Final Thoughts on Advent

It's Saturday the 26th. Boxing Day. I'm at my mother-in-law's house and I got to sleep in. It's Christmas Part IV, I think, at this point here. More aunts are here, there's more casseroles in the oven, and I'm about to make the transition from coffee to wine.

I should write daily meditations for myself, if for no one else, always. I felt, for the first time in a long time, really connected to the season. I had to pay attention because I had this blog poking at my brain every evening. I had to read something--either a prophecy or daily reading or O Antiphon--every day so I could roll it around in my mind and think of something to say. I don't know, though, if I could keep up this pace. It's about to be ordinary time again and maybe I'll think about it before Lent gets here. Another season of preparation.

I've often said, somewhat flippantly, that my faith life would be a lot easier if I weren't an OblSB and instead was an OSB. If I spent every day in the monastery, if it were in my face at all times, it would be harder to stray, harder to not pay attention to God. And yes, that's probably so--but as every choice, there are negatives with the positives and I am sure I would find the depths of the negatives with all that time not spent shuttling kids to dance class and school and so forth. My view of the monastery is one of a retreatant and it's always so nice to be a welcomed visitor, wherever you go. But day to day is always different.

The thing is, my faith like would be better if I just paid more attention. It sometimes got away from me (camping with girl scouts) but for the most part I did what I set out to do here. I'm not in my year of searching or novitiate anymore. I'm here and in the long stretch of adulthood in my faith life and in my actual life. It's time to develop a more internal locus of control and take charge.

But for now, for this moment, I need to go fill kids' plates with ham and casseroles and candy apple salad. I need to make the transition from coffee to wine and engage in life here. I hope your Christmas has been lovely. Peace!

Christmas Eve Will Find Me

Some thoughts from the old testament reading for tonight....

The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light

It's the first prophecy we present in the Atrium. Such a basic earthy image. In darkness, and then a light. A match struck when electricity goes out. The flashlight shining into a cave. Utter blackness replaced with a focal point. Therese, my atrium partner, says that this is the one children come back to most often and becomes one that they repeat in their heads long after they're out of the Atrium. One older child came back to her later and repeated those words as the thing he remembered most.

upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom
a light has shone.

This time of December after an autumn of rain and chill, the gray skies and dull sunset all day long. To suddenly have a sunrise that makes you blink, makes you focus and see again.

You have brought them abundant joy
and great rejoicing,
as they rejoice before you as at the harvest,

Nothing more satisfying than bringing in a harvest of something you've grown or produced. Canning strawberry jam, picking apples in the fall sunshine, slicing pumpkins up to bake and then freeze. Being amazed by how many jalapenos grew in that shady spot in the backyard or putting up 45 quarts of green beans in a basement kitchen. Biting into that first tomato you've nursed into being, standing in your kitchen smiling at your husband, oh, you have to try this.

as people make merry when dividing spoils.

Take whatever you want, I don't need any of it anymore. Whether it's 18 boxes of wool yarn or classroom shelves of manipulatives or books from deceased relatives I've never met or...I've never had spoils of war but I have divvy'ed up lots of things received through no work of my own.


For every boot that tramped in battle,
every cloak rolled in blood,
will be burned as fuel for flames.

How to say no to war in a jingoistic culture of "freedom isn't free"? How do we hear these words and reconcile them with the idea of living in a nation that has been at war or in some sort of occupation or police action pretty much my entire lifetime? Burned as fuel for flames.


For a child is born to us, a son is given us;
upon his shoulder dominion rests.
They name him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero,
Father-Forever, Prince of Peace.

Again, in the atrium, we ask the question, "what sort of names are these, for a newborn baby? What does this mean for what this child will grow up and become?" So often small children have a disconnect between the Infant Jesus and the person of Christ, especially crucified. Maeve didn't grasp this, perhaps doesn't grasp this yet. It is one thing to have a cozy hazy view of baby surrounded by friendly farm animals and shepherds (even though as "cozy" goes, that doesn't sound so good to me) and another to connect this tiny baby to the events of Holy Week. I think most adults, too, know this intellectually but miss it in their hearts.

His dominion is vast
and forever peaceful,
from David’s throne, and over his kingdom,
which he confirms and sustains
by judgment and justice,
both now and forever.
The zeal of the LORD of hosts will do this!

Peaceful. Justice. Vast dominion. Now and forever. The kingdom of God is like...how can we put it into human terms, anyway?

I know I'm late in getting this done. In the end, my Christmas Eve was a whirlwind of activity. I should have more to say soon on South City. It's been quite a week. A long week--last Saturday I was picking up Christmas trees for church with Doug in his truck and it feels like a month ago. A lot more like Holy Week than Christmas week has ever been for me, in fact. Which somehow seems really appropriate after writing this blog.

Ero Cras

O Sapientia
O Adonai
O Radix Jesse
O Clavis David
O Oriens
O Rex Gentium
O Emmanuel

The O Antiphons are highly structured. They are not thrown together at the last moment. There is no stretch to give them meaning. The begin with Wisdom and move through other titles of the messiah from the old testament: Lord, Stem of Jesse, Key of David, Daystar, Sovereign of Nations, God With Us.

Starting on the 17th of December and going through tonight, they form an acrostic if read backwards. E for Emmanuel, R for Rex, O for Oriens, and so forth spell out EROCRAS. Ero Cras, I have been told, is loosely translated from Latin as "Tomorrow I will come."

Part of me wonders how the monks came up with this. Was it a plan all along or a happy accident? Did they suddenly see it? Did they rearrange something to make it work? Did they used to have more O Antiphons but then realized it didn't spell anything that way? Did some novice say "but look at that!" and everyone oohed and ahhed?

Tomorrow I will come. Will Christ come for me? Will I be awake enough to notice, still enough in my heart to open the door? O Come O Come Emmanuel. Come thou long expected Jesus. Soon and very soon.

Drinking at Christmas

Last night I went to mah jongg at Trisha's house. It was our final secret santa exchange--10 women on the block participate, and all the kids do as well in a separate name draw. I love this. I love that what started as four of us sitting down and learning how to play mah jongg because Mike thought I needed to stop being shy and make some more women friends has turned into a community of good friends and overlapping Venn diagrams and rich relationships. Stories get layered on top of each other. Laughter and shared tears and intertwining each other into lives forever.

Katie brought this ice cream and brandy and chocolate liquor concoction. She apologized as she brought the pitcher in: "I didn't know if you all would drink on a Monday." Katie is new. We all laughed, but at ourselves, not her. And we passed it around.

Red wine, white wine. I had two pomegranate vodka martinis. At one point Janine turned to me and said, "when did you start drinking again?" And I realized I hadn't in a long time, besides a single glass of wine here and there.

"It's Christmas," I shrugged, and then that felt like the most alcoholic reason to drink in the whole book. But that's not how I meant it, and I say that as a member of a family of alcoholics. What I meant was that it was Christmas, it was a moment to celebrate and gather and be merry. It is time to drink fun fattening things or slurries made with pints of sugar. Amanda mentioned the intense boozy song "We need a little Christmas" and that's exactly it. Sometimes you need a little cheer.

I know many people drink at Christmas to drown sorrows or as an excuse because really they're drinking all the time anyway. I remember hushed conversations at my dad's parents' house as a child--I don't recall which uncle was drunk or what the issue was, but I remember the tension. I'm careful not to produce similar memories for my own kids. But at an adult gathering with mah jongg and faux lamentations about how busy we are this week--something just calls for it. It isn't necessary but it can be a part of celebrating a special time of year.

I need to check my list. A trip to Randall's may be in order (the best liquor store in town and it's moments away from my house). Something tells me those Christmas cookies would go well with something there.

Christmas Delivery

On Saturday, my parish made the annual Christmas delivery of food and packages to needy families in our parish boundaries. Few of these families attend St. Pius (although over the years I've delivered to a couple parishioners). I don't know their stories or their faces, although they are my neighbors, at least in the same zip code or just one over. We go down into our church basement cafeteria where there are boxes upon boxes--literally--for over 100 families. One of our families was #106 and I know there were others stacked next to it. Our St. Vincent de Paul Society does the work with the help from parishioners who take the gift tags from the tree in the back of church and bring back wrapped presents, and also from a couple of other parishes in more well-to-do areas who are responding to the Christian call to charity.

