Do You Hear What I Hear?

Carefully, tenderly, I unwrapped the glass angel from its protective bubble-wrap. Lifting miniature decoration, ready to place on tree, I noticed the missing arm. Gazing at her misshapen body, her one-armed pose, I wanted to be mad, or blame bubble-wrap or worse, put her back inside box. Unadored. Forgotten. Unshared. My hand stilled, cradling ornament, and I wondered at the brokenness, the hollow grief of past weeks. Of lives forever changed, mourning, weeping hearts. Holding delicate angel, I took in two gold wings, halo and one slender left arm. Can I keep this up, this thank you through tragedy and unexplainable acts of terror? To say yes when head hangs down from news and senseless violence? Holding angel in my palm, a resting place for all wounded and pierced, this is side of hand I humbly turned toward December sky, to the One who has power to comfort, massage the black spots in bleeding hearts. Oh, breath of heaven, pour down on us. Blind us with thy perfect light. Timidly at first, a whispered thank you, a yes breath of praise, braiding cords of hope like string of white lights. Thank you for one-armed angels. Thank you for pastor's and friends and world who cry to heaven for those grieving, bent in anguish, tears rushing like loosened dams. Twenty-six bