I grew up standing up on the front seat of our Studebaker with only my mom’s arm to protect me when she hit the brakes.  When my children were babies, I held them while we drove (sometimes when I drove!) Later, they had booster seats so they could see out the window.  From the time they could sit up, I did insist they use a seat belt, it was a non-negotiable. Note: everyone survived.

Now, you have my personal background story and you will be able to understand better the complete bafflement Karl and I encountered yesterday while trying to install a ‘rear-facing child safety restraint system’ in my car in anticipation of my lovely bonus daughter and grandson’s visit this week.  It very quickly became clear we were in over our heads.  Just figuring out how to loosen the straps that will hold Jamie in the seat took us a good fifteen minutes, and we will only really know if I truly got the concept later today when we pick them up from the airport.

The car seat book, which had well over 200 pages, devoted lots of space to cautions and warnings and for diagrams and pictures and accompanying explanations about installation and use that did absolutely nothing at all in regards to helping us figure out what to do. I’m certain that the complete how to explanation is included within the pages, but just not in a linear, step by step format that was accessible to laymen with our talents and expertises.

We worked for about an hour. I read aloud while Karl attempted to decipher the instructions, then we’d trade places. We checked the car’s owner’s manual as suggested, which added a whole new dimension of befuddlement.   Then, in a spark of what I think was probably Divine Mercy, we decided we needed help.  Off to the fire department we drove. Thank God for the Cheyenne Fire Department and a fireman named Chris who has been schooled on car seat installation. Filled with grace and best practices, in about half an hour the seat was properly installed and we were educated in car seat safety.  In reality, it wasn’t that hard, not nearly as complicated as the book made it out to be. 

So yay!  I’m off to the airport.

For most of last week our temperature didn’t get above freezing. No surprise, I hate the cold, especially when accompanied by Wyoming’s vicious wind. Despite this, once I ignore the fact that I can’t feel my toes, and I ignore the discomfort of needing to go to the bathroom but deciding that it just isn’t worth expending the energy and time to remove THAT many clothes in order to use the grocery store restroom, the fact remains that winter’s cold does have a kind of brutal beauty.

For example, I love the way brand new snow glitters.  Tiny points of light wink and sparkle on bare branches and sleeping lawns. At times, when it’s far below zero, the air itself shimmers magically.  For just a minute at least, sharp edges are softened and my world is clean and fresh and somehow simple.

I admire the physics and science involved in icicles. Water captured in mid drip, often in labored positions and gnarled, anguished shapes, testaments of powerful wind and commanding cold.

Though frightening and disorienting, I am intrigued with the way dust-fine snow snakes across the road in ever changing patterns during a ground blizzard.  It’s a mesmerizing dance that polishes the road to a shiny slickness and gives me the illusion that I’m not moving though my speedometer assures me I am. My fascination increases when the sky above is pure, hopeful blue while anything more than a mere few feet in front of me is only a guess.  Somehow in those moments the storm and I merge into one being, both of us pumped with adrenaline and relying on something beyond ourselves for redemption.

While I’m not fond of ‘snowflakes that stay on my nose and my lashes’, I do enjoy watching from my living room window as large, downy flakes fall on a calm afternoon, or even when a witchy wind whines and screeches around my eves, pelting windows and walls with a formidable onslaught.  I appreciate a rampaging winter storm most while I am inside with those I love. I am safe. I am warm. I am reminded of my blessings and of the Hand who delivers me from trouble and peril. 

There’s something sublime about snorkeling. Contacts in, face mask seated tight, snorkel in my mouth- check.  Wade out to thigh-deep water and slip on the fins.  Bend at the waist, push off and lift my feet.  Instantly weightless, immediately transported to a whole new realm: surrounded, embraced, and welcomed.  The dominant sound is of my own breathing, fast and excited at first until my brain begins to trust the snorkel then slow, rhythmic, calm. Even in the shallows, fish of all colors dart around me.  I look beneath me to find what the sea is offering today.  Star fish, urchins, sea fans, brain coral, sand dollars. Part of the delight is discovery. I glance up and notice a needle nose fish, silver and white, swimming close by just at the surface.  He seems as interested in me as I am in him.

