Christmas Eve: Welcome to Our World

A few weeks ago I had the privilege of presenting a program of music for the annual Garner Presbyterian Women's Christmas Dinner, an event that one of the attendees remembers occurring every year since at least the mid-1970s. The night was shaped by a charmingly unsophisticated beauty: a delicious potluck salad supper with a chicken casserole entree; glittering holiday table decor; thematic, hand-crafted table favors; bow-tied male servers; and holiday-attired female party guests connected to each other within three or four degrees of separation. If a woman whose life had only extended into the 1970s had been granted the opportunity to revisit such a night - much like Thornton Wilder's Emily – I believe she would have had a difficult time understanding just how much time had passed on this earth.

In some ways the activities of the evening seemed an intentional preservation of celebrations past. And that night, in addition to enjoying a wonderful, traditional church supper, I relished how the event revived memories of childhood that connected me to what felt like simpler times – shopping festooned downtown streets while Christmas music played on loudspeakers, delighting in the magic of nighttime snow while hurrying from one family-owned store to the next, trusting your mom and dad to take good care of you no matter the driving conditions, and anticipating the joy you believed each carefully chosen gift would bring.

My memories were so easily relieved that night, in part, because of my hostess, a former member of my hometown church who watched me grow up and heard me sing some of my first church solos. That night she had sealed the aura of yesteryear for me by inviting my sister to the event as well. Jill, forever my little sister and only sibling, is the sole person who also knows what it means to be known as "one of the Bowden girls" – something we were called several times that evening, even though neither of us has literally held that status for more than two decades.

Interlocked lives. Powerful impressions. Steadfast faith in a future, fully realized.

As I stood before those women, sharing stories mixed with musical messages, I remembered what it meant to be young and what it meant to grow up. Welcomed back into the wondrous world of my youth, I felt the story of God come to earth once again and witnessed how its power joins lives in a hope that does not disappoint.

Welcome to our world, Messiah. Come into our lives and show us what it means for the kingdom to come to us - Immanuel. Then help us live the message every day. May it indeed be so this Christmas and into the coming year.
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*Yes, there is sound in the vlog below, a song even, but not right at the beginning.*
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God bless us, every one.
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Saints and Poets–Maybe They Do Some

A quick vlog before heading to bed tonight to capture a few of my thoughts after seeing a production of "Our Town." You'll have to suffer through my recollection of portraying Mrs. Gibbs in eleventh grade - but I'm not gonna apologize. They are wonderful memories (and I spared you most of them!).

Mark and I squeezed hands often tonight, taking in the magnitude of this piece as filtered through our middle-aged minds. At each intermission, Skye wanted to know where the conflict of the story was. By the end I think he understood that the conflict existed in the lives of the characters themselves as they dealt with the realities of their extraordinarily ordinary daily existence.

By the way, I knew I had the wrong native people living in Mesa Verde. I remembered the name began with an "A," and it's the Anasazi who were cliff dwellers of Mesa Verde not the Aztecs. The Aztecs lived in what's now central Mexico, and according to the internet search I just did, they lived in huts or shacks made of clay. So ... now we all can impress our friends.

Here's to all of us: saints and poets, every one. And here's to you, Thornton Wilder. Thank you for reminding us all of life's extraordinarily simple beauty.

BTW: Because some of you have asked: I got a B+ (88%) on my test. Now, if I hadn't changed around two of my matching, I'd have had the A- I was hoping for. And, if I hadn't over-thought two of the true and false questions, I have had an even more impressive showing. But you know what? I'm sorta glad I didn't get an A. The pressure is off now, somehow. Plus, I experienced my very first "words swimming on the page" as soon as the test was placed in front of me. I now know what students mean when they say they go blank when a test is placed in front of them. Of course, me being me, I was fascinated by the phenomenon, analyzed what was happening and then talked myself through it. I discovered once my pencil got moving, I was fine. But what a strange feeling. I have a class presentation next week. Now THAT I want an A on!

In the Moment - the Now

Stross' last year of high school is slipping away, and I'm not certain I'm honoring its sacredness to the greatest degree possible. Then again, I'm not confident that honoring it would be in my best interest. I'll begin marking moments with tears soon enough: his last conference, last dance, last prom, last day of school. And then the hardest one: the last time to pick him up after school. I'll be an absolute mess that day. Guaranteed.

Maybe it's best not to mark "last time" moments anyway. Maybe holiness exists amid the ordinary. Remember Emily's question of the Stage Manager in Thornton Wilder's "Our Town"?

She asks: "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every,every minute?"

He replies: "No. (pause) The saints and poets, maybe they do some."

Living fully engaged in daily moments is the goal anyway, isn't it? Breathing in, drinking in, taking in. Connecting with all moments that comprise life. There's simply no catching up or going back. It's all about the now.

The men and women arriving at work to learn it's their last day. Did they see it coming?

The girls and boys (who believe they are women and men) giving in to lust as they kiss days of virginity goodbye. Did they see it coming?

The moms and dads watching their toddlers cross the room unassisted, never to crawl again, it seems. Did they really see those days coming?

The grandpas and grandmas kissing each other goodnight, not knowing what morning would bring. Did they savor the sweetness of their last kiss?

I sure hope so...

You know what, I'm gonna sign off. I have two not-so-little-anymore boys to tuck into bed. (Yes, they still ask me to tuck them in.) And you know what? I'm gonna savor every single second of it.