The Third Moment of Christmas

Fifteen degrees, and I'm freezing my fingers off as I try to get a shot of the moon. Despite the layers of wool, cotton and leather on my upper body, the chill seeps into me. I'm not sure why the wise men knew to follow the star that they did...but when you know, you know.

I saw it when I left the candlelight service. Seven hundred people holding bits of flaming wick seemed to be the "aha" moment of Christmas Eve, but stepping outside, glancing up into His sky, I was reminded that there is more.

Even without presents, even with the symbolism of candles, He reminds me that there is more to this holiday than what we contrive.

A belt of cloud obscures the moon, but a glow radiates from behind it. Jet trails crisscross the sky, and Mars beams nearby. Vapor...wisp...mist...light...a burgundy hue from particles in the air...

Follow the light. What message does He have for you?

Planeguage

I haven't flown for a few years...and this set of videos makes me smile about that.

Scott Southworth

A WOW story of one who felt compelled...and followed through.

Aha!

Sled Zeppelin, for all to enjoy!

A Diamond's Journey

Thought-provoking, and much like what I saw in Blood Diamond.

The Second Moment of Christmas

His Highness helped deliver Meals on Wheels to local elderly and shut-ins a couple of years ago. He told about one apartment in which the lady called for him to come on in.

"Just set it on the table here," came a voice from the couch. She was facing away from him, but as he approached, he saw bare feet...bare ankles...bare calves...bare knees...

"I didn't wanna see any more!" he confided later. "I just wanted to get out of there!" He dropped the food and ran out the door.

I pictured that scene as I caroled at nursing homes with my out-of-town friends. Most residents had gone to bed by the time we arrived, but one elderly man's door was open just a crack. I saw that he was sitting on his bed, and I prayed he wasn't in the midst of disrobing. That being the case, I wasn't sure if I should smile at him or not.

He didn't do much wiggling or squirming during the first song, so I figured he was safely in a semi-permanent state of dress. I began glancing up from my music and met his eyes with a smile. When the song ended, he opened his door and shook his cane at us--a twinkle in his eye. "Bah humbug!" he cried gruffly, and those who hadn't seen his eyes stepped back a bit.

He then joined us in our serenade until the group marched on down the hallway. And something kept me back.

Ever have those moments in which you know you have to do something, and you'll regret it if you lose the moment? I'm not fond of germs or public displays of affection toward strangers, and nursing homes are rife with such things. I didn't even know what I was going to do as I moved in toward him--but my arm knew it needed to curve itself around his stooped shoulders and back, and his arm slid around me.

I don't know if I whispered "Merry Christmas" or "Thank you," but he reciprocated, and we meant the same thing: Thank you for sharing this love.

The First Moment of Christmas

Two prominent constants in nursing homes seem to be birds and the smell of urine. When the time comes for visits to cease, there is sadness along with a twinge of relief.

I’d gone to my students’ Christmas concert and helped with both the adult and children’s musicals at church. I’d visited my parents’ church for the carol concert accompanied by a stringed quartet. At the Tuesday night Bible study, we’d looked up carols online and sung along with them since musical instruments were scarce that night. Despite the ambiance provided by the glow of a laptop’s monitor, even that didn’t do it for me.

Holidays are getting smaller. My cousins have married and had children, and my aunts and uncle are often with them. After three years in a nursing home, Grandma died a year and a half ago; Grandpa went in ’98. Mom’s side of the family ranges along the entire East Coast, so it’s just Mom, Dad and I. Instead of getting big presents for each other this year, we’ll be going through the World Hope and World Vision catalogues on Christmas morning. We don’t need anything, and we tend to buy what we want on our own. How much better to spend time together and think about the families we’ll be blessing with a goat or a few chickens?

So it’s been a good Christmas season thus far, and will continue to be. It’s just different.

Maybe I was reaching out for something when I joined my out-of-town friends to go caroling at nursing homes last Wednesday. We trouped through the halls with a bunch of high schoolers. Since they weren’t my responsibility, I spent my time being amused by the high schoolers—the boys who wanted to ditch out and play pool when we passed a table in Nursing Home Number One, and the boys who tried to walk through a one-person doorway together in Nursing Home Number Two. There was also the tall, mouthy one whose expressions and attitude kept a grin on my face most of the time. People like that are good to take along on such expeditions; even if you can’t sing, you have a stinking good time.

Most of the party had moved down the hall at Nursing Home One when a man in a wheelchair rolled himself to his door and beckoned us. Those of us at the end of the trail clustered into his room and overheard him say, “Listen, Mother; these people have come to sing to us!”

She lay in bed with attentive eyes as we began our humble version of “Away in a Manger.” I smiled across the room at her and saw my grandma in her stillness.