Today a turtle shares my joy.  I envy his ability to maneuver, to gain the bottom and explore.  My heart quickens when I see him begin to rise to breathe.  He surfaces close by, indifferent to my watchful presence. Nonchalant compared to the thrill I feel.

I recognize him as a Green Turtle, though he is mottled, vivid brown. At home where I am a visitor. He dives again to forage among the waving grasses and I, reticently, move off to see what else I will be prized with.

I understand very little in this world, and all is a gift, a blessing.  My body relaxed, supported by an unseen force that allows me to float, I listen to my own breaths and I pray without words, my heart to God’s.   

When we landed in Miami on our way home last week, we had just about half an hour to make our next flight.  We were both a bit nervous about making that connection, especially when I checked and found that we were arriving at D-9 and needed to depart from D-33.  From past experience in Miami we knew that between 9 and 33 is a long, congested shopping mall and food court area.  We crossed our fingers and prepared for a long, quick journey.   

Being proactive, we decided to try to expedite our exit from the plane when we landed in Miami. We both were only carrying backpacks that fit under the seat in front of us, and we had them gathered and ready.  When the seat belt sign blinked off, we got up quickly and scooted past our seat mate (Karl had already talked with him).  I went first.  I calmly explained to the people in the next two rows that we had a short connection and asked their permission to jump in front of them.  Everyone was kind and didn’t hesitate to help, one man wished us luck.  At the third row, a man in a blue shirt was standing in the aisle.  I repeated my request. In response, he faced away from me (toward the front of the plane), put his left arm up on the left bulkhead and pointedly moved his roll-aboard suitcase by his right foot, effectively blocking any chance of us slipping by him.  Other than that, he didn’t acknowledge me. When it came time for his row to exit, he motioned and waited for everyone to get in front of him before he moved, and Karl and I were able to then fall in behind him.

Alrighty then.  After we were on the jet-way, I ended up right beside that blue-shirted man for a few paces.  I glanced over at him and smiled.  I told him I hoped he had a good evening. A bit surprised perhaps, he thanked me. I meant it.

The incident perplexes me. I keep thinking about him. I wasn’t ever angry, though I admit his display of unnecessary meanness shocked me.  Allowing us to get ahead of him would have cost him nothing, not in significant time, or in any material or emotional way I can discern.  

But. It seems to me that his unwillingness to do a tiny kindness may have cost him a great deal.  Here’s what I mean:  when I avail myself an opportunity to do a good thing, I benefit. Hold a door for someone, smile at a stranger, let the guy with a dozen eggs and a can of Ajax check out ahead of me and the two weeks’ worth of groceries heaped into my basket. I hope that my act is unselfish, but at the same time, it’s fun to spread a bit of goodness. I smile to myself.  My heart feels lighter. Knowing I helped someone’s day lifts me up, encourages me.  Deliberately choosing the opposite – to leave a situation a bit darker than it was, to be an instrument of angst, to spread disunity or even indifference – those choices have internal consequences as well. I don’t know anything about this man, his life or his story, but I feel sorry for him.  He had an opportunity to make a little difference in someone’s life and he chose not to. That feels bleak and dour, and I hope, for his sake, that it isn’t a choice he often makes.

PS: we made our connecting flight with about five minutes to spare!

The adage is “You can’t go home again.”  Wiktionary explains this means “Past times which are fondly remembered are irrecoverably in the past and cannot be relived.”  I’m pretty sure this isn’t universally true since in my life I have left Wyoming three separate times, eventually returning here to feel perfectly comfortable and at peace.  Certainly, the returns brought differences and adjustments, but I don’t believe they demanded more accommodation than would have occurred just by simply living here and embracing the changes life brings.

Tomorrow, Karl and I are testing the adage once more.  We are on our way to St. Croix on a vacation. Our bags are nearly packed – the first thing in were the snorkels –  reservations are made.  We’ve contacted our friends there and are looking forward to being with them, we know what time church starts.  I have a list of where our favorite musicians are appearing so that we can go and listen.

