Cocooning

I've been in a knitting frenzy this year. When I get home from work late at night, or on a Saturday afternoon, I can be found in my blue overstuffed chair with needles in hand. . . click clacking away. Hats, scarves, and purses have grown from my busy hands like flowers in a well-watered garden.

Whenever Jennifer and Ryker notice me knitting, they hover around me like fairies looking for a dusting of magic. "What are you making, Mommy? Who is that for?" They beg me to make something special for them. Even though I've taught them how to make scarves of their own (which they love to do, pulling out their own projects whenever I pull out mine) they still ask me repeatedly "Mommy, will you make me a scarf, too?"

This season my typical response was, "Someday, honey, I'll make you something special, but right now I'm making gifts for Christmas."


The true joy of giving for me this year was realized in a last minute decision to knit a pair of neckwarmers for Jen and Ryker. Compared to the dozen, complicated, cable-knit purses I worked on this year, the neckwarmers were quick and simple. Simple, but when my kids opened those boxes with the feather-fan-stitched scarf-of-sorts, I know they felt noticed, included, special. The wooly circles will not only keep their necks and faces warm this winter, but they will be wearing a little of the much-sought-after Mommy-magic--my creative love and care.

Giving may be an art, but I think more so receiving. Especially with gifts that somehow transcend material value. It's humbling when a blessing stretches my soul's understanding of God's graciousness.

Several weeks before Christmas, my dear friend Lisa called me from her cell phone. Her voice was like static electricity. "Hi! Can I come over? I'm in the car on my way to your house!" Within minutes she was bouncing through my doorway with a surprise.

Lisa is a friend who has shared the journey of financial struggle. She and her husband own their own business, and with the loss of several income-generating accounts this year, they've been in the red for what seems like a long, life-altering season. She can relate to feelings of fear, and trying to trust God's plan and purpose. At the same time, she's my role model when it comes to generous living.

Now standing in my living room, with her unexpected surprise, Lisa's whole demeanor continued to zap with joy. She chimed, "I received a gift from my bible study group today! It's a Target gift card for $200. I went to Target and asked them to split it in half. I'm giving the other half to you!" As I stood there looking at the colorful card in my hand, my head hanging, she practically sang, "You can use it to buy some gifts for your kids!" I started bawling.

Even as I write this, I can't keep from crying all over again. Days before Lisa's arrival, we had scraped together every last penny to file for bankruptcy. It could have been a season of scarcity for us, for our kids, but God's generosity--shown through Lisa's joyful, open hands--elected that this would be a season of plenty. In the week to follow, other little miracles appeared: $50 here, another $50 there. I kept thinking, "God's mercies are new every morning." For the first time in a long time, compassion and grace were not just understood theologically, but truly felt.

About gift giving, Shea says this:

"Gift giving is another example of a custom that reflects the Light at the center. It is also the custom that many people think reflects the winter darkness.

There is a delightful vignette about a major department store that specializes in outrageous and superexpensive gifts. One year it was "her and her" camels. Another year the brainstorm was gold, frankincense and myrrh. The Wise Men would have been pleased. However, there was a problem. No one at the store was sure what myrrh was or how to get it. So they called a Scripture scholar at the local seminary. He told them, 'Myrrh is a perfume made from the gum of a tree that grows in Arabia. It was used in many ways, most notably in the process of embalming. It was a gift that probably symbolized the death of Christ and by implication the sacrifical character of all Christian living.'

His explanation was not featured in the advertisement, but it pointed to a truth about gift giving that [G.K] Chesterton, as usual, expressed very well:








P.S. What are your stories related to Shea's gift giving/receiving question? I'd love to hear!

My sister sent me this Godtube video today. It's a little boy named Logan sharing his view on the Christmas story. . . . SOOOOOO touching and true!

Check it out! It's titled, Logan: The Sky Angel Cowboy. Make sure you turn down my blog music first. The volume control is on the right panel. Scroll down a bit and you'll find the Sonific icon.

There are four more days until Christmas, and I have one last evening at the dinner theater before I reach the clearing. That blessed open Christmas meadow stumbled upon after a long tangled walk through the thicket.


