Every December, I retrieve a worn box from the basement containing a creche with clay figures Tava brought from Mexico. As I arrange them, I play my favorite Christmas music—James Taylor at Christmas—and reflect on the story set in a humble manger: the miracle of Mary’s baby, fully human and fully God, and the wide-eyed shepherds who came to worship. In this nativity set, the shepherds are absent, but they have left their little lamb to hold their place. 

The wise men appear with their gifts, though in the Gospel account, they visited Mary and Joseph later at home (see Matthew 2). An ox and a ram rest nearby, and though the scripture doesn’t specify animals, we can easily see them fitting into the manger scene. But then, there are the whimsical figures—a giraffe peering over Joseph’s shoulder and a baby elephant at the infant King’s feet—as if they belonged there. 

At first, it’s easy to dismiss the elephant and giraffe as not part of the historical account. But viewed allegorically, we might see ourselves in those out-of-place creatures—for who of us is worthy to stand before the God of Heaven? We are more out of place in God’s throne room than a giraffe in a manger. Yet because Jesus was born and offered His life as a sacrifice, we are invited into a relationship with an open door to God. 

Scripture describes this access: “...in Jesus Christ our Lord and through faith in Him, we may approach God with freedom and confidence” (Ephesians 3:11-12).

With that access in mind, the question naturally arises: how should we respond to Him? The last stanza of the old Christmas Carol “In the Bleak Midwinter” answers that question simply for me: 

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. 

If I were a wise man, I would know my part. 

What then can I give Him? 

I must give my heart.

My favorite version of that song is by James Taylor. You can hear it here.

At the Top of the Pillar

At the top of our front porch pillar is a colorful nest where five baby phoebes peer down silently as I pass. They stack together like spices in a pantry, and with their insatiable appetites, both parents work in tandem to provide a steady stream of food.

Early in the morning, I hear the male phoebe's song from across the yard. Perched on a bare yucca stem, he scans the ground for a fat bug to feed his nestlings. He swoops down, flying low like a crop duster, and pivots to catch his plump prey. After admiring his kill for a moment, he flies up to deliver a meal to the hungry chicks. Following him, the female wrestles with a butterfly to provide dinner for the voracious nestlings. Not all of their prey submit willingly. 

By this afternoon, three of the nestlings had climbed out of the nest and onto the pillar ledge, creating some breathing room in their stifling quarters. They won't be here much longer. At least then, the butterflies will be able to breathe a little easier.

Dad and the Acacia Tree

Where I grew up in rural Northern California, the four seasons were not sharply defined like they are here in the Ozarks. Most of the trees were evergreens, predominately redwoods, which didn't have noticeable seasonal changes; our seasons were defined more subtly. Summer was squealing with shock as we dipped into the frigid Smith River, and riding Larry Johnson's donkey, Joe. In the evenings, after dinner, we'd play softball with friends from the neighborhood, disbanding reluctantly at dusk when we could scarcely see home plate. 

Fall would begin with a familiar knot in my stomach at the loss of freedom. Then, I'd settle into the routine of math competitions, science projects, and history class with the handsome Mr. Vernon. 

But there was always something magical about spring. Spring was riding my bike to the beach down Moorehead Road, past the fields of cows and the handmade sign, For Sale - Red Wriggler Fish worms. Spring was the hum of bees, the fragrance of wildflowers on the wind, and the feeling that things were all right with the world.

In my world, spring was also defined by the acacia tree. My family lived in the parsonage behind the town's only church. In the front yard of the church was a vast acacia tree. It was a perfect tree for climbing, its massive limbs reaching so low that all but the very youngest of us could manage to scramble up and perch there after church. The limbs were covered with tiny holes, which, at the time, I thought were characteristic of acacia trees. I have since realized they were the work of woodpeckers and may have indicated something about the health of the tree. Whatever its condition, it always managed to put on a grand display in the spring when its tiny blossoms, like miniature yellow tennis balls, covered the tree, garnering the attention of everyone in town. 