We’re going back to a place we embraced completely and called home for six years.  I’m excited and anxious, even if the trip includes a red-eye flight.  So why is that negative old adage rattling around in my brain today?  Maybe the answer is this: of all the places I have moved to and then eventually left, St. Croix stands alone. It’s the only former home that my new home has been unable to completely overshadow and replace. I’ve truly missed St. Croix. At times, I’ve hurt for it. Somewhere, I suppose, there lurks an urchin of fear. Fear that being on island won’t be as welcoming and comfortable as I hope.  Or, fear that it will hurt just as bad to leave it this time as it did the last.  Huh.  Stay tuned. 

The title of a recent sermon at my church was “In the fullness of time”. When the title flashed up on the screen above the pastor’s head as he began, an hourglass appeared as well. The main thrust of the sermon was that Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem wasn’t a result of happenstance or a change of plan on God’s part, but the culmination of God’s delicately orchestrated eternal plan to send salvation to us. Pastor Troy had barely begun when his first point struck me as significant. You see, since my last birthday, I’ve had moments of angst. Somehow, the number associated with that birthday has been the periodic cause of an urgent ticking sound in my head, one that reminds me that with each day my time here on earth is winding down. It’s not that I’m ill or decrepit, and because of my Hope in Jesus, I’m not fearful, but yet, I’m just seeing life in all its finite glory more than ever before. I recognize that my own hour glass has a dwindling supply of sand in the top, and I’d been considering that as an indication that my time was running out. Expired! Kaput!

But that’s not how the sermon went. From Troy’s perspective, the diminishing supply of sand in the top of the hourglass doesn’t indicate that the time is over, but instead it celebrates completion. Accomplished!  Completed! When the preparation hourglass ran out and Jesus appeared as a child in the manger, it was a new beginning, not an end.  Again, years later when He was in agony hanging on a cross and whispered “It is finished” as the last grains in THAT hourglass dropped, there was cause for celebration of a job well done.

What a refreshing perspective, especially for a person (like me) who needs to feel as if each day has seen me accomplish something and who adores making lists so that I can check off completed tasks and measure how far I’ve come.  What an encouraging way to approach the days ahead. The urgency I feel can be channeled from trepidation and a little nagging dread to joy and determination and hope that I can use each moment, each grain of sand, to add to my preparations for what comes next. And what will come next? No more hourglasses, just an eternity with God. 

Have you ever wondered why it was shepherds that first got the news of Jesus’ birth?  Honestly, until Karl (my husband) made an off-hand observation about it to me recently, I never really questioned it. I just assumed that shepherds were pretty lowly and had no great status in society, and since God wanted to be sure everyone understood He was sending Salvation to the whole world, they were a convenient choice.

Karl’s observation is this:  who else would you announce the coming of the Lamb of God to but shepherds?  Huh. Lamb of God.  Shepherds.   Oh, I get it! 

Shepherds would understand better than anyone else. They had lots of experience with lambs. In the early spring, they’d be up all night checking on the ewes, counting and caring for the new babies on the ground, keeping them warm and protected. They’d be vigilant and determined with the ones that had been rejected while keeping their eyes out for needy ones as well as the healthy ones. As the babies grew, the shepherds would be entertained by the awkward and gangly frolicking of the lambs through the summer. (Watch a couple of Youtubes and you’ll see how endearing their jumping and bumping and kicking and running is.) Always, the shepherds would be observing, protecting, nurturing those lambs along with the rest of the flock. It was their job, their livelihood depended on doing it well. 

Perhaps, though their hands were rough and the skin on their noses tanned and leathered by their lifestyle, just perhaps the hearts of these tough men stayed especially soft for those perfect lambs in the herd. Maybe, while they stroked and fed them as they grew, and as they watched them carefully to make sure they didn’t get into the brambles or take any risk with their perfection, maybe they fell a little in love with them precisely because they were highly aware what these little guys were destined for.  Jerusalem is only twenty miles north of Bethlehem. Sacrificing a perfect, year-old lamb was required for each family under the law.  Without doubt, these shepherds knew the future of the perfect lambs they fostered.