I think I've been closed off mostly because I'm disappointed and angry with myself. As we proceed with bankruptcy plans, I've been full of self-judgment and fear about the future. Unforgiveness for myself has turned into impatience with others. I'm quick to snap at Rich and the kids. I've wanted to retreat from family and friends, hide out, in an attempt to carve out some solace.

However, yesterday I discovered that my real need was not solace, but confession. Repentence--sharing my angst and angry misteps with a close friend--has helped cleanse, renew, and open my heart. Truth-telling tears have brought me home again, to my center, where God resides.

It seems that during Advent we are not the only ones who wait. In our deepest parts God waits, ready to prune, prepare, and restore. While we are tying packages with ribbon and string, He's wrapping gifts that are LIFE-giving!

Is there anything you need cleared from your path to the manger?

"John was a voice shouting from the barren wilderness, 'Prepare a road for the Lord to travel on! Widen the pathway before him! Level the mountains! Fill up the valleys! Straighten the curves! Smooth out the ruts! And then all mankind shall see the Savior sent from God!'" (Luke 3:4-6)

A favorite blog that I visit had this poem posted today. Being that it is the week before Christmas, when children's spirits are running high and immune systems are running low, the poem for me (based on 1 Corinthians 13) is a perfectly timed whisper of wisdom:

If I decorate my house perfectly with plaid bows,
strands of twinkling lights and shiny balls,
but do not show love to my family,
I'm just another decorator.

If I slave away in the kitchen,
baking dozens of Christmas cookies,
preparing gourmet meals and arranging
a beautifully adorned table at mealtime:
but do not show love to my family,
I'm just another cook.

If I work at a soup kitchen,
carol in the nursing home,
and give all that I have to charity;
but do not show love to my family,
it profits me nothing.

If I trim the spruce with shimmering angels
and crocheted snowflakes,
attend a myriad of holiday parties
and sing in the choir's cantata
but do not focus on Christ,
I have missed the point.

Love stops the cooking to hug the child.
Love sets aside the decorating to kiss the spouse.
Love is kind, though harried and tired.
Love does not envy another's home
that has coordinated Christmas china and table linens.
Love does not yell at the kids to get out of the way,
but is thankful they are there to be in the way.

Love does not give only to those
who are able to give in return;
but rejoices in giving to those who cannot.
Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things,
and endures all things.
Love never fails.

Video games will break,
pearl necklaces will be lost,
golf clubs will rust,
but giving the gift of love will endure.

--Author Unknown

Lord, please help me to be present to my own restlessness. Help me to surrender agendas, engage with others, and choose love!

I never know what I want for Christmas. People often ask what I'd like to find under the tree, and I hedge and haw. Nothing ever rises in my soul as a "must have" gift. But this year, the book Starlight, by John Shea, shines brightly and insistently as a must-read. On the first Sunday of Advent, my pastor shared a bit of Shea's attention-grabbing verse.

How is it that, until now, I've never heard of this soul-brother? He's a storyteller, theologian, poet, author that speaks my language!

The Man Who Was a Lamp is literally 7 book pages long. I wish I could re-type the whole thing for you, but instead I've included the opening of the poem, and a few stanzas from the middle that speak to me:


Legend says,
the cave of Christmas
where the child of light
burns in the darkness
is hidden
in the center of the earth.

Access is not easy.
You cannot just amble to the mantle,
note the craft of the crib child,
and return to the party for more eggnog.
You may see a figurine in this way,
but you will not find the child of light.
The center of the earth is not the surface.
You must journey
and, wayfarer,
you need a guide.

Even the Wise Men had to risk
the treacherous courts of Herod
to consult the map of Scripture.
They knew that a star, no matter how bright,
could not take them all the way.
It is true
that sometimes angels hover in the sky
and sing directions,
but they cannot be counted on
to appear.
Besides, you are not one
to keep watch over a flock by night.

There is another pointer of the way,
a map of a man,
who when you try to read him,
reads you.
Unexpected angels are pussycats
next to this lion,
a roar that once overrrode Judea.
You may not heed
but you will hear
his insistent,
intruding
unsoothing voice.
Some say this thunder is because his father
stumbled mute from the Holy of Holies,
tongue tied by an angel who was peeved
by the old man's stubborn allegiance to biological laws.
The priest was silenced in the temple
because he thought flesh could stop God.
The son of the priest shouted in the wilderness
because he feared God would stop flesh.
His open mouth was an open warning.