I love Thee, Lord Jesus,
look down from the sky
And stay by my cradle
till morning is nigh.

I pictured the miniature wooden cradle I’d made for Grandma on her second-to-last Christmas.

Be near me, Lord Jesus
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever
and love me, I pray!
Bless all the dear children
in Thy tender care
And take us to heaven
to Live with Thee there.

Take us to Heaven to live with Thee there… Tears came as I hoped that people had sung to my grandma. Crowded into that small room in winter coats and gloves, it was a holy moment…giving those words to a woman experiencing one of her last Christmases.

My mother is a chronic migraine-sufferer and recently went in for a sleep study. When the diagnosis was sleep apnea, she was assigned a breathing machine. (Not breathing apparently has a multitude of side effects.)

Tonight's her first night with it.

It was almost seven years ago that my friend Eric died. He had some respiratory problems, was put on a breathing machine, and one day soon after his blood pressure went screwy. He passed out and never woke up. He was 27.

So you can see the connection in my mind. Breathing machine = person dies soon.

Kinda having a hard time going to sleep, illogical though it is.

Caution

And now, from the files of "Are You Serious": http://www.mlaw.org/wwl/photos.html

An Evening Out

I am a self-confessed germophobe. Not quite an Adriana Monk, but if someone were to follow me around and offer me wipes, I wouldn't refuse. Even my students are trained. If one sneezes vehemently, they'll look to see if I notice. If I don't catch the offending one quickly enough, the others will chorus, "Antibacterialize!" and point him toward the sanitizer.

Tonight's Bible study had a missions focus. It was down to five guys and me, and we went to a group home to play games with the residents. I didn't have to touch anything the whole way in, and even found a safe-looking chair from which to hang my jacket. Nothing had to touch anything...

I made it about an hour that way. The guys were busy playing Uno with the resident females, and the resident females were glowing from their attention. I wandered a bit and said hi to the two wheelchair-bound young men. They weren't verbal, but their eyes acknowledged that I was speaking, at least. I wished I had more to say; I honestly wish I'd had a puppy to set on Purple's lap--to have some sort of stimulus other than the plain dining room walls.

Pam showed up, and she's big and scary. She towered over me and reminded me of an elderly lady who threatened me in a nursing home about a year ago. Seriously. But she sat down at the table, and when her helper moved away, I slid in to aid in picking which Uno cards to play. And I still didn't have to touch anything.

Attention switched to dual games of Sorry. I was offered a seat, but I've worked at a camp for mentally and physically disabled people. I've changed adult diapers before. Having picked up my germophobia since then, it's really hard to reconcile the two--prior knowledge and microscopic foes. I stood.

And then it happened. The nicest of the workers stopped beside me and asked if I could pick up the stuffed Rudolph on the floor.

Uh.

"No, I'm scared to touch things" didn't seem the right response. I held my breath, reached into the small space between Deb's wheelchair and one of the guys, and plucked up Rudolph by the ear.

"Thanks!" the worker smiled as she headed off with Rudolph.

I, however, was soiled. Then I consoled myself--it was only my left hand that had touched something that had been on the floor that had been traversed by people whose personal cleanliness is not the highest priority in the world. And it was only two fingers, at that. I could isolate them for the remainder of our time...

One of the games of Sorry was really quite competitive--at least, for three of the players. The fourth kept getting booted back to his starting position, and I smiled at the two residents when they were the ones who sent him there. Deb smiled back at me with a grin that was missing all her middle teeth. And then, the next incident occurred: she went to high five me.

One finger, two finger...whole hand? my brain calculated quickly. Oh no! I'd watched her lick her fingers before drawing a card. ARRRRGH!

But what...do you do...?

In my non-athletic way, I highfived her back.

When Deb rolled off to attend to her pre-bedtime duties and one of the guys suggested I fill in for her, I had nothing to lose. I picked up my cards, moved my pieces around the board, and was two slots shy of having them all in safely when Deb returned. She drew the card, it was a "2," and she slid in for the win. The guys cheered for her, as did her housemate, and Deb did a victory dance from her chair. I stood behind her and smiled. The evening was a little victory for me, too.

"Marilyn," in a pink Chicago cap and a yellow bandana, with breasts that quite possibly rested on her lap, had marched her little pieces around the Sorry board in silence. As the guys and I stood to go, Marilyn puttered into and out of the kitchen. Pausing beside me, she whispered with grace and hospitality, "Come again!"

Oh, honeys, thanks for the love!

"God Guided Me and Protected Me"

How cruddy to have to shoot someone in church...but oh, thank God she did!

"There was chaos," Assam said, as parishioners ran away.

"I saw him coming through the doors" and took cover, Assam said. "I came out of cover and identified myself and engaged him and took him down."