We walk in and greet one another. Sophia and Maeve have donuts. People dote on Leo. This was one of the first parish-wide activities Mike and I participated in. We chat with folks we don't see all the time--a few parish school graduates still calling me "Mrs. Wissinger." Our pastor says a prayer. This year he said this was St. Pius at its best--that we go out to be Christ to others and in the process encounter Christ ourselves. It reminded me of the CS Lewis note that besides the Eucharist, our encounters with each other are the holiest moments in any day. No matter how difficult we may be with each other, even hostile, there is still Christ in each of us. A spark of divinity.

We haul our packages out to our cars--one of our families, adopted by a county parish, had 11 boxes. The other had 1, just food. We delivered the 11 boxes first, to a four-family flat on a rundown street. The house had a No Trespassing sign affixed to the porch. The front doors were replacements, flimsy, and it looked as though only one of the apartments was lived in. The next building over was boarded up, property of the city. We knocked, and a young man answered. He was impressed with the number of boxes. I have no idea what might have been inside. I was simply delivering. He signed his name on the back of the form and we went on.

The next house was on an even more depressed block, really only half a street, the houses on one side facing a parking lot and the backs of fast food restaurants on the other.

The man in the camo jacket opened the door and Mike handed him the sack of potatoes. I came up the steps behind with the heavier box. I handed it over to Mike, who was engaged in conversation with the recipient. The name on our form was a woman's, but he said he was her husband...and she was in a coma...and he'd been to the hospital today and had taken her off life support.

I don't know. Maybe it was a fabrication. Maybe it was an attempt to get something else from us--but what? We pulled away from his house and headed over to Gravois. I thought about it. If it were true, there he was in his shotgun house, alone. I thought about human connections at any time of year, but especially at Christmas. Being as blessed as I am with friends and family, I cannot imagine such a situation without my sisters and neighbors and friends from church being there by my side. Maybe one day I will find myself so alone, but what is the road chosen to bring someone to that point?

And then I thought about my own family, about my dad's older brother who burned through all his contacts before I was even born. But even Rick, if he needed help, could find it with a phone call. Maybe my dad's younger brother Kelly would find himself like this. Maybe.

And last, I thought about the people I do know who are on the edges of my life. Would I be there for Kate or Carlos or Millie if they were to call in desperation? If they called in desperation twice or a hundred times? Would I keep opening my door to them, to Christ?

I hope I would.

The Fourth Sunday of Advent/O Clavis David

(I'm just not inspired by the O Antiphons right now. I'm going to let them lie, but keep the titles anyway because I have something to say about them at the end).

This morning I was thinking about pregnancy and childbirth. Mary goes to visit Elizabeth, whom the angel has proclaimed to already be in her 6th month of pregnancy. Mary stays for 3 months, so it is likely that she was there for the birth of John the Baptist. I hope it was an easy birth.

I had a really hard birth with Sophia, and while Maeve was a good experience, I was nearly as wiped out by the end. Leo, of course, was a walk in the park in comparison. But not easy. It takes time to recover. In the midst of getting your body back, you're learning to breastfeed--which is different with every baby, I've realized. You don't have enough sleep and you ache and your mind is mud. Babies cry at just the right frequency to keep your attention (of course, by design) and it looks like forever until you've found your rhythm again.

But at some point you look down and there's this sweet little child sleeping in your arms. Here is a new creation, something you had a hand in bringing to the light, completely at ease with you. It's one of the hazy moments you don't capture on film but instead hold in your heart.

It's not the same thing as giving birth, but today after mass we decorated for Christmas. It's the St. Pius tradition to do so after the 10 a.m. mass on the 4th Sunday of Advent. That's so it's all set up and ready when Christmas comes later in the week. My first year was like Sophia's birth. It was rocky. Christmas was on a Monday that year and so I had an immediate deadline for the 10 p.m. Christmas Eve mass. Lots of people said it couldn't be done. But it got done, even with uncooperative trees and last minute replacements and our maintenance man knocking a tree over. I was sort of spent by the time it was finished.

But I remember trying to plug something in behind the creche, crouched down behind the trees, when the choir started coming in. "Oh my, how beautiful!" I heard again and again. It was, they were right. And while I didn't do it alone, I knew I was the reason for it. Here, I made this for you.

The second year was easier. We'd worked out all the snags. The third was when I was 8 months pregnant with Leo. I just sort of stood around holding floral wire and a pair of scissors and lo, it got done. That was the year our choir director apologized because she wasn't going to be able to help with the poinsettias due to the radiation she was undergoing for cancer--live plants could give her a fungal infection. I remember that really hurting to hear, and how worried I was that whole day--really that whole year--for her. How friendships happen when you just don't even realize they have.

This was the fourth year, and even now, the trees didn't match, we had one too many (again! Why can't I get that right?). We couldn't find the gold cloth we needed; the magnetic wreath holders were first lost (Tony Tony look around something's lost that must be found) and then wouldn't do their job. We resorted to the nail in the door after all. It felt like it took forever, but new people came and there were more wreaths to hang this year and we got sort of a late start. In the end, though, I sat in a pew and looked at it all. A little different from years past, but still good. It had been a good job and here was the result once again.

Sr. Mary begged me never to leave and I found myself speaking the truth before I knew it myself: "I have nowhere else to go."

So I'll just bloom where I'm transplanted, how about?

O Radix Jesse and thoughts on the Magi

O Root of Jesse, sign of peace, before whom all nations stand in awe; kings stand silent in your presence; the nations bow down in worship before You. O Come and set us free; delay no longer in your love.

Kings stand silent in your presence. It immediately brings to mind the vision of the wise men bearing gifts for the infant Jesus in his parents' home. It's such a strange tale, really, more so than the shepherds and angels, the Annunciation, even the story of the census bringing Joseph and Mary to Bethlehem in the nick of time. Here are these magi, these astrologers, come to worship the newborn messiah.

I am not a bible scholar, and I do not have any special insight into the Magi. I know what I've learned along the way. Perhaps there were three--there were three gifts after all--but maybe not. Were they Zoroastrian? They weren't Jews, and they weren't Roman or Greek. They knew enough to see the star at its rising and what that would mean, but not enough to know for certain where this newborn savior would be found.

And the gifts they bring are odd--frankincense, myrrh, gold. Priest, prophet, king. Gold of course is the symbol of kings, of rulers, of wealth. Frankincense is a symbol of priesthood, burned in the temples. And myrrh, the strangest gift, represents death--which often came early for prophets. Here in the first chapters of Matthew is a foreshadowing of the entire life of Jesus.

In this antiphon, we name him a sign of peace. We implore him to come and set us free. Hurry. Delay no longer in your love. While the magi might have seen this to be so, it certainly doesn't seem that kings and nations today bow down in worship. And they don't. The Kingdom of God, of course, is not Germany or Vietnam or Brazil. It is here, but not here. It is coming and yet still far away. And why is it not entirely here? I think if we were each to ask ourselves that question, honestly, it would do a great deal to bring it closer. We ask for freedom, for love, for peace, and yet we are God's hands in the world now. We have to give these things if we truly wish for Thy Kingdom Come.

At the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow
Every tongue confess him
King of Glory now
Jesus is Lord, King of Glory now.

O Adonai

O Giver of the Law on Sinai, the Leader of your chosen people Israel, appearing in the burning bush revealed to Moses face to face, O come, stretch out your mighty arms to set us free.

Adonai? It's a Jewish term. It's a place holder for the name of God, sometimes referred to as the Tetragrammaton YHVH. Jews do not say aloud the name of God. So they refer to him as Lord. Adonai.

The fact that medieval monks take this name and make it part of the "Come Lord Jesus" prayer of the O Antiphons links us to our Jewish heritage but also makes it so clearly stated that we believe that Christ is the son of God, God from God, Light from Light, True God from True God. Wisdom, Flower of Jesse, Key of David, King of Nations--all lovely titles, but this one, Adonai, is the one that names Jesus as God.

