Love is in the air around here. Valentine’s Day is around the corner, chocolate and candies line store shelves, and a shocking amount of pink and red hearts are plastered everywhere. But that kind of love is not really what this card is requesting.
Love of any kind takes a lot of work and patience to foster. The emotional high we get from a new romance, the thrill at the birth of a child, or the emotional fuzzies exchanged with close friends don’t have a long shelf life if we store them in our inner cupboards like the canned goods in our kitchens. True love in any of its forms is a living presence that requires intentional attention and faithful nurturing. It is a gift from God, sent from above. But it’s a cutting from a living tree more than a figurine in a pretty box. It requires the very essence of who we are if it is to grow – and if we are to grow with it.
Perhaps that’s why it’s a dove and a spray of greenery and flowers – a reminder that our prayers for love are answered, but only come to life when we commit ourselves to love’s flourishing.
A single gilded word. It shouldn’t be consigned to an Advent or Christmas value. After all, peace something no faith tradition omits, even if none follow through in bringing about its reign.
The golden, gilded age doesn’t usually refer to a reign of peace – it is traditionally mistaken for a time and era filled with seaside mansions and philanthropic achievements. But this card has the truth of it: peace is the substance of a true golden age. No gilding required.
The home is small, the wilderness expansive. The trees and flakes are sparkle rimmed. The skis are set, ready for another foray into the forest; the lights are on. There’s some wood to throw on the fire just outside the door. There are words in the air. Everything needed is here, but nothing beyond it.
Simple isn’t easy, but if I can recognize the holiness of an uncluttered inner and outer space, I just might see in the woods, words, and flakes a glimpse of God’s ever-changing, never-ending love.
Where they came from map, drawn by Colin Fredrickson
It’s on the inside of my birthday card, this map. My son, Colin, marked the places where the various items in my present called home – nuts from the Blue Diamond factory and local growers, olive oil, honey, etc. They come from neighboring communities and were picked up in local shops or farmer’s markets. California offers almost everything within a few square miles and under an hour’s travel.
This is local in another way, too: it’s local from the place my son lives.
I don’t believe that everything is relative, but I do believe that everything is related. This map reminds me of that – and prompts me to honor the connectedness and relatedness of all things.
They come to the feeder every day – at least a pair, usually more. For the cost and effort of putting seed in the feeder and scattering bread crusts on the ground, grace and beauty on the wing is made manifest just outside my window. Every season, in all kinds of weather, they come.
It’s said that cardinals are the spirits of those who have left this life returning in a different form. It’s also said that they signal death, the presence of the Spirit, and imminent change. Any, all, or none of these things could be true. I can’t say. What I do know: beauty and grace are local where I live and breathe just as surely as they are resident in exotic, far away places.
Gracious God, give me an eye to see the beauty you offer, and a spirit to be profoundly grateful for it. Amen.
It’s an odd depiction of the Magi, with a ghostly Jesus pointing the way to some place beyond the starlit Bethlehem in the background. They aren’t headed toward the stained glass window framed city. They are continuing on a path whose end cannot be seen. Their gifts and their attention are for something far more mysterious than a city cut-out; they are seeking in the here and now, not hiding in nostalgic recollection of a manger scene.
Wisdom is not knowledge about past events, and it isn’t appreciation for beautiful tales told by starlight. Wisdom seeks to offer itself to life, to honor what is holy, and to heal the brokenness of the world and her creatures. Just as Jesus cannot be limited by the recollections of his birth, life, death, and resurrection that we honor and continue to find holy, we cannot limit our lives to remembering the stories rather than following the living presence that calls us beyond them.
The wise still seek him – and are willing to continue the journey beyond the known.
When the snow falls just right, with enough heft to coat the branches but not enough to break them, something like an outdoor hallway is revealed. I’ve come upon them in many places – the library walkway, Buckmanville Road in New Hope, and Prescott Park in Portsmouth. But none were quite as magical as the ones a few miles up Birch Hill Road in New Durham. Dirt roads leading to the summer cabins on Chalk and March ponds, abandoned in Winter, were natural cathedrals when adorned in white. I spent many hours walking in these sacred spaces, and am much richer for it.
Healing, justice, love. A song, a branch, and a path. If I approached them with the same reverence as a snow-created wonder, surely the world and I would be much the richer for it.
I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon looking out the window, hoping that the expected snowfall will come. But now the sun has set and the street lights shine on bare sidewalks. No snow yet. But I still have hope that the wonder of snow is on its way, so I’m keeping the inside lights to a minimum – just the Christmas tree lights and the bookcase lights.
Wonder is a freely given gift, but an easily overlooked one. I can’t be too preoccupied with my own things or sit in a spotlight if I want experience the wonder all around me. I’ll miss snowfall, starlight, new life, and God knows what else if I forget to look beyond myself.
It’s just a day into the new year, but Christmas season is still with me – the twelve days don’t end until the 6th, and our festive decorations are still brightening up the house. Included in those decorations are the Christmas cards that hang between the kitchen and living room. Walking between rooms, I pass under the well wishes of friends, family, and a few institutions – an arch of love and care that has been constructed card by card for decades. It would be a shame to let the cards go before giving them more than a passing glance…
You might want to share some of your favorites as well…