"God was with me," Assam said. "I didn't think for a minute to run away."

Assam said she believes God gave her the strength to confront Murray, keeping her calm and focused even though he appeared to be twice her size and was more heavily armed.

Murray was carrying two handguns, an assault rifle and over 1,000 rounds of ammunition, said Sgt. Jeff Johnson of the Colorado Springs Police Department.

"It seemed like it was me, the gunman and God," she said.

Assam worked as a police officer in downtown Minneapolis during the 1990s and is licensed to carry a weapon. She attends one of the morning services and then volunteers as a guard during another service.

Boyd said Assam was the one who suggested the church beef up its security Sunday following the Arvada shooting, which it did. The pastor credited the security plan and the extra security for preventing further bloodshed.

Boyd said Assam's actions saved the lives of 50 to 100 people.

Assam said she was ending three days of fasting on Sunday when fate put her in the path of the gunman.

"I was praying to God that he direct me" in what to do in life, Assam said. "Through the week, God made me strong."

Boyd said Assam's actions saved the lives of 50 to 100 people.

Assam said she was ending three days of fasting on Sunday when fate put her in the path of the gunman.

"I was praying to God that he direct me" in what to do in life, Assam said. "Through the week, God made me strong."

--The Denver Channel.com

Jingle Bells

We've spent the past week accomodating and chaperoning Christmas concert rehearsals; two nights ago was "the big night." Fifty 6th graders were lined up according to height, gender, and section, waiting for their turn to go on stage. A coworker and I were assigned the task of keeping them quiet enough to not disturb the audience, and it was an arduous half hour.

At last, the music teacher returned for the urchins and we hustled them out the door. There in the hallway, shifting awkwardly and big-eyed, was N.

"N, where were you?" his classmates asked. "Why aren't you dressed up?"

Not knowing where he belonged, I urged N into line after the last boy and figured he could merge as necessary.

Why aren't you dressed up...?

N traipsed along in a dingy athletic T-shirt. His slumped shoulders and shuffling feet contrasted immensely with the steps of his shiny-shoed classmates.

But he's here, I thought. You guys don't get it...

Last week, one of my coworkers mentioned more about N's background--the abuse that led him and his younger siblings to a foster family in our area. "He got it pretty bad," my coworker said sadly.

No mom, no dad to come to his concert, to sit awkwardly on bleachers with coats and mittens and restless younger children. No "Good job, Honey!" afterward...no "What are you wearing to your concert?" beforehand.

Just N, a 6th grader on his own, who showed up to do his part--to play his assigned instrument during one of the featured songs...to play the jingle bells.

Bad Apple

Our middle and high school students attended an assembly today by a group that, basically, teaches people to be nice. Mike, the presenter, mentioned the Omaha mall shooter who felt like a loser and took average people with him as he went down. Mike said he didn't condone the shooter's actions, but he saw where the motivation could come from.

At one point in his presentation, Mike told us of a trip he chaperoned. He was near a group of high school boys at the back of a bus on its way to Florida when he heard one, an apparent idiot, say, "When we get there, we should go find some fags to beat up!" Mike wasn't surprised by that sort of thing from that student. What he was surprised, and disappointed, about was the fact that the other teens laughed. Kids who should have known better, been kinder.

Mike got up, went to the boys, and told them, "My brother's gay. He lives in Florida. You want his phone number? You want to go beat him up?" And he returned to his seat.

One by one, the teenagers went to Mike and apologized.

*I don't usually go around quoting Adolph Hitler,* Mike told us, but he had a line that fit the situation: “What luck for the rulers that men do not think.”

Not surprised by the idiot, but disappointed in the others...who didn't stand up for what they really thought. OH it bit into me!

On a daily basis, I interact with someone who can best be described with three words--two adjectives and a noun. "Hypocritical" and "gossipping" are the adjectives, and the noun, I won't say. Today's instance of agitation came after probing questions that were none of her business and shredding those who, ironically, gossip and speak poorly of others. Trying to tactfully explain something the Bad Apple was digging into, I mentioned an immigrant family I've done some interpreting for and translated notes-home for. The Bad Apple asked if the parents were going to learn English, and I pointed out that aside from the three elementary schoolers, the mother has two younger daughters at home.

"Five kids? Are you going to send home a note about birth control?"

The disgust on her face; the hard look in her eyes; sitting in judgment of all.

And all I could say was, "I don't think I know those words," in a flippant tone.

So the next time we meet, I will not fail. I will go up to the six-fingered man and say, "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." --The Princess Bride

So the next time she spouts off, I will not fail. I will turn to the Bad Apple and say, "It's too bad you missed that assembly!"

"I was there," she'll protest.

A pause.

A pointed, "Oh."

