All the Things I Didn't Do This Christmas

"I'm knee-deep in cookies and smiles," I told her, "and for the first time ever, all my presents are wrapped before midnight."

What's the secret? Nothing much. Just that this year, I decided to do what Gordon said. Let the goodness of Christmas sneak up on me.

That meant letting things go, and not adding anything new.

I saw talk of cool things to do with one's kids. I let the talk slide by and simply appreciated how other families have chosen to celebrate Christmas. I didn't make cookies on time and waited until my kids stepped up to the cookie-making plate (so to speak :).




In my experience, Christmas is the time when we try to make up for the rest of the year. Give more, be more, faith more. I decided not to do that this year. Come January, I'll have eleven months to give, be, devote... without the pressure of getting it right in 25 days flat.




All those Christmas catalogs asking for money for the poor? They're in the recycle bin. Does that sound harsh? What it really means is I'm looking forward to an Orphan care series this January and February over at TheHighCalling.org. There will be important conversations and chances to think through how I can help orphans maybe for a lifetime. I want to think about this seriously, without the pressure of making just the right choice *now*, to prove my Christmas spirit.




There are years when I poke through the catalogs and give. There are. But not this year. There are years when I find new recipes for Christmas Eve. Not this year. (I'm falling back on the "shepherd's meal" my kids and I worked out a few Christmases past.) There are years when I run blogging projects and I finish things like my 12 Days of Christmas Poetry. Not this year.




This year I'm letting the good things of Christmas sneak up on me. Instead of trying to make it all happen myself. Maybe there's a gift in that, to receive.

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Merry Christmas, sweet friends. May the good things of Christmas sneak up on you. See you in the New Year. :)


Cookie Photos by L.L. Barkat. Cookie Art by the Barkat girls.

On, In, and Around Mondays: The Naughty Camera

It was the end of the evening. I had changed out of my black dress, put my sparkly necklace beneath a gray sweater and coat, taken off my faux diamond ring (which had looked so beautiful, in any case).




I felt a little like Cinderella after midnight. Except I had my camera. And I don't remember Cindy having one of those.




There were other fairytales coming to an end. People going home. I was surprised at how many Santas boarded the train. I was surprised at how the conductor yelled at me when she saw I'd taken a picture of the outside of the train. And how she cringed and batted her arm sideways when I tried to apologize and say, "It's okay."

My camera is a naughty camera. It has a hard time letting go, even when eyes flash anger. My camera doesn't give up easily. I got on the train and it took another picture. People in Santa hats, not willing to let the fairytale end before dawn.



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On, In and Around Mondays (which partly means you can post any day and still add a link) is an invitation to write from where you are. Tell us what is on, in, around (over, under, near, by...) you. Feel free to write any which way... compose a tight poem or just ramble for a few paragraphs. But we should feel a sense of place. Would you like to try? Write something 'in place' and add your link below.

If you could kindly link back here when you post, it will create a central meeting place. :)

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This post is offered for TheHighCalling's PhotoPlay.

Almost

Monday morning comes. And with it the sun. Snow, here just a week ago, is melted away. The day feels like spring. Fresh, new. I'm almost ready to come out of hibernation. Almost ready to write. Almost.

In the meantime, I was so delighted when I saw Ann's Christmas tree and quilt, worn wooden floors and fireplace, that I felt inspired just the tiniest bit. Not to write but to say in pictures... this is my home, this was my Christmas. Almost.








Christmas photos by L.L. Barkat.

Mary, "Did You Know?"

I walk through the Louvre the way a child walks a path. I'm looking for the odd rock, the gems no one else is really looking for. Yes, I'll do the obligatory Mona Lisa, but my sensibilities are not with the crowd's. Whatever strikes me, I photograph. I'm terribly irresponsible when it comes to looking for the name of the painting, the painter, the period.

In the back of my mind, my blogworld urges me. Take pictures of beauty, pictures of force, pictures with potential for holiday use.

This wounded Christ arrests. I snap the picture, thinking, Easter.

But no, he would not wait 'til Easter. He wants to be here, at Christmas. And his mother too, swooning to the left. She wants to say, Did you think that birth was an easy thing? Did you know that it begins with pain, wraps up struggle, ends in death? Did you know?

I did not want to know, Mary. I wanted to believe that birth was an easy thing.

This is the danger of walking the way a child walks a path. You don't necessarily find what you are looking for. Unlike the tourist who goes out seeking the Mona Lisa and finds it, you find Christ in the wrong places. You find Easter at Christmas. You find pain in birth, even as you find glory, beauty and force. You press and click and you take home... the unexpected pebble, that slaps against your leg in secret.


Wounded Christ painting, photo taken at the Louvre, by L.L. Barkat.

Merry Christmas, my friends. May you find the gems no one else is looking for in this amazing season.

RELATED:

LL's Christmas at Love Notes to Yahweh

No Need to Be Real About Jesus

Sun pours through the car window as I wait. Girls are in piano lessons, playing holiday duets. Christmas is coming and I'm bundled, oblivious to the stress of the season for just this snippet of time, here in the car, in the sun before tomorrow's predicted storm.

Oblivious because I'm immersed in, of all things, the gift I bought myself for Christmas. The Jewish Study Bible. Not light reading for the hectic holidays. But I'm intoxicated.

The person who wrote the introduction is talking about the preeminence of story in Genesis and other parts of Torah. Genesis is not, he reminds me, philosophical proof or confession of faith or theological tract but story. (Hey, Scot, this reminds me of Parakeet too!)

