Epiphany.  Now one year later I started dressing the loom with that warp.  I have yet to weave in my new home in Ohio, but I came one step closer today.  My studio is still hither and yon, so dressing the loom involved lots of improvising (including 4 cans of beans, 4 plastic bags, assorted lengths of texsolv and 4 S hooks).  No problem-solving or higher cognitive functions were involved in the fixes - it was all muscle memory.  And this very finicky and neglected warp slid on the warp beam as smooth as silk.  I was surprised - neglect a warp like this and it often kicks and screams while going on the warp beam.  But no misbehaving today - just smiles all the way around.  Tomorrow I will thread the heddles - it is a complicated pattern so that will require concentration.  Bliss.

Once upon a time I would spend New Year's Day in some kind of retreat - reviewing the previous year, taking stock of lessons learned, noticing my growing edges and planning for the New Year.  It was a very thorough and satisfying exercise hemmed with prayer and meditation.  But not this year - this New Year's Day it feels enough to have survived last year - no need for the post mortem or lessons learned review.  And I dare say that the growing edges are easy enough to see and the lessons learned came with enough ashes and smoke that they will not be easily forgotten!  I am fine with keeping up my gratitude practice and doing just one thing at a time to nurture the growth that is happening as a result of this past year.  That being said, I am pondering my experience of Christmas this year, as it was both wonderful (truly amazing!) and a little guilt-producing!  It is hard to accept feeling joyful when so many are suffering!  

I have been part of leading Christmas Eve services since 1984, and this was the first and only time I have thoroughly enjoyed my Christmas Eve and felt present to welcome Christmas Day.  Every other year involved the manic rush up to the highly choreographed multiple services of Christmas Eve.  The most stressful time was when I lived in Scotland and the singing of Silent Night by candlelight had to end immediately before midnight so the whole church was silent at midnight to hear the church bells toll for Christmas Day!  The first year I thought I would have an emotional breakdown trying to keep the trains running right on time!  After a few years I relaxed a little - but there was always the worry.  Sliding two and from Church in bad weather - not getting home until 1 a.m. and then being too tired to enjoy that it was now Christmas and too wound up to go to sleep.  That was the usual sequence of events.  Mind you, I find great joy in creating space for Christmas Eve worship that others find beautiful and meaningful.  But there was nothing left of me when it was over - and I didn't get to do what I needed to do to enjoy Christmas.  Christmas day was usually a blur (especially in Scotland where I had a morning worship service), and with any luck, I started to click in by Boxing Day.  But it always felt like I missed Christmas - like Christmas had passed me by.

This year was different.  As the snow feel outside and the winds howled, we celebrated the 7 pm service on Zoom - and although everyone would rather be in the sanctuary, it was still lovely.  When the service was over I didn't have to wait several hours for the next one or venture out in the snow.  Instead, I went into the kitchen and fixed a light snack, and sat by the tree enjoying my Advent and Christ candles and a little Windham Hill Christmas Music.  When it was time I pulled up the little church in San Anselmo on my iPad, and watched their service while enjoying the beauty of the lights in my home.  When the service was over I placed Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus in the crèche and I went to bed - feeling very much like I had welcomed Christmas.  I had created space - there was space for Christ to be born in my heart.  It felt both peaceful and joyful.  

Christmas Day was not a day of exhaustion - it was also lovely.  I was able to attend the Christmas Day service at the church in San Anselmo, do some things around the house, and accepted the kindness of friends who dropped a Christmas meal at my door (delicious)!  In past years I would have declined their kind offer, but this year I decided to try saying yes.  Yes can be wonderful - in return it feels like a hug from God when kind people share their love with you!

I always said I wanted to have a quiet Christmas like this sometime after I retire, and had slotted in Christmas of 2030 as the earliest that might happen.  I did not expect to have the experience now - I was completely surprised by the peace and joy!  And I wonder if there are parts of what I experienced that can carry over to future Advent and Christmas celebration...

I found this interesting reflection by Loretta Ross-Gotta in one of my favorite Advent devotionals.  I'm sure I've read this twenty times before, but this year it really spoke to me:  

Jesus observed, "Without me you can do nothing." (John 15:5).  Yet we act, for the most part, as though without us God can do nothing.  We think we have to make Christmas come, which is to say we think we have to bring about the redemption of the universe on our own.  When all God needs is a willing womb, a place of safety, nourishment, and love.  "Oh, but nothing will get done," you say.  "If I don't do it, Christmas won't happen."  And we crowd out Christ with our fretful fears.  God asks us to give away everything of ourselves.  The gift of greatest efficacy and power that we can offer God and creation is not our skills gifts, abilities and possessions.  The wise men had their gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  Paul and Peter had their preaching.  Mary offered only space, love, belief.  What is it that delivers Christ into the world - preaching, art, writing, scholarship, social justice?  Those are all gifts well worth sharing.  But preachers lose their charism, scholarship grows pedantic, social justice alone cannot save us.  In the end, when all other human gifts have met their inevitable limitation, it is the recollected one, the bold virgin with a heart in love with God who makes a sanctuary of her life, who delivers Christ who then delivers us.  Try it...

I did not intentionally try to approach this holy season a different way this year, but through circumstances and the opportunities of the readings and worship, something started to shift in my heart - in a good way.  And I experienced joy - even in these circumstances!  I think the pandemic pace played a role, as did the readings from the devotionals and my regularly making time for worship that I wasn't leading (thank you to the dear ones in San Anselmo)!  And the pandemic pace allowed for more time for prayer, which is something I need.  The work load wasn't less, but it was different. And these differences seemed to open up just enough space for grace to break through!

If I could give up this joy and make the pandemic go away, I would in a heartbeat!  But giving up my joy will not control COVID-19.  With so many people suffering, I want to take care to make sure my joy does not unintentionally minimize the pain anyone is experiencing.  I know that even though the date of the year has changed, the pandemic, polarization, systemic racism, political upheaval, economic uncertainty, climate calamity and all manner of frightful things are still very real and very present.  The peace and the joy do not change any of those very real circumstances.  But they do help to fortify me to continue God's transformative work.  Perhaps that is how God With Us works - the circumstances stay the same, but we have the inner comfort of knowing that we are not in this alone.

To this I can testify:  When we create space for God, God meets us in that space.  God is with us.  We are not alone.  And whatever we face in 2021, Emmanuel - God With Us - faces it with us.

How has God been present to you - God With Us - during this sacred time?  As you look back (gently) on 2020, what would you like to carry into 2021?  What one thing would you like to nurture?

You and God can do it together!

Much love and hope as we begin 2021,

Kim