And if that doesn't work, I may ask her if she's planning to beat up some fags.

Number One...er...Number Three reason to get married: Wedding Ring Deflects Bullet, Saves Owner's Life.

Number Four reason to stay married: Divorce Is Bad for the Environment.

It's a Good Day to Write a Christmas Letter...

I'm getting my masters in education, with an emphasis on technology. It's a leadership track of some sort. Ironic, considering my last class date is this coming Tuesday...and everything is due that night...and, well, in the next 48 hours, I need to

• find 50 websites to link to my page...and make sure they're related to education.
• create a 10-site scavenger hunt for teachers.
• develop and teach a 10-15 day unit...
• write a six-page report on observations I did during the semester
• write four 2-page reports on professional journal articles.

Crap.

A Taxing Write-Off

M is beautiful and intelligent and thought of me as a close friend before I realized it. I didn't see the connection until I was needed...and maybe it was those situations that brought us down. I don't remember dates accurately enough, but here's the synopsis of the past year and a half:

While her boyfriend (loved by adults and children alike) was out of town, she met another guy.

She broke up with her boyfriend and started dating the other guy.

They broke up a few months later, and he had sex with someone else. This probably isn't as huge for most people, but in my Christian circles, we take premarital abstinence rather seriously. And the "break" was a month or less.

They got back together.

A few months later, she called me in tears. They were on another break. She told me that he had confronted her about something she and I had talked about. How did he know we had talked about it? She had asked him, that, too, and he said I must have told someone else, who told him. Who told him that, I asked? M said he couldn't tell her. Wrong answer. I hadn't told a soul. Then she told me that a few of her new emails had been read before she had gotten to them. Does he know your password? Yes. She also mentioned that he had pushed her down on the couch during an argument. He what? Get out; stay out; move along. He treats you this way during the sucking up stage? What comes when he's no longer trying to impress you?

They got back together. I told her my concerns. She told me she only tells me the bad things about him, because she wants someone to sympathize with her. Honey, there were enough bad things for you to get out. She told me she wasn't perfect; she had antagonized him. Oh, well, then, it's okay for him to be a jerk as long as you were a jerk, too. That makes excellent grounds for a relationship...

We had some technical difficulties at church one Sunday morning, and I mentioned them to M in passing. She said that her boyfriend works with computers for a living; maybe he could help. Sure; I ushered him in and ran off on another assignment. When I returned, he was standing back and watching others fiddle with the equipment. With time to breathe, I asked M for an update since she was observing. She said that the others seemed to be handling things well, so the boyfriend probably wasn't needed. We started catching up on life things, and the boyfriend stalked off. Mid-conversation, I asked if she needed to go. She shrugged apologetically, we said goodbye, and she ran to catch her ride home. I watched them in the hallway; he didn't turn to acknowledge her when she caught up to him.

When she told me she was getting married, she asked me to be in her wedding. She said she knew I'd had reservations; how was I feeling about things? I told her I was still cautious, but supported her as my friend. We went wedding dress shopping with her future sisters-in-law and her mother.

From the moment I first shook hands with the guy, he seemed cold. He's nice looking, but not at all attractive--because of the lack of warmth. There was no appreciation of me as his girlfriend's (at the time) friend; merely someone he had no interest or investment in.

A couple of months ago, my mom came to church with me. I saw M, she saw Mom, and was excited to introduce her to her fiancee. (M had met Mom before she met me.) When I next saw them, Mom was walking down the hallway with M. Later, Mom told me she had told M of her concerns about the relationship.

M called that evening, but I didn't get her message to call back until 10:30. The next day was a holiday; I could do it then.

The next morning, I got another message. "If you feel the way your mom does, then I'll just relieve you of the obligation of having to be in my wedding. I wouldn't want you to have to support me in something you don't believe in."

Huh.

Nothing had changed since the day she asked me to be in her wedding and I voiced my reservations about the guy. My mom probably said similar things to her that Sunday...and somehow, that was too much?

I mentioned the message to Mom, and she said she'd call M. She did, and got voicemail. She asked M to call her, but M never did.

I'm not sure if the ball was back in my court yet. M made a decision about me based on something Mom said, then didn't respond to Mom...so...?

The day before M's wedding, I texted her. "I miss you! I didn't get a chance to respond after your first message, then didn't know what to say after the second one. Still don't. But know that you're missed!" No response.

The wedding went off the next day with, unfortunately, a hitch.

Today was the first day I saw her in church since then. I saw enough of her to recognize that she wasn't looking at me, so I kept my eyes and face blank and kept moving. I still wonder if that was juvenile of me, but when someone says goodbye, your response options are limited.

Goodbye, M. I hope he's not as much of a jerk as you told me he was.