Story is messy. It gets told from different points of view, it seems inconsistent at times, it is not rigid but fluid. It has, as the writer notes a high tolerance for different versions of the same event. I chuckle to myself and think about calling this post Torah 'n Me, because I realize I drive my husband crazy by a similar ancient-Near-Eastern approach to reality (it looks like I'm thinking inconsistently, Dear, but I'm just the Torah type!)

I close my eyes and think about a quote I read in A Profound Weakness...

... images of the birth of Jesus tend to focus on symbolic, formulaic aspects of the event because realism isn't essential in promoting story. Realism puts an event in time and place but doesn't necessarily point to the 'subplot', to the invisible. p.52

On the night before Christmas, we too will put realism aside. We'll think on the sweetness of God not with treatises but by biting into challah bread dipped in honey. We'll raise our makeshift tent (sukkah) and participate in the story of God's people seeking respite (the way the Israelites found respite in God in the desert). Each person will have a chance to sit in the shadows of the tent, smell and taste that bread, which a child will hand them, saying...

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life, and you shall dwell in the house of the LORD your whole life long. Ps 23

And the one who receives the bread will say, Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O LORD, faithful God. (Ps 31:5)

Each of us will bring our secret and not-so-secret stories to the tent. Knowing me, I'll close my eyes, feel the moment like it is the warmth of the sun shining, regardless of storms. And I'll feel bundled, like a child listening to a story before good night. Before good night and, in this season, before Merry Christmas.

POETRY FRIDAY:
RAP: Ache of Advent by L.L. at High Calling Blogs
Poetry Friday: Oasis at Erica Hale's
Six Christmas Poems at GoodWordEditing


Christ Child watercolor by Salvador Dali. Photo by L.L. Barkat.

Just for November

Back in April, when Stone Crossings first came out, I offered a limited number of signed copies here. I figured I'd never really liked the post office that much, so I preferred to keep my visits to a minimum.

It worked out especially well since Susan alone ordered several copies, thus reducing the number of times I'd need to find a parking space, stand in line, and keep my kids from sitting on the counters (why do kids want to sit on counters in the post office anyway... which is terribly inconvenient since there are signs everywhere saying, do not let children sit on counters).

Still, Christmas is coming and I wouldn't want to disappoint the post office workers with too light a workload. I'm thinking I owe them a visit, a stack of packages, a smile for the season and some kids sitting on counters to make the whole thing a perfect experience.

So just for November, I'm ready to stand in line if you'd like to order a signed copy. This time I won't put a limit on the number of copies I'll make available. Well, at least I don't think I will. Maybe I'll even put on my elf hat to go with my post-office smile.

Just for November.


see comment box for details on ordering

Tent

This is our little Sukkot* tent. On Christmas Eve, under its shadow of red, its sparkle of gold, we'll eat challah bread dipped in honey. To remember that once we were hungry wanderers, but now we've found nurture and rest in the tent of our Beloved.

May you too find nurture and rest this season. Merry Christmas and a Blessed New Year.


* L.L.'s Festive Gifts and Meal

Christmas: Choosing My Scars

When the people over at High Calling asked their network participants to share a "Christmas past" story, I thought, "Uhhh.... you don't want to hear mine." Because my old stories pretty much have the same punch line: scars.

There are single moments that stand out. Moments of courage, like when I spent two hours in the dead of night, crawling on my little kid belly to retrieve my stocking, holding my breath, so as not to waken my stepfather from his sugar plum dreams. He lay on the cot in front of the Christmas tree, breathing, shifting, snoring. The cot was a yearly ritual. Kind of like the star on the Christmas tree, but a bit more ominous, as it was always the climax of a shouting spree... his carol to welcome the season.

One Christmas brought a shameful gift in my stocking... a present from my stepfather, given in front of the whole family, simply to humiliate me. The gift delivered its intended impact.

There's the general blur of Christmas after Christmas when we were assailed with insults, curse words, and threats for celebrating the birth of Christ. A stupid celebration, in my stepfather's opinion. I have this picture of my mother, her bottom lip stuck out in something akin to a pout. But I realize now she was probably trying not to cry, trying not to ruin the joy we mustered despite all the bah humbug.

To this day, I bear the scars of these Christmas pasts. Indeed, I literally bear a permanent scar in my left pinky. I crushed it once, trying to help my mom close the cot. She always closed it during the day when my stepfather went out hunting, or drinking, or whatever he'd gone out to do. Even as recently as this week, I couldn't sleep, for the sharp pain in that pinky kept stabbing me out of my dreams.

Scars.

Last Sunday, we were singing "From Heav'n You Came". And around verse three, I suddenly lost my voice. "Come see His hands and his feet," it says. "The scars that speak of sacrifice. Hands that flung stars into space, to cruel nails surrendered."

It is so easy to let the scars of a difficult past define us. Make us needy. Angry. Selfish. Afraid to sacrifice. I don't fault myself or anyone else for this. Scars will always point to the pain that created them. Still, in the middle of that Sunday song, I thought, "If these are the only scars we bear, then we've allowed ourselves to remain the victims."

So this season, I want to choose my scars. Jesus scars. That heal the past, and embrace an outward life of sacrifice. Thinking this way, well, call it the star He's just now flung on my Christmas tree.


"Lantern" art by Gail Nadeau. Used by permission. Seedlings Invitation: If you write a post related to this post and Link It Back Here, let me know and I'll link to yours.

RELATED:

L.L.'s Cry

L.L.'s Festive Gifts and Meal. A post on a brighter note.