In my Catechesis of the Good Shepherd training, our teacher quoted a Jesuit scholar regarding this divinity of Christ. God poured out love into the person of Jesus in the same measure that Jesus then poured out his life on the cross. Christians who share the Creed may debate many many things--the Eucharist, the role of women, laity, the priesthood--but we all stand firm on this one point. Jesus and God the Creator share the same divinity.

We say it all the time. But consider it. He preached to thousands who didn't know exactly what they were searching for, but they were searching. He spoke with authority in the Temple. Creation obeyed him, he healed the wounded and sick and troubled. Even as an infant he drew to him pilgrims from far away and simple shepherds from fields nearby. The wicked were troubled, the sinners repented. God is irresistible.

In this antiphon, we pray to the law-giver of Sinai. Wisdom first, then the law. But his yoke is easy to bear. In Christ there is the fulfillment of law. He is Adonai.

O Sapientia

O Wisdom, O holy Word of God's mouth, you govern all creation with your strong yet tender care. Come, and teach us all the ways that lead to life.

When Mike and I were engaged, we decided not to do the traditional pre-cana classes the Catholic Church has you do before you get married. We did it in one shot--an Engaged Encounter weekend. While most of it was old hat for us, since we'd been friends for years by that point and this was just a natural progression into marriage, there was at the end a couple's prayer. We were to ask the Holy Spirit for what we thought we needed most in the years to come together.

Mike and I asked for wisdom.

Tonight begins the great O Antiphons, ending on Christmas Eve. Each evening has an antiphon that is one of Christ's titles from the old testament. Tonight is Wisdom, the Word of God. The antiphons are arranged precisely, culminating with O Emmanuel. Monks have been praying these since the middle ages. And now here I am praying them as well.

Wisdom. Mike and I have needed wisdom, surely. I have continued my prayer for wisdom throughout our married life together, and 8 years ago this culminated in the birth of our first daughter, Sophia. Every time I say her name, whether as a good night kiss or in exasperation as she interrupts for the 95th time in a half hour, I pray again for wisdom.

O Sophia, Wisdom, we long for your prudent ways. Dwell in our hearts and guide us on the happy path to you. Let our hands do your work and our minds be governed by your words. Amen.

Wednesday of the Third Week of Advent

At that time, John summoned two of his disciples and sent them to the Lord to ask, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?”

It's hard to take the plunge and believe.

One of my daughters' (and my) favorite movies is My Neighbor Totoro, by Hayao Miyazaki. It tells the story of two sisters who encounter magical creatures in the woods behind the house they've just moved into. The younger daughter Mei, about 4 or 5, is the first one to encounter the giant fuzzy creature of the forest, the Totoro. She accepts it like all children accept everything, with sheer amazing faith. When Jesus spoke of having faith like a child, this is what he meant. Of course there's a magical cat/bear/spirit living in the camphor tree behind our house. Why wouldn't there be?

Her sister Satsuki is around 8 and you can see the doubt mixed with desire on her face, even though it's an animated film. Growing up, she goes to school, she's busy with friends; but playing in the woods with her sister, she wants to meet Totoro, too. It's obvious she only half-believes, but the tension between believing like a child and letting go of childish things is powerful. When the girls wake one night to find Totoro in the yard, Mei immediately jumps onto him, knowing he's about to take off into the sky (on a dreidel top looking object somehow, but maybe it makes more sense in Japan...). Satsuki stands there in her pajamas. Unsure. There's a moment of hesitation and then she jumps on board. Takes the plunge and believes in this creature, in the adventure that's coming--trusts it won't be bad.

Not that John the Baptist is an 8 year old Japanese girl with a magical spirit in the backyard, but I can see him ruminating. Could it be? Is it so? Was I right? Why do I doubt? Let's find out. Let's just ask him. But Christ doesn't answer directly. He points out what he's done. What have you seen and heard? Take the plunge and believe.

I have gone through waxing and waning moments of faith, but around the time I was pregnant with Sophia I nearly lost it entirely. Faith is gift, of course, but it is one that must be tended to survive. I think my crisis was like Satsuki's. I was growing up. The world was different. I didn't know how to make it all work in my head and in my heart. I found my way eventually after a long road, but there was a tipping point when I knew I just had to jump on board and sort out the details later.

Checking it Twice

I'm tired of Christmas music now. At the beginning of November it seemed like such a nice cozy idea. Over Thanksgiving break when the Christmas shopping season begins, it seemed appropriate. But now, ten days out from Christmas, I'm done with that.

What I'm not done with is everything else. Just like always. I've finished the shopping, but when you live in my house, shopping is only part of Christmas. There's sewing and knitting still to do. The gingerbread house that somehow became a tradition while I wasn't looking? It's baked but unassembled and will need some major help from a tuckpointer I can tell. The gifts I don't have to make are unwrapped, stashed on my dresser, in my closet, under piles of fabric on the sewing table. My girls are still too young to go a'hunting for what they're receiving for Christmas, but I need to get my act together.

I've been going to sleep the past few nights going over my list. Making sure I have indeed covered everyone, and then the other things: baking, housecleaning (I'm Irish enough in my ancestry to want to do a whitewashing at Christmas time), Christmas cards, secret santas....not the most relaxing way to fall asleep, frankly.

This is the point in Advent when I have to stop. I have to breathe a bit into the stretch, as they say in yoga. It's a lot to do, but I know I enjoy 80% of it. The rest? Well, each year I'm realizing that if I don't do it, it doesn't get missed enough to be lamented. I cut my list down this year for lots of reasons. Several folks said "I'm so glad you said this because it's so stressful to have so much to do."

Which made me wonder if I could have mentioned something two or three years ago and gotten out of that task before. Nobody wants to be the person to break a tradition, but if it is obvious that it isn't enjoyable or appreciated, what's wrong with broaching the subject? If nobody cares about Christmas cards, why send them? Or why send them to 40 people when you can send three long notes to the homebound relatives on your list and make their day? Why exchange gifts with adults you hardly know--we were exchanging with Mike's cousins at one point--when instead you could gather for a meal together, or just admit that families drift apart with time and distance and stop spreading your resources thin? If a gingerbread house from scratch is more hassle than it's worth, buy a kit instead (that's the first lesson I've learned this year).

A few years back I stopped giving gifts as punishment (I know. I did it, though)--giving waldorf/montessori style toys to families who must hold stock in Duracell, how many battery powered toys they own. Making Mike's cousin's husband a cable-knit scarf, as gorgeous as it was, that I knew he wouldn't appreciate like he would have the $35 Borders gift card I was ordered to give him. It was my private rebellion, but you know what? That's not what Christmas is about. And I let that go. This year I'm letting other things go, too.

But I pick up new things. I'm not losing all my traditions and obligations just to turn Advent and Christmas into ordinary days. My parish's advent concert. Cutting our own tree (which is one I'm keeping as opposed to being new). Trying a new cookie recipe. Reading Christmas stories at bedtime. My brother-in-law and his girlfriend have started watching all the Christmas episodes from the shows they love. I like that idea. I'm going to try my hand at an amaretto slush this year, a suggestion from my pastor who likes the bourbon version I make but his family goes with amaretto. That way my sister Colleen can join in without breaking out into hives. Sophia is learning carols on the piano and I'm attempting to learn one on guitar. Just to share with each other, not to tour.

And someday when my kids are grown one of them might turn to me and say "Mom, do we have to sing this year before we open presents?" or "let's make sushi for Christmas Eve dinner this time." And it will be hard to go along with it. But as I said in an advent planning meeting at church, that's the nice thing about the circle of a year, or the idea of a liturgical year at all. If something doesn't feel right this year, we can always go back to how we did it before. We have a lifetime to yearn for perfection. God revels in weakness that tries. I continue to try.

The Space Between

This weekend I traveled to Camp Cedarledge with my Girl Scout troop for their first camping experience. We stayed in a heated lodge with bunkbeds--more like a weekend-long slumber party than a campout. We had a stove, for goodness' sake.