His name is John,
a man who was a lamp,
at least that is what Jesus said,
"a burning and shining lamp."

. . . . . . . . .

So do not go fearfully
into John's wilderness,
beaten from civilization by others
or driven by your own self-loathing.
Go simply because it is the abode
of wild beasts and demons
and, given all you are,
you will most certainly feel at home.
Wrestle with the rages of the soul,
talk to the twistedness.
Try no tricks on him.
Parade no pedigree.
Who you know will not help you.
If the children of Abraham and stones
have equal standing in his eyes,
you will not impress him
with anything you pull from your wallet.

Also do not ready your brain for debate.
He is not much for talk.
He has washed his mind with sand.
Injunctions are his game.
If you have two coats or two loaves of bread,
share them.
Do not bully,
do not exploit.
do not falsely accuse.
Do not object that these actions are economically naive,
culturally inappropriate,
insufficiently religious.
Just do them.
Afterwards,
you will be unencumbered,
yet lacking nothing
freer to move, to bend.
The entrance to the cave is low.

As Shea describes it, may we all journey to the
"dungeon of light,"
where we will find John dancing,
"his feet moving to the long-ago memory of womb kicks"
and where we'll find
"darkness pushed back by radiance."

This Christmas may we notice and behold JESUS--the beloved child--with JOHN as our guardian guide.

(To take John's hand this Advent-season, read Matthew 3 and Mark 1. For a little history on John, read Luke 1)

I've been thinking more about grief, and how each one of us in life has sorrows to carry. Grief comes in all different shapes and sizes, and the reality of it sneaks up on us in different ways.

For some it is like a jack-in-the-box--unexpectedly jumping as we wind and wind and wind through the ordinariness of our days. It surprises, and we stuff it back down where we'd rather it stay--latching the lid tight.

For others, grief is like a thief in the night. Stealing in to our private places and robbing us of familiar pleasures and joys.


"He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised and we esteemed him not. Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows. . . "

What a sad image: "Like one from whom men hide their faces." And what a gift: "He took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows." It makes me wonder, perhaps people despised their Savior and turned away because He wore grief like skin.


A Blessing for the New Baby
by Lucy Shaw

Lightly as a falling star, immense, may you
drop into the body of the pure young girl like a seed
into its furrow, entering your narrow home under the shadow
of Gabriel’s feathers. May your flesh shape itself within her,
swelling her with shame and glory. May her belly grow
round as a small planet, a bowl of golden fruit.

When you suck in your first breath, and your loud cries
echo through the cave (Blessing on you, little howler!)
may Mary adorn you with tears and caresses like ribbons,
her face glowing, a moon among stars. At her breasts
may you drink the milk of mortality that transforms you,
even more, into one of your own creatures.

And now, as the night of this world folds you in
its brutal frost (the barnyard smells of sin),
and as Joseph, weary with unwelcome and relief, his hands
bloody from your birth, spreads his thin cloak
around you both, we doubly bless you, Baby,
as you are acquainted, for the first time, with our grief.

Yesterday, snow fell from the sky, blanketing our Minnesota earth in eight inches of beautiful white. I shoveled the driveway (several times) while the kids played with sleds, made lopsided snowangels, and tried to form snowballs out of fluff. Their laughter and play--along with the steadfast flakes that silently laced everything in wedding white--filled me with a rare peace.

It was much needed, because on this second day of Advent, I'm mourning an approaching death. The dear husband of a cherished, life long friend is dying. I keep thinking, He's too young. She's too young. Their kids are too little. I cannot fathom the road that lies ahead--how they can possibly find the gracious words and loving actions to say goodbye.

As I pray for them, and prepare my heart for these two--seemingly polar--opposites, I sense that I am at the precipice of an impossible divide. How do I ready myself for Christ's birth and at the same time, John's death? The two realities seems to whisper, We are closer than you think.

Birth and death are treacherous journeys, both. Neither are "easy." I am led to throw out commercial and sentimentalized images of Christ's birth--welcoming instead his heaven-to-earth crossing as dangerous, grievous, lonely, painful, but ever-hopeful. Looking at the divide in this way nudges me to ask:

Do I enter Advent and wait with the same depth of pondering, wondering, asking, searching, humility and prayer I have given to death, specifically John's?

