While I love decluttering my own space so much that I have helped multiple friends with decluttering projects, I am a tormented sentimentalist when it comes to getting rid of gifts. I have three copies of Anne of Green Gables because the first copy was a gift and has an inscription from the gift-giver, the second copy matches the rest of the series that I had received as a gift later, and the third is a worn classroom copy that I actually bought. (And, yes, I love reading the inscriptions in used books when I buy them: “To Jane: I thought of you when I read this book. Merry Christmas, Love Aunt Cindy.” What a story behind that book, I think. And then I feel sorry for Aunt Cindy whose gift was found wanting, and I feel sorry for the book that was given away, and then I feel better that I’m giving it a good home.) Those three copies of the same book are the perfect example of my gift sentimentality.
Usually, I wait a little while, allowing the unneeded gift to gather some dust (a tangible justification for my next actions) before taking it to the store to exchange for something usable. This strategy works wonderfully for most gifts that have clear store markings on them. But sometimes, I get those mystery gifts: the ones that I don’t recognize what store they came from and don’t want to be that customer who tries to return goods to the wrong store. Those gifts sit in my re-gifting drawer for an indeterminate amount of time while I gather courage to throw them away or find someone who will truly appreciate them. This week, I took some gifts to a local store to exchange them. On a whim, I grabbed two items from my re-gifting drawer in the hopes that they were from the store I was heading to. One was; the other wasn’t. The saleslady thoroughly searched their digital inventory for the item, but she admitted defeat and gave me the store credit for the rest of the items I had brought. Again, on a whim, I asked the saleslady if the item, a necklace, were something she would wear. At first, she gave me a hesitant look that said, “I don’t want to admit it because I don’t think I should, but I do like this necklace.” Then, she nodded. Relieved, I handed it to her and asked her to take it for me and wished her a merry Christmas. And she was speechless. She came around the counter and gave me a big hug, telling me that she had been especially needed encouragement that day. Now I was speechless. The person who had given that necklace to me had meant it to be an encouragement, and the thought had truly encouraged me. But here, two years later, I had finally given the gift to the person who truly needed it, and seeing Providence at work, even with gift-giving, was added encouragement for both of us.
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Tax season, public scandal, political intrigue, and genocide—that was the first Christmas, a far cry from the “all is calm; all is bright” that carols have enshrined as the Christmas ideal. Somehow, in spite of our familiarity with the Biblical account of the Christmas, we staunchly hold onto this notion of fuzzy animals peacefully nuzzling Mary and Joseph as they try to peer down at a smiling, sleeping baby surrounded by a golden halo of hay. And then, with that emotional picture in mind, we spend all December chasing that mythical peace.
What we forget is that the first Christmas was filled with just as much hectic humanity as our own modern Christmases. No one would claim that April 15th is a time for peace on earth, but Mary and Joseph were living through the frustration of being displaced by bureaucratic red tape. And anyone who has been the center of public gossip (even if it is just the junior high variety of “did you know she likes him?”) would agree that calm and bright does not capture that feeling. But Mary’s situation was certainly scandalous. Although she and Joseph knew her baby was the Messiah, those around her would have thought her pregnancy was disgraceful. And then on top of that, in one of the most heart-wrenching parts of the story, Herod’s men kill all baby boys in Bethlehem and the surrounding area. No, certainly not a peaceful season. Yet, somehow in spite of these truths, each year, I expect the Christmas season to be magically peaceful. As I work Black Friday and watch people grapple with each other over baubles, I am still surprised by their greed. And when I heard of the man in a shop near mine who had a heart attack and had other shoppers step over him to get to displays, I was outraged that at Christmas of all seasons our depravity would rear its ugly head so openly. After a month of Christmas shoppers, I am ready to echo Longfellow’s sentiments, “’There is no peace on earth’ I said ‘for hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men.’” But, while hate is strong and heartache mocks the cry for peace, that is only part of the story. The angel did say unto them, “I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. . . . Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” They were not announcing the peace of December 25th. No, they were praising God for the peace that we will enjoy in eternity because of His son. This day, we remember that we can be at peace with God, an amazing thought. And having that promise, we can have His peace on earth because of the promise of His eternal peace that is yet to come. As the soprano soloist glides through her recitative, in my seat with the chorus, I inwardly fidget in anticipation like a child on Christmas Eve: “And the angel said unto them: ‘Fear not.’” Not only is she one of my favorite soloists, she is building towards my favorite moment in the entire Messiah.