I wanted to light one fire at least, though. We'd been practicing fire-building for a long time, little games and even edible fires (pretzel logs are fuel, coconut is tinder, and so forth). A few girls came outside with me to the fire pit and we went over the basics of an A-frame starter fire. Everything was so wet and some of it was even frozen, that it took two starter fires to get anything really started. We had a quick flame up and it died away. I fanned the few red embers as they lay on a sliver of wax paper we were using as a firestarter. They caught again and I had a few girls hurry to find more tinder.

And out it went. We just couldn't get the kindling to catch, and the larger pieces looked hopeless. Hours literally went by as I continued the attempts--and this is NOT the first fire I've lit, trust me. I'm pretty quick with a handful of pine needles, tiny twigs, moss, and woomph! the twigs are caught and hurry with the bigger pieces. I knelt, and later sat because my knees were tired, wondering if I'd lost my touch, right when I least needed that to happen. Still, it took me a total of only two matches in the end because my co-leader appeared at the door somewhat annoyed and ordered all the girls to go foraging on the ground for all the tiny sticks they could find. She's good like that. Suddenly I had more kindling than I knew what to do with. We fed that fire and got some good embers going and finally felt like we could add real fuel. My co-leader stepped outside to tend it while I wolfed down the chili the girls had made inside on the stove....

I sent her back in with everyone else while I went out to see if anything needed to happen with the fire outside. She gave me a doubtful look as we passed in the doorway, and immediately I knew why: it had started drizzling. It was December and we'd already had two girls go home sick and there was no way we were going to sit out by a campfire and force these girls to be happy singers and skit-makers. There would be no first-fire ceremony this trip. We might get the brown bears toasted (biscuits on a stick that are then dipped in butter and cinnamon sugar) a few girls at a time, but it was time to cut our losses and face reality.

I sat down on one of the logs at the edge of the fire circle listening to the rain hiss as it hit the flame. I could also hear the girls inside excitedly cleaning up dinner and getting the biscuit dough out. Butter melting on the stove. The moms in attendance laughing with each other in the glow of the kitchen.

I stared at the fire. I let my eyes sort of go soft, noticing the darkness of the logs with the fire in the spaces between. Fire needs air and fuel and spark. Logs catch fire but they aren't the fire. The fire is between the logs. I found myself smiling, feeling the drops of rain dribble off the brim of my hat onto my jeans, soaking in. In the kitchen behind me was fire, too. All these people--my troop is made up of girls from 5 schools and the adults in attendance had little in common on the surface as well--were working together and laughing and spending time in each others' company. We were all burning together towards a common goal. We were creating a community where just a few days ago there was only fuel and air. Now there was spark. And fire.

Our fire might have been a failure this weekend, but our weekend was on fire.

Gaudete Sunday

Rejoice!

Today, and this entire week, we light a pink candle on our advent wreaths. Two weeks of purple, turning inward and preparing, and now we are told to rejoice.

We aren't invited to rejoice. It isn't suggested that we rejoice. It's not optional. We are to rejoice. It is our obligation as Christians (and as Jews, since the exhortation comes from Zephaniah) to be glad and exult with all our hearts.

I think back on the year I've had, that my family and even many of my friends have had, and I think, "Rejoice? How to rejoice? Dare I be happy in the midst of this? I don't want to tempt fate any more than I already have!"

I think about my daughter Maeve's seizure in January and a springtime filled with trips to EEG and MRI labs. I don't feel like rejoicing. But I can REJOICE because she has never had another and it was probably febrile and therefore a benign seizure of childhood.

I look back at the funerals I've attended and the ones I couldn't make it to--Mike's uncle dying suddenly before his weekday mass; a friend's mother after a long battle with cancer; two suicides. Even our trusty loving rottweiler Dara. I cannot, on this side of death, find reason to rejoice here. I'm just not strong enough. But I can REJOICE because this year also saw Leo's birth and baptism and so many other moments of life. Mike's brother Steve married Mary. His other brother got engaged to Kaylen. Sophia celebrated her first communion. My grandmother was very sick but did not die this summer. My aunt Sarah, as she insists on the phone, isn't in any pain as her health rapidly declines. My brother graduates from college next weekend after a 13 year attempt.

I think about how tight money has been. We had to replace our HVAC system. We had many many car repairs and face replacing the van sooner than we might have planned. Tuition went up at Maeve's preschool. But I can REJOICE because Mike has a decent steady job as a consultant, which is one of those jobs that isn't always decent or steady. And I can REJOICE because money was always there when we needed it, sometimes from surprising sources.

I am reminded of the disappointment of my parish's school sale. It was supposed to sell to a charter school that backed out after many long delays. It is easy to despair on this one because it isn't in my house sitting across the table from me at dinner. It's easy to decide to just divorce myself from it because there is very little I can do about it in this economy, in this style of church leadership (I don't mean my pastor, but my hierarchical church structure), in this city of big empty buildings. Can I rejoice? Where can I find the source of praise? What purpose is there in my parish falling deep into debt, a building crumbling right next to our beautiful church? Sometimes I can find an easy reason to be thankful, to praise God, to be happy and joyful. And sometimes I can't. Yet. Perhaps in time it will be clear to me and then I can REJOICE because sticking around to see something through, especially something difficult and long, is a bittersweet but satisfying experience. So perhaps I can step out of time and REJOICE in advance knowing one day it will be clear.

It's been "one of those years" and I know there will be others like it in the future. But all will be well, as Julian of Norwich is famous for saying. All manner of things will be well. REJOICE and be glad.

Mary Set Out In Haste

In my mind, I see Mary standing in a room in her father's house. The angel has just departed. The angel will never return. She is there, alone, but now not alone. She believes, she hopes, but she might also fear. I know it doesn't say that, but the next words say she set out in haste. I've always seen her as somehow fleeing across the hill country alone to her cousin's house.

But how could that be? How could a young Jewish woman head anywhere alone? These questions never struck me until I sat in the monastery chapel in Clyde, Missouri and stared up at the mosaics above the prayer stalls--and then again in the paintings at Conception Abbey down the road. The life of Mary is depicted identically in both settings and there at one end is the Visitation. Elizabeth greeting Mary at her doorstep (I always envisioned Elizabeth holding a broom as she walked into a foyer of some kind and found Mary waiting, but here as in many depictions she has gone down on one knee). Zechariah, old and mute, standing behind Elizabeth.

And behind Mary? Joseph in a floppy hat with a walking stick, leading a donkey. Of course he went with her. Maybe he didn't stay the whole three months. Maybe (probably) he didn't have a donkey. Maybe he wasn't too thrilled about the whole thing or maybe he was worried about many many things coming all too soon into his life. But it comforts me to think that he went with her. It's hard to do things alone. It's especially hard to do impossible things alone. But with friendship, companionship, with someone to guide you through the rocky hills and down into the valleys, it might just get done.

Never Satisfied

For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they said,
‘He is possessed by a demon.’
The Son of Man came eating and drinking and they said,
‘Look, he is a glutton and a drunkard,
a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’

Don't we do the same? I think about when I taught school and thought of some parents and downright negligent (some were but not many) and how thin the line was between negligent and "helicopter parent." There were few parents I dealt with who were just ok. And they were the ones I thought I'd be like when I was a parent. As it turns out, I'm probably closer to the negligent side of that fine line than I'd like to admit, but not so close as to truly earn that title.

I think about the problems I had with conservative Catholics down in Texas and then how annoyed I was with angry liberals here in St. Louis. I'm more liberal in my Catholicism than the average, but those who fell to either side were "wrong."

I think about people with not as much education as I have ("uneducated" or "unchurched" as the case might be) and those with lots more than I have being dismissed in my mind as not living in the real world or just being plain overbearing. I catch myself mocking those who are sticklers for grammar rules and sighing when others make the mistakes that are my pet peeves. Those who live in the county because they are afraid of the city are weak; those who choose to live further into more dangerous parts of the city are crazy.

I do it all the time. "Not like me" is the worst label I can give another person.