In this season, and through many more deaths and births, I pray for the wisdom to journey well. I want to walk with companions of Love, Hope, Patience, Peace, Gentleness, Self-Control. May Christ be my All-Knowing guide.

Good Grief
"I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and one that is broken, sad as a woman who is growing old."
Jean Rhys

It’s Monday, another sacred morning with Sophie. Together, we are writing a eulogy for our mutual friend, Beth. She died of a Lupus-related heart attack on Sunday at the age of 44. When Sophie received news of Beth’s fatal accident, she immediately got into her car and came over. Once again, she is on my couch. And I’m in my blue chair. But, I am trembling with anxiety. She is filled with grief.

Struggling to calm my nerves, I blurt, "Anxiety is my signal. I must be avoiding how awful I truly feel about this." Beth was a caring, generous woman from my Friday women’s group. I had cried when I first got the call about losing her, but not since.

"I know it sounds irreverent," starts Sophie with a giggle. "But Beth would have found it hilarious that she died in the church bathroom." My friend, who is a Sandra Bullock look-alike, begins bubbling with a mixture of laughter and tears. She sits Indian-style in the center of my couch, slapping her knee with her right hand and wiping tears with the back of the hand that holds her Cinnamint tea. "Can’t you just hear her making a joke about it? She had such an amazing sense of humor."

I can’t even muster a chuckle. My Mindy Smith C.D. is sending soulful wails around the living room in a way that now feels intrusive. I get up from my chair, cross the room, and turn her off.

"It’ll feel weird going to group on Friday without Beth there. I can’t imagine moving on without her. I wish we didn’t have to continue this stupid study on Grace."

Sophie sets her tea on my kid-battered coffee table, and folds her hands into her lap, reflectively. With such a calm pose, it looks like she’s praying. Then, she tilts her chin at me, nudging my perspective. "I know how you feel. But I think grace is exactly what we need right now."

As usual, Sophie is wise, sensitive, and right as rain. But instead of responding, I hand her a pen and paper so she can record memories of our dear friend for the funeral. Then, I collapse back into my comfy blue chair like a nervous overweight ragdoll, and remind myself, Breathe Cheri. Just breathe.

Paralyzed with Pain

Anxiety often masks tears. It can be a symptom of unprocessed grief. It creeps in when we don’t feel permitted to cry, wail, weep, wallow, suffer or grieve. Or, if we succumb to sadness, it attacks when we place unrealistic parameters on our pain: We sniffle a little, but dare not let grief disrupt our composure, contort our face, or knock us to our knees; We cry, but only in culturally-defined permissable settings, at a funeral, for example, but never in our professional lives or in line at the grocery store. We reflect on our losses, but only for a short season before feeling the need to pull ourselves together and ‘move on.’ Then, anxiety bubbles up like a warning.

Anxiety can signal that we’re too accustomed to strong emotional kicks in the butt: We engage in vigorous mental aerobics to shake unwanted feelings free. We scramble to find diversions. We race away from ourselves on relentless treadmills, wanting to forget how deeply we mourn. But then suddenly, we can’t even do a spiritual sit up. We lose our ability to feel.

Worried that we’ll never again enjoy the taste of anything but tears, we ask ourselves where the upbeat, passionate, determined sides of our personalities have gone. When attitude-muscles have always worked for us, it’s terrifying to feel useless, paralyzed, broken.

And yet, cultural messages crop up everywhere: T.V. commercials chant "Just Do It" while the image of a well-toned woman running down a tree-lined street, glows with sweat and pride at the ability to make life happen according to her own terms; Sermons from the church pulpit suggest–when things go wrong, pray harder, aim higher; Spiritual self-help books offer challenges–focus less on yourself and more on other people’s problems. And so we struggle to pull ourselves together, patch up our pain.

Every last ounce of energy is spent trying to avoid depression. Perhaps, inadvertently, we are walking right into depression's cause.

In so many ways, culture ties heavy stones around our necks, cautioning us to stay in shallow emotional waters lest we drown. But if we never learn to swim, what happens when tides rush in, and we’re swamped with unexpected deep?

Nobody tells us that if we muffle our tears, we risk silencing our souls.

This is Part III in a series about listening to depression. To read the first two posts, check out Tears Talk, Part I and Tears Talk, Part II.