My father, besides being the pastor, also acted as a groundskeeper. When he determined the tree was no longer safe, he cut it down without any notice, an act that managed to anger a significant part of the congregation and much of the community. But Dad was never too concerned about public opinion. He may have seemed impulsive at times, but he had probably been thinking about that tree for a long time. Dad didn't want to get into an extensive discussion about it or have a committee formed to study the implications of such an action. And he certainly didn't want to see any children get hurt.

One way or another, people managed to get over the loss, and nobody could stay mad at Dad for long. He was just too fun to be around. His laughter would fill a room like the aroma of mom's Sunday pot roast.

After all these years, I've decided that, besides keeping the church kids safe, my father did us all a favor by cutting down that old acacia tree. He reminded us that nothing here on earth, not even things of exquisite beauty, are permanent. Centuries ago, the prophet Isaiah said it best:

"The grass withers and the flowers fall,

because the breath of the Lord blows on them.

Surely the people are grass.

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

but the word of our God endures forever."

Isaiah 40:7, 8

In a world of falling blossoms, it's good to know that the God whose word endures is the One who loves us deeply, who sent His only Son so we can live.

And this is the testimony:

God has given us eternal life,

and this life is in His Son.

1 John 5:11

First published on March 20, 2011

Thunder

 

After a long, cold winter, the earth has heaved a sigh of relief, It's warm breath moistening the air and spurring new growth. 

In the afternoons, thunderheads have been sprouting against blue skies, promising rain and delivering little, even though showers poured down all around us. But this morning, a storm kicked off with Goliath's bowling ball bouncing on the roof, followed by raging wind and rain. 

I love Midwest thunderstorms; they always sound like they mean business. Growing up in the Northwest, most of the thunder I remember was distant and didn't send dogs slinking under the bed. 

I was in my twenties when I moved from Oregon to Kansas City. Dad had recounted with fondness the storms of his youth in Illinois. I waited through a bitter winter before experiencing my first Midwest spring storm. Thunder jolted me awake in the middle of the night, and deciding to get all I could out of the show, I padded into the tiny apartment kitchen and popped some popcorn. 

Back in the bedroom, I sat on the floor near the sliding glass doors, my neck craned, and watched in wonder as lightning split the sky, and the heavens roared. It was spectacular, everything I had hoped for.

I will never cease to marvel at thunder and lightning or the reminder that the One who made the storm is the One who loves us more than we can comprehend.

Who can understand how He spreads out the clouds,

how He thunders from His pavilion?

Job 36:19 

For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son... 

John 3:16 

Check out more sky images at the Skywatch site!

First published on June 7, 2014,

Cockleburs

After October's drought, when the ground was dry as cocoa powder without the flavor, and dust clouds followed our every footstep, the rain on our hilltop this week was a welcome relief. Unfortunately, not everyone benefited; storms caused roads and bridges to wash out and damaged fields and fences, but that's a story for someone else to tell. 

By Tuesday, we had accumulated 12 3/4 inches, and envisioning the streams and tiny rivulets down the hill, I couldn't resist the call of the hollow. Gus and I headed down the familiar trail to a slope overlooking the broad valley. Two brooks rushed over the recently dry rocks, then merged to form a swollen stream flowing to the lake. From my vantage point, the enchantment of it all took my breath away. I knew the valley teamed with ticks, stick tights, and cockleburs, and my better judgment told me to turn back, but the beauty before me beckoned me on.

Down the hill, Gus sprinted across the creek as I picked my way over slippery rocks, the water rushing over my water-proof boots and squishing between my toes.

Once across, I called Gus, and my heart sank as I saw his head pop up from the midst of a field of ripe cockleburs. He limped my way, but the damage had already been done. Many of the small, thorny fruits of the plant were attached to his coat, and every step he took toward me attracted more. 

When he reached me, I stooped and extracted a few from between his paws and others I could get quickly; the rest had to wait until we got home. Armed with cuticle scissors, I began the painstaking removal process, which took nearly an hour and a half and gave me plenty of time to regret my decision to venture into the hollow. Despite the discomfort, Gus remained remarkably patient and trusting, and when it was over,  he was free of the thorns and handsome again. 

Gus's tail before

Gus's tail after

Except for his tail, that is. He noticed the chop job the next day, and if you see him, please don't mention it; he's a little chagrined about his new haircut.