And there goes Jesus again, pointing out this most human of foibles, of sins. And I'm laid bare with my sharp tongue and quick wit (or so I would like to believe--those who are slower are, well, slow, and those who are quicker are just plain mean).

What if we could learn from those with more education and teach those with less? Without resentment or mockery? What if we could accept that most families do the best they can with what they have and until we live a month in their houses....What if we could acknowledge that not every person is cut out to live in our neighborhood, that sometimes people choose the places where they live but oftentimes those places are chosen for them? What if we could see that some folks might have a longer way to tread than we do in some areas but that there are things we cannot see about them and we'd best not say anything at all?

What if we all did what our mothers or first grade teachers or grandfathers told us to do and just said nothing if we didn't have anything nice to say? Better yet, what if we just thought nothing if we didn't have anything nice to think?

Perhaps there would be some room in our heads for God to come and settle in for a long winter's night.

Numbers 24:17

King Balak of Moab is worried about the Israelites on his border. He seeks out a prophet named Balaam to put a curse on the Israelites, but Balaam tells him he can only utter what God puts in his mouth. Still, Balaam is a prophet-for-hire (therefore reviled by the early Christians) and he'll do what he can. They travel together to a high place to view the Israelite encampment. Balaam goes up to a ledge by himself, where he is inspired by God to bless Israel and warn Balak that he cannot curse what God has blessed.

Balaam reports his prophecy, which of course enrages Balak. He asks him to view the Israelite camps from another perch, so perhaps he will have another oracle. The same response: Israel is blessed by God and there's nothing Balak can do about it. Then a third attempt. Balak is furious and tells Balaam he's not going to pay him a thing because he won't curse Israel. Balaam sees that his trip has been fruitless and says to Balak, "now that I am about to go to my own people, let me first warn you what this people will do to your people in the days to come."

And part of this prophecy is: I see him, though not now; I behold him, though not near: A star shall advance from Jacob, and a staff shall rise from Israel.

This may or may not be a messianic prophecy--there is no reference to it in the New Testament, but many Christian scholars count it as one. It is one in the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, which was the first place I'd ever heard it. I don't know what it is about that verse but it sends chills up my spine. Maybe because the Pentateuch is an oral tradition story that wasn't written down for many centuries. Maybe because it is depicted as so hazy, as so far away. Therese, my partner Atrium teacher, sits 4 and 5 year old children down in the deep of December and holds up a board with these words written on it. When we sit there, so many thousands of generations removed from the original story, these words proclaimed by a prophet from another culture staring down at the Israelites, the vague muddiness of the prophecy given not to the Jews but to a king who opposed them--it reminds me of how grounded my own religion is in a deep faith with roots reaching far into the earth, into the distant past I can only barely fathom. There the words stare back at me. Could it be about the messiah? Could it only be referring to David? Could it be a false-positive entirely? But there it is.

So much about Christianity is known fact. Jesus Christ lived, a man, walked the paths from Galilee to Jerusalem, was crucified under Pontius Pilate--you've repeated the words, I'm sure. His apostles preached and wrote and argued and died horribly. The rulers opposing him had defined reigns and genealogies.

But Jesus walked in a time when Balaam's words were already ancient. It is often hard for me to fathom how far away these words were--Balak was king of Moab probably around 1200 BC. Like, near the time when the Phoenicians created the alphabet. Like a long long time ago. And that3200 years later I can sit in a montessori classroom on 39th street and listen to words that foretold the beginning of my religion?

There is much we do not know. And it thrills me.

Wednesday of the Second Week of Advent

They that hope in the LORD will renew their strength,
they will soar as with eagles’ wings;
They will run and not grow weary,
walk and not grow faint.

I use a prayer practice called lectio divina. I use a very simplified version--Sr. Jean Frances, my oblate director, thinks it's gotten fussy over the years and lost the point. It's an easy way to go deep into a brief passage from the bible and live in it for a time. It isn't study, it isn't explanation or historical reference. You don't use anything except the bible, opened to whatever page. And you read until something strikes you and then you dwell there. It lets in a richness that has nothing to do with history or voice or purpose. You read, you think, you pray, and you leave yourself open to what comes after.

As I read today's readings to get ready to write this, I read it through once. Then a second time. I left it behind and went through part of the day Tuesday. Then I came back and really took a look and tripped up on the word eagle.

They that hope in the Lord will renew their strength, they will soar as with eagles' wings. Soar. I know that feeling surrounding hope, smaller hopes, even, the excitement and trepidation and desire. Heart racing and almost impossible not to move or sing or call something out.

As with eagles' wings. I think about my girl scout troop heading up the Mississippi to the Clarksville dam and watching eagles in the wild, bald eagles. And I turned to Mike and said, "when we were kids, bald eagles were in the zoo or at Grant's Farm or on TV. Our kids get to see them here." And I remember my voice breaking as I said it, struck by the power of that, of how we as a society were able to end the use of DDT and help bring these birds back to where they truly belong. How impossible such a task seems, to bring an animal back from the brink of extinction, but with practical work and education and hope, this time it worked.

Seeing them makes your heart soar, makes you think other things are possible. That maybe there is hope for change that is real and it can happen here and with our help. Maybe we aren't as useless as we feel sometimes in a larger society. It makes you want to do something else, just to see. Run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint.

They tilt and catch the wind and dive down to the river. We stand there in our parkas with binoculars that we don't even need. I catch my co-leader's eye and I know she's feeling what I'm feeling and I'm so glad we came to see this.

It's a small thing, but God works in small things.

The Immaculate Conception

For those who are not Catholic or from a tradition that follows a similar liturgical year, today is the feast of Mary's conception, not Jesus'. Jesus' conception we remember in March (nine months before Christmas), and the story of how it came to be is for later this month. Today, though, we celebrate Mary's coming into the world.

Monday, I traveled down to Missouri Candle Company and purchased new candles for the Mary altar in our church. Then I went to Baisch & Skinner to find roses. Finding none, alas, I thought to use lilies. None that I found were soon to open. They were expensive. I was annoyed. Every year, for three years now, we have decorated Mary's altar for Immaculate Conception and kept it up through the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, which is this Saturday. Roses in multicolored vases, candles, and we prop up a mosaic image of Guadalupe against the altar itself. It is always striking and beautiful, all the color where usually there is only white marble. Roses, of course, are symbols of Guadalupe, and I was, as I say, annoyed to not find any. Lilies are symbols associated with Mary and several other saints. But no.

I went to the second building and into the greenery cooler where the carnations were. It felt like an honorable mention in a race that only had two places, but I found carnations in pink and pretty white with pink edges and white with maroon edges that reminded me of traditional Mexican folk dance costumes. It felt right. I brought them back to the parish and set things up. I was in a hurry--Leo hates being at church when I decorate. He knows he's being neglected and makes sure I know as well. When everything was finished, I had him on my hip and we went down to sit in the front pew to see what I thought about it. It was lovely, of course, but the carnations instead of roses, the crying baby instead of how I used to spend my time here--in chilly solitude, away from noise and cares outside--sank in and I felt discouraged.

My friend Ann often passes these kinds of moments off with the words, "it isn't my time of life yet." Usually she's referring to her husband's international business travel while she ferries kids around town. It came to mind for me, too. Two years ago I could spend an hour in church alone and feel refreshed. Now I run in and out, kids are mad, I'm flustered, I don't like it. But it isn't my time of life yet again to enjoy it. It needs to be done and I'm the one to do it. I'm not about to forfeit it and miss out on it later when it is my time again. I'm going to do the work and trudge through and hope for some reward from it later when Leo's in preschool and I have a few spare moments on a Thursday morning.

And as many things do, this made me think of Mary. Her time of life. She cast aside childish things early to say yes to the angel. She handled a baby as best she could, one that I can only assume demanded her attention as much as any other. She had a toddler to protect. She had a child to educate. And then we know how the story goes.

The photo above is at the monastery where I am an oblate. It is in their chapel--the upper walls are filled with mosaics depicting the life of Mary and her son. The one above is obviously Pentecost. Mary is in the center. When I look at this, I am stuck not only by how central she is, but also by the peaceful look on her face. It's her time again.

It will be yours and mine soon enough.

The Desert Shall Bloom

The desert and the parched land will exult;
the steppe will rejoice and bloom.
They will bloom with abundant flowers,
and rejoice with joyful song.

St. Louis is at a confluence of two major rivers. We have so much water available to us, our water department hasn't even bothered to retrofit our old houses with water meters. Just pay a flat rate. My kids swim in a pool in the backyard, I water my garden every day in the summertime, and sometimes driving over the Mississippi I worry about the times when we've had, and will have, too much water here.

This is not like one of the places where I lived growing up—I moved a lot, and my kindergarten year was spent in a place called Palm Desert, which sat just outside the retirement community of Palm Springs, California. Not a desert like the Sahara is a desert. A few things grew there of their own accord, and other things, like date palms, were easily tended. In fact, this is where most of the world's dates are grown. If you decided to spend the money, resources, and time, you could have grass in your front yard.

For that matter, you could have a golf course fit for Bob Hope. Armies of gardeners and caretakers maintained this life in the desert, but we and most of our neighbors had rock courtyards. Mica and white stone, a few jade plants in pots under the trellis that made our front porch. Tamarisk trees, native to the Holy Land, lined the wash behind our house. But it was gritty gray sand that these plants lived in. It was windy—one of the windiest places in the US—it was dry, and it was hot: summers were over 100 degrees every day, and winters stayed in the 70s and 80s.

The desert did not bloom. Streams did not burst forth. There was no coming of spring with daffodils and magnolia blossoms. The whole year I lived there, I saw no precipitation hit the ground. Then one day in December, our neighbor Virginia called to tell my mom to go outside because it was snowing. Now, I was 5. We'd moved there from Wisconsin. I'd been promised snow at Christmas when we were to travel to my grandparents' in St. Louis. But here?

We went outside, puzzled, and looked up. It was cloudy, which was remarkable in and of itself, and if we let our eyes unfocus towards the mountains at the horizon, we could see the snow. Moving our focal point downward, we could see where the snow, falling, turned into rain. And then a line closer to the earth, but still completely out of reach, where the rain evaporated completely. We stood there together, thinking of home.

I think about Isaiah's words in this context. God's salvation will bring new life in a desert—which of course speaks to our hearts more than to our geography. In the person of Christ is this fulfilled—we read of miracles and conversions, amazing works and God present right there in the middle of that desert. And yet, here we are two thousand years later, and all those things promised in the coming of the savior are not brought to fruition. Despite all our efforts, we still have disease and infirmity all around us. We all face death, and no amount of hope and prayer can change that. Through the incarnation and resurrection, we are redeemed, and yet, that hasn't come to complete fulfillment. We are caught between times. Historically, Jesus has come and gone. Yet we say he is here, and that he's coming again. But where? When?

I don't think that's God's plan for us. While we wait for Christ, we aren't to stand idly around hoping that one day it will all work out for us, personally and globally. In the middle of this passage today from Isaiah is a clue: Strengthen the hands that are feeble, make firm the knees that are weak. While the rest of the reading is about what God will do, what we can hope for, this line is about what we are called to do. Right now. God works through creation and through our hands, towards that time when God will be all in all.

In our baptism, we are brought forth in this glory and splendor of God. We can't waste this. We have not only the words of the prophet giving this clue, but the entire life of Christ cries out to us to do these things, in his name, to bring about the Kingdom of God. Yes, we celebrate Christ's birth so long ago, and we await his return, but in the meantime, how do we live? I suppose we can stand on our driveways watching the snow fall and not touch the ground, wishing for the miracle. Or we can recognize that Christ alive in the world is alive through us, and we are called, in no uncertain terms, to be Christlike, to bring hope, to heal, to transform these deserts—in our hearts, our homes, our world—ourselves.

Second Sunday of Advent

In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar,
when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea,
and Herod was tetrarch of Galilee,
and his brother Philip tetrarch of the region
of Ituraea and Trachonitis,
and Lysanias was tetrarch of Abilene,
during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas,
the word of God came to John the son of Zechariah in the desert.

Just in case you weren't sure, Luke makes it very, very clear. Jesus lived, once again, in a particular time and place. I wonder sometimes why Luke bothers. It seems like big trouble to go through to write down such historical specifics when that isn't the most important thing about Christ.

But there is meaning here. Tiberius, in his fifteenth year, was already in exile away from Rome and the de facto head of state, Sejanus, was busy doing what all such folk do: eliminating his competition. Luke mentioning this fifteenth year not only puts the timing at around AD 29, but also to make the subtle inference that the mighty were being cast from their thrones, just as Mary proclaims to Elizabeth in his first chapter in her Magnificat.

More than this possible allusion, though, Luke mentions the other smaller heads of state because they are characters that play key parts later in the gospel story. Luke is writing post-resurrection, of course, looking backward. Pontius Pilate is familiar to any Christian, in our era or when Luke was writing. The Herod listed here is not Herod the Great from the stories of the stargazers coming to find the messiah--this is his son Herod Antipas, who is depicted in history as rather vile as well. This is the Herod who brings about the death of John the Baptist and then also is integral in the events preceding the death of Christ. And of course the high priests Caiaphas and Annas are depicted in the gospels as the ringleaders intent on silencing Jesus and bringing him up on charges. Mentioning these men brings forth strong feelings, I'm sure, for those who already know the ending. It's like being introduced to Senator Palpatine in the prequels of the Star Wars saga and knowing what's coming.

And the last line. The word of God comes to John in the desert. The word of God doesn't come to Tiberius in Capri or Annas at the Temple. John in the desert. John the son of Zechariah, not the prefect or tetarch or governor or mayor of anywhere. While all these men were ruling their mean little kingdoms or abandoning their responsibilities or taking more power than they deserved, the word of God comes to John. In the godforsaken desert.

The more I ruminate on the Gospels the more I start to realize that God isn't anything like what we expect. Happily, of course.

Death at Christmas

My great-aunt Sarah just called. I would tell you her age but it's impolite to ask a lady such information and so it would be wildly inappropriate to proclaim it here in public. My mother (her niece--she's my mother's father's sister) sent her a small live Christmas tree and signed my name and my sisters'. So she called to thank me.

She is my namesake (I go by my middle name); I lived with her during the summers when I was in college. When Mike and I got married, I got dressed and ready in her tidy south St. Louis living room. In our first year of marriage, we often went over there for dinner and a game of scrabble.

I am a member of just an offshoot of her family--she has two children of her own, who have 6 children between them and there are, I think, 15 in the next generation--my children's third cousins. And she means different things to them than she does to me, I am sure. Because she's not my grandmother, she simply became my friend. I read her writing and borrowed her typewriter myself because I liked the feel of writing that way. We went through photos and letters my grandfather sent home from the war. I soaked up family stories, which in my haste to be 21, I have muddled up in my own memory. But I could probably tease them out if I needed to.

She's dying. It's no secret. When I asked her just now how she was doing, her shaky voice told me more than her words. "But I'm not in any pain," she reassured me. She thanked me for the tree.

"It was my mom's idea, and she was nice enough to include us," I admit.

"Well, we can forgive her for that," she said with that same dry humor I remembered. Complete lucidity. She knew my kids' names and asked how third grade was going for Sophia.

"Have a Merry Christmas with your family." I repeated the sentiment. And suddenly I was deeply moved and didn't want to get off the phone but her words were breathless and I knew she needed to hang up. "Goodbye now."

I had one of those moments when I step outside of myself for just a brief flash and become my own narrator. And that was the last time they spoke, came into my mind. I wondered if she'd make it to Christmas this year. I wondered why that mattered. If she crossed over the winter solstice and was granted another spring, would that make death easier?

This time of year, whether it's due to the gathering darkness or to the years of tradition built up around us, we find ourselves dwelling in memory. Christmas, perhaps, being such an easy day to remember--kids, presents, tree, food--we recall them more clearly and in order in a way that we do not recall all our September 27s or May 9s. Even other holidays are more blurred, for me at least. Easter, 4th of July, Thanksgiving. They amalgamate easily. But I remember the Christmases each pretty well.

I remember the first Christmas without my grandmother. I remember the first Christmas with my sister Colleen. I remember thinking Mike's Uncle Leo was just going to walk through that door last Christmas. I'm sure I'll catch myself thinking the same thing of Tom this year. I've never spent a Christmas Day around a tree or at church with Sarah, but somehow I know I'll notice the absence, whether it's three weeks from now or next year. I won't think of it in June or October, but Advent will come around again and there she will be.

Or rather, there she won't be.

Thoughts on Advent and Pregnancy

My daughter Sophia was born in July 2001. That fall, and the following year, my perspective on the world, on my place in it, and my nation and government, were totally in upheaval. I was fearful, worried, anxious about the future. There was no way I was going to bring another child into this world, not until I knew things would be ok for them. There were even moments in a post-partum haze when I regretted giving birth the first time. Christmas was pretty hollow to me that year, and the following.

This feeling of wanting to control the fates of my child, of potential later children, was strong for a long time. And then last Advent, I was caught unprepared. I was sitting under that window, back beyond where the choir sits, that shows Mary arriving at Elizabeth’s house. Mary said yes to the angel. Mary let go and trusted.

Not only was she quite young, still living at home, and she was technically married but not even old enough to move in with Joseph—betrothed is the word, not only all that, but she was visited by an angel who told her this would happen to her. While angels appear with some regularity in the Bible, nobody I know has ever been visited by an angel. I can probably guess that nobody Mary knew had ever been visited by an angel either—well, Elizabeth’s husband Zechariah has, but since the angel struck him mute until John is born, he can’t tell anybody about it yet at this stage. When the shepherds are visited by angels on Christmas night, they are very much afraid. Zechariah is greeted with a “Do not be frightened”—Mary was probably more than “deeply troubled” as Luke puts it, when Gabriel comes to call.

But she said yes. She couldn’t have known what she was in for, the joy, grief, pain, love, that being the mother of Jesus would bring her. Luke is understated there too—Mary treasured all these things and reflected on them in her heart. No mother, I think, knows what she’s in for. Will her child get sick, will she live to see them graduate from high school, will this child be good, be smart, be a burden, will he leave home and live in the desert eating honey and locusts, will this child be happy, will he make her happy, will he die before his time, will he be murdered by the state, will they have to flee to another country in order to save his life? It’s too much to take in, to consider. But she trusts.

There is no perfect moment in which to conceive or give birth. There are no perfect situations, times, circumstances. What is of concern when you get pregnant is nine-moth-old news by the time the baby arrives. It is always a gamble. It is always a leap of faith.

And so I stopped trying to control. Maybe another baby was just what my world needed. And, like some sort of reverse prayer, not asking for something from God, but taking what might come, I was pregnant within a month.

There I was, full of baby, full of doubt and hope and joy, maybe a little grace. Just like this season.

We see Mary pregnant for 4 weeks of Advent. It’s really 10 times that long, and that isn’t an exaggeration—typical pregnancies are 40 weeks, not 4. Mary had a long time to think about what the angel said. Why did I say yes? may have crossed her mind at some point while she couldn’t sleep due to third trimester insomnia or some other strange symptom pregnancy brings on. But more often, at least from my own experience, she had a long time to be completely fascinated by the changes she was going through physically and emotionally.

She had a long time to worry about what Joseph was going to do. Matthew shows a worried and betrayed Joseph, debating about what he should do about his pregnant wife-to-be. According to Jewish law, he had the right to divorce her, and the society had the right to stone her to death. Mary would have known this might happen.

And then she had a long time to thank God for her stand up guy. She wasn’t publicly disgraced and stoned to death, she wasn’t even quietly divorced and sent away to fend for herself, which is what Matthew portrays as Joseph’s first plan. He takes her in. He pledges to raise her child.

Of course, the first thing we see Mary do after the angel leaves her is run away, to her kinswoman Elizabeth’s house. Luke says that she set out, proceeding in haste into the hill country. Was she running to Elizabeth to see if it was so, if Gabriel had really told her the truth? Was she afraid? Excited? Was she looking to prove to herself that she wasn’t crazy? Had she talked to Joseph before she ran off? Did she talk with her family? We don’t know. All we know is that she left in haste. Perhaps in fear.

When she reaches there, as we all know, the baby Elizabeth is carrying leaps for joy in her womb. Elizabeth is filled with the Holy Spirit. And she asks Mary why she has come to visit, why her, why now? Who am I that the mother of my Lord should come to me?

Mary answers with the Magnificat. She began her journey to Elizabeth’s in haste, perhaps in fear, for her life, for her future. But by the time she arrives, and Elizabeth greets her, she knows, she trusts, she seems almost relieved: My being proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit finds joy in God my savior…for he has looked upon his servant in her lowliness; all ages to come shall call me blessed. God who is mighty has done great things for me, holy is his name. Instead of running away to Elizabeth, which may or may not have been her first plan, she arrives there announcing the kingdom of heaven: he has deposed the mighty from their thrones and raised the lowly to high places. The hungry he has given every good thing while the rich he has sent empty away.

We watch during Advent as some things work out for Mary, and some don’t go the way anybody would want. She and Joseph do marry. He trusts God too. She isn’t stoned to death as an adulteress. She has a son, they both survive the birth, which, given the times and circumstances, is no small feat. Shepherds and astrologers come to visit. There’s this star…of course, she walks 65 miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem. She gives birth in a stable, or maybe a shed or cave, some sort of minimal shelter for livestock. Later she has to move to Egypt to keep Herod from killing her toddler. No matter how much she could have prepared, she couldn’t have been very ready for those things, good or bad. But she trusted.

Advent is full of ups and downs as well. Just as there is no perfect birth situation, no easy breezy pregnancy (no matter what your mother or best friend told you), there is no perfect Christmas season or Christmas. There are relatives you don’t want to deal with but know you have the obligation to do so. You spend too much money even though you said you wouldn’t. The divinity doesn’t set up and you know your mother is going to blame it on your lack of moral fiber instead of the humidity in your kitchen. On the other hand, the lights are beautiful this year, your kids come home and spend time with you, people really seem to enjoy your sugar cookies, your mother in law tells you how glad she is you made the trip. There will probably be moments to treasure and reflect on in your heart.

We can be filled with joy or anxiety about this season, but, just like once you’re pregnant, birth is the inevitable result. We can try to orchestrate every moment, every party, every fruitcake baking session, but in the end, it’s not about that. It’s about a young woman, and her uneasy betrothed, who trusted that God would come through on his promise. Keep in mind that they did walk 65 miles and gave birth to a baby alone in a barn to help that promise to fulfillment. God didn’t do it alone.

God doesn’t change our hearts or bring stillness and peace to the world alone either. Human action is required. We must prepare, we must listen, pray, engage our senses in the Advent season if we are to fully participate in its joy. But most of all, we must trust that Jesus is coming, that he seeks us out, he needs us to help bring his promises to fulfillment.

Elizabeth’s words to Mary are well known in the Hail Mary, but one sentence doesn’t get heard as often, and I thought I would close with her words. Blest is she who trusted that the Lord’s words to her would be fulfilled.

The Prophecy of the City

But you, Bethlehem-Ephrathah too small to be among the clans of Judah, From you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel; Whose origin is from of old, from ancient times.

God chose Bethlehem. God chose a small town--a very small town, in fact, small enough to be noted as small in a small nation like Israel.

Not Rome, the capital of the western world at the time. Not even Jerusalem or Athens or Cairo. Not Paris or London or Shanghai or New York. We don't have to go there to find God.

God chose a town, where people live, not some lofty mountain retreat or exclusive private island. Christ doesn't count waterfalls and beaches and canyons as his birthplace. He's from a town. Like most of us, really. Just a town.

There is meaning there, not just random chance. Small communities are important. Big cities are, too, and beautiful vistas and mountaintops as well. But as humans, we need small communities. Big enough, fertile enough, to sustain us, but not so big as to lose our humanity. Yes, I live in a big city, especially compared to Bethlehem at the time of Christ's birth, but within this big city I live in a small neighborhood. I have smaller communities around me that sustain my family and myself. Small is good. Small keeps you honest because everyone knows your story. Small keeps you human because the shopkeeper you berate today sits behind you at church tomorrow.