Who better, then, to hear the Good News of God’s Grace than men who already understood the deeper context of a perfect sacrificial Lamb’s arrival to the people? Who better to welcome Him than them? Well, I’ve not lived that life, but because I have the gift of perspective and can see the whole story, from the Lamb’s birth – to His Crucifixion – to His saving Resurrection – and because I have the Hope of Jesus’ return, then I can put myself in those shepherd’s shoes and welcome the birth of the Perfect Lamb, come for me! (and you, too!) 

   Of all the players in the Christmas story, the shepherds are my favorite.  If I could go back in time and shadow anyone involved that night, I’d hang out with the shepherds.  For just that one evening, I wish I’d have been with them.

   First: the night.  Cold, wintery, fresh air makes the stars in the velvet darkness vivid and close.  No light pollution. Can you even imagine what the stars looked like?  Then, add to that a new, bright star.  Unexplained. Perhaps they felt a bit apprehensive when it appeared, not exactly sure what it meant, but unable to take their eyes off its twinkling beauty. 

   Can you picture those men? One, sitting with his back against a rock, is wrapped tightly in a blanket with his toes and nose frosty (low temps in Bethlehem in the winter hover in the low forties). Another hums quietly to himself, thinking of the girl he met on his last trip into town. Another one is strolling calmly through the dark, making sure all the sheep are safely bedded down.

   Then blam! A creature – stark white and shining –  appears, hovering just overhead, but near enough. It is magnificent, imposing, unfathomable.  The men’s eyes are riveted on him, their hearts pounding.  These are fellows who can routinely vanquish the hyena, the wild dog, the lion that accosts their sheep, but now, in this moment, their legs are water, hands are shaking, voices falter.  They stare. Then a voice like they’ve never heard before. Quiet but commanding, warm yet icy. “Don’t be afraid.”

Yeah. Right. But, really, there’s something in the timbre of his greeting that steadies the pulse and fills each soul with peace they’ve never imagined.  “I bring you good tidings and great joy for everyone.” Everyone?  Even a lonely, lowly, uneducated, and smelly shepherd?  The question doesn’t linger. As the night around them shimmers with iridescence they know, they feel that the words are true.

   They glance at each other as they listen, shy smiles, shoulders and fists relax.  They are all on their feet now standing shoulder to shoulder, as this heavenly being tells them the Christ has come. Then, just when they’ve begun to believe their own eyes are actually seeing this extravagantly beautiful angel in front of them, dozens more appear.  A song begins above their heads then permeates the night and their souls.  By the second chorus, the shepherds know the words and the tune, they dance with abandon, joining the choir in praising God. It is the most simple and the most complicated moment of their lives. Pure joy, perfect faith, complete gratitude.

   I can’t help but think that the angels lingered, singing and dancing their praise, treasuring their time with these mortal men, these precious first-to-knows. Later, when the sky was once again black and the music faded, perhaps the shepherds still felt like dancing. There’s no doubt they couldn’t sit down. No one was drowsy or bored or cold. They looked at each other and decided in one heartbeat what they’d do next. With certainty that the sheep would be tended from above for a while, they took off running for town, anxious to find this promised Child.  It didn’t take them long, I’m certain. At the door of the stable, they hesitated.  They straightened their tunics and smoothed their hair.  They each took a deep breath, then went to meet their Savior.

   In the Bible, we don’t know the shepherd’s names, we never meet them again outside of Luke two.  Yet, I can’t help but be certain of one thing. That night changed them. I’m sure they still had struggles, tick bites, cold toes. They had normal lives. Except – their normal lives had been made extraordinary thanks to a battalion of the Heavenly Host and a Savior that came first to them that night. Troubles were forever put into perspective because of what they’d experienced. My prayer this Christmas for you and for myself is that life’s struggles will always be overshadowed by the gift of Salvation Jesus brings us.