With a rush of adrenaline and euphoria, I rise with the choir as the soprano then announces us: “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying . . .” Being part of the angelic host singing “Glory to God” in Handel’s Messiah is my favorite part of holiday busyness. I do like the finale of “The Hallelujah Chorus” as the audience is invited to sing with us in a milieu of voices unequivocally enjoying the song. But standing in preparation to sing “Glory to God” exceeds “The Hallelujah Chorus” for me. In that explosion of music, I find my “peace on earth” that is so elusive during this time of the year. Even if the rest of the concert flops, that rush—that thrill of emotion—carries my spirits beyond the chaos of the season. A line from “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” captures the moment that the swell of music helps “our souls . . . soar to uncreated light.” Singing Messiah allows my spirit to soar. While usually I like to hide behind others and avoid performing, when a piece resonates deeply, I feel compelled to share it with those I care about. And the music, like food or books, becomes sweeter in sharing it with others. Victor Hugo wrote, “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.” Perhaps that’s why it becomes so important for me to share it with others: my music expresses what I cannot put into words. Even in writing this, I have been fumbling for the right words. When I ask my fellow musicians, “You know that moment when we stand for ‘Glory to God’? What’s the right word to describe it?” they know the feeling I mean, but they, too, cannot name it. In sharing the music with others, I don’t need to search for the words because they have experienced it, too. Music allows us to soar to uncreated light, but in that transcendence, music becomes a tie that bind us together. As my family digs out their cars and driveways from their recent snowstorm, I must content myself with merely looking at a snow sky since my hometown refuses to gather more than a few inches of snow per year. As long as I don’t look at the ground, I can pretend that it’s covered with a blanket of snow; the sky, at least, is looking the part even if it can’t deliver.
As kids, my brother Gabe and I would spend hours sledding down the hill in our backyard. If the snow iced over, we could make it all the way to the front yard. Years later, when we drove by my childhood home, I realized that “the hill” wasn’t even a hill. We actually had been sliding across the lawn rather than down it, relying on our own momentum instead of gravity. But Memory does not exaggerate the amazing blizzards of the early 90s. It snowed and iced, and snowed and iced, until we had stratified snow drifts like the geological layers of rock. Gabe and I could hold onto the church roof to steady ourselves while we walked along the tops of the snow drifts, which startled our mother when she saw boots going by the top of her window. And the sledding that year was like none other: the snow drifts and piles from the snow-ploughs were so high that we didn’t need real hills. Any parking lot would do. Most of my haiku are about snow of winter. And whenever I need to remember what snow feels like, I pull out my snow haiku to reread. Perhaps, you need a reminder, too, so I’ll share them with you. The earth holds its breath As clouds spill stardust, swirling Snow awakens night. Snow muffles all noise save Its squeaking beneath my feet-- It’s too cold to crunch. Afternoon Snow-watching The ground and the trees Are having a snowball fight-- The trees are winning. The streetlamps wore hats Of snow like ice cream curlicues Had melted over them. Winds molded snow up, On, and down until my car Had a snow Mohawk. Trying to write a novel draft in a month seems a rather daunting, but intriguing challenge. But when I first learned about November’s being National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, I was in the midst of grad school, and as much as I enjoy writing, I decided not to participate. My professors would have encouraged my creativity, but I doubt they would have accepted “NaNoWriMo” as a valid reason for granting me an extension on my final projects.
When I was in middle school, I would get home from school, play the guitar until dinner, and then, after dinner, hole up in my room and write until bed. I wrote short stories, poems, creative essays, and many discarded novel drafts. I followed this daily writing routine until college, but the demands of school work and the presence of three roommates paused my creative writing through college. And of course, life after college is busy. I still write occasional short stories, poems, and academic articles, but I gave up on the idea of writing novels. I kept saying that I would have time to write later. This last month was the first chance that I participated in NaNoWriMo. Honestly, I doubted that I would be able to get even close to the 50,000 words that equal a novel for this project. But I decided that it was important for me to try. Swearing off television and most books for the month, I used every free moment to write, to plan, to think, and to write more. Because I have to function like a regular human adult for my jobs, I also mandated no late nights. And I was making great progress, until the night I decided to make my character suffer. She had been particularly annoying that day and needed some lessons about life. I smugly wrote a scene which ended in her sleeping outside, then I went to bed. As I drifted off to sleep, I almost laughed with glee at the idea of making her wake up with a head cold. In the morning, I, not my fictional character, woke up with the head cold and lost almost a week of writing. So imagine my surprise that November 30, at 10:30 p. m., I finished my 50,000th word, and an hour later, I completed a full draft of a novel. The novel I finished last week was a story idea that popped into my head six years ago. Every so often, I would pull the idea out fondly, imagining what it would become when it grew up, and then putting it back away in the back of my mind. Oh, the chagrin in realizing that all this time, Time has not been stopping me from writing. I have. One of my favorite teen speakers, Rand Hummel, says, “You’re as close to God as you want to be.” As a teen, I used to think that if only I had more Time, I could devote more attention and focus to my relationship with God. As an adult I began to understand how true his statement is for relationships. And now, at the end of NaNoWritMo, I realize how true it is for so many things I use Time as an excuse for: I am as much of a writer as I want to be. |
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