Monasteries are not small towns, but at one point in history they were the sustaining force in many places. St. Benedict writes that it is the monk that lives in a community that is choosing the right path--wanderers and vagrants don't have what it takes to live a true Christian life, and hermits are only successful after a lifetime of living in community.

God wants us to be together. Connections with those around us, both with close friends and acquaintances and that same face in the check out lane at Schnucks, are key to the human experience. Christ didn't descend from a mountaintop fully grown and ready to convert sinners. He grew up in small towns. Everybody knew who he was. There is a holiness in that (and yes, sometimes a stifling nature to it too). He did go away by himself again and again. But his roots were in a small place.

A small place, but a populated one.

Wednesday of the first week of Advent

On this mountain.
On this holy mountain.
The hand of God will rest on this holy mountain.
The hand of our God will rest on this holy mountain and we will rejoice and be glad.

Like migratory birds, we are drawn home this season even if we've set down deep roots elsewhere. My neighbors go to Oklahoma and Fenton; Mike and I cross two alleys and a street to my parents' house, but then the next day, literally over the river and through the woods to my in-laws'. We go home.

And so it is with pilgrimages. But why go to the holy mountain? Why go to the temple at all? What makes a place special or holy? Does God really bless one place and discard another? I thought the rain fell on the just and the unjust. We refer to places as godforsaken, but are they? What brings God to one place and yet leave another ordinary or even barren?

I think we do. Our desire to be with God, our energy, our work and prayer bring holiness to a place. When we leave and others follow, the work and hope we brought is left there for them. A place holds onto God, onto us, and as time passes, achieves a patina of holiness. A new house doesn't have this feeling--nor does a new church or even a new campground. It is with time and with people that holiness, reverence, and joy come.

The same is true for you and for me.

Tuesday of the first week of Advent

“Blessed are the eyes that see what you see.
For I say to you,
many prophets and kings desired to see what you see,
but did not see it,
and to hear what you hear, but did not hear it.”

We live when we live. We do not choose the time or place of our birth. One of the points we make in Catechesis of the Good Shepherd ("the Atrium") is that God chose a specific time and place to come into the world as the person of Jesus Christ. A specific time. A specific place. There is a globe we have in the Atrium that shows only the water and the land. Often the land has a texture, like sandpaper. No countries are on this globe. But we place a small red dot at the approximation of Bethlehem in Israel. God chose a place, and this place, of all the possible locations on the earth, is the one chosen.

We pass the globe around to the children and let them feel the surface and observe the small red dot. Sometimes they ask how far away it is from where we live. Sometimes they just look at that red dot.

Another lesson in the Atrium often must happen outside the Atrium--two years ago we did this work in the parking lot of the school building. We have a long grosgrain ribbon with several colors. Each bump on the grosgrain is a millennium. It begins in blue and is marked off in huge chunks of time. Millions of years ago...we unroll the ribbon. The story of creation is marked on the ribbon timeline: the earth, the mineral world, and then life begins and advances, but such a short time compared with the long dark cold emptiness before. And then, a tiny bit of ribbon in a new color showing the time of people on the earth. After that, two tiny grosgrain ridges showing the time we have lived on the earth since Christ's birth. The children walk alongside the ribbon, a concrete symbol of the mystery of creation. And then, after the two tiny bits of ribbon showing 2000 years, there is a stretch of white ribbon. The blank page. We don't know how long we will be here, we cannot know the hour nor the day when God will be all, in all, in the parousia (the second coming).

A specific time, a specific place. We were not chosen to be those who walked with Jesus in Palestine. We were chosen to be here. And what am I blessed to see and hear? What will prophets and kings desire to have seen and heard from what I have experienced? Is there anything in my life wondrous, noteworthy, mysterious? Living in the blank page, our response time to the coming of Jesus, all I can think is "there had better be." There had better be something worthy left behind when I am gone. And I had better get to it.

Feast of St. Andrew, First Apostle

He first found his brother Simon, and said to him, "We have found the Messiah"

It is interesting to me that St. Andrew is the first apostle and his feast day is the only one we celebrate during Advent. I'm not sure if that's purposeful or not, but Advent for me has always been a time of signs, coincidences, and quirks like that. In this first weekday of the first week of Advent, here we are celebrating the life of the first person whose head was turned by Christ and stayed on as one of his closest followers.

Will we recognize Christ when he is pointed out to us? Andrew didn't find Jesus hiding under the bed--tag, you're it--John the Baptist made it as clear as he could. We don't have to go searching for Christ because Christ is all around us. Our encounters with each other, every day, every mundane bit of daily life, are encounters with Christ. They are holy moments, when we thank the cashier after standing in endless holiday shopping lines, or when we walk someone out to his car with our umbrella because it's started sleeting while we were in the library. Or we just give him our umbrella because you know what, it's only an umbrella.

About four Advents ago, I was in the car with my daughter Sophia and she asked me why we celebrated Christmas. I explained as simply as I could that we remembered Jesus' birthday on Christmas. She thought about this for a moment with that look on her face that meant more questions were coming. But instead of asking me another, she nodded and said, "well, that's why we get presents at Christmas. It's Jesus' birthday and there's a part of Jesus in each of us."

Like Andrew, my four year old daughter saw Christ and believed. I was, as always, busy with the anxieties of daily life, but this sentence cut through all my Christmas preparations and, like a beacon, showed me exactly what we were doing this for. What is Christmas for? It is for us to be to each other as Christ and to recognize the divinity in all those around us. Behold the Lamb of God.

First Sunday of Advent: The Days Are Coming

The days are coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and Judah. Jer 33:14

The days are coming. What days are coming for me, for you? I look out at December and see a lot of days, busy days, and it's easy to get just as caught up in them as in the idea of the end days. There may not be signs of end times, of retribution and judgment this Advent, but there are days that are coming.

Advent is such a hopeful, short, precious time of the church year. Everyone knows that December slips through the fingers like so much dry snow. Caught up in the throngs of shoppers, breakfasts with Santa, school concerts, craft projects, caroling field trips, marathon baking sessions, and frantic house cleaning or packing, hark how the bells, sweet silver bells, all seem to say, throw cares away suddenly it's December 23rd and you haven't done all those little things, important things, you promised yourself you would do this year. Or maybe you suddenly stand up, head erect, and watch all the chaos around you and think, wait, I don't even have a promise to myself this year. I don't give myself the chance to fail at Advent because I didn't engage in the season at all. Gaily they ring while people sing songs of good cheer, Christmas is here. But Christmas isn't here. Not yet.

It is so easy to just go with this flow, get caught up and forget what we're really preparing for. What is coming is the incarnation. As Christians, I think most of us focus on the resurrection as the earth-moving life-is-never-the-same-again event of our faith. And it is. But what about the incarnation? Christmas isn't trees and On on they send on without end parties and what the heck am I going to wear I didn't do the Christmas picture for the cards and we still don't have an outdoor electric outlet, dear husband, how are we going to do any kind of Christmas lights, anyway? December may sometimes be this, but Christmas is more.

Christmas is God pouring divinity out into the person of Christ. What could be more giving, more amazing, more unbelievable than that? If we truly believe in the divinity of Christ, Christmas should fill us with as much wonder and amazement, confusion, faith, bewilderment, and ceaseless prayer as Easter Sunday does.

The days are coming--we all know it. December is booked solid from Thanksgiving weekend to New Year's Eve. Beware that your hearts do not become drowsy from carousing and drunkenness and the anxieties of daily life, Christ admonishes us in today's Gospel. It's almost like he's been living in my house. Like he's watched me at Christmas parties or arguments with my husband about why we're still doing a gift exchange with second cousins we never see. Watched me snap at my kids because my nerves are at their very limit. Watched me stay up way too late finishing things that really don't matter. It's like Christ has seen this all before.

Oh wait, he has.

The days are coming. Indeed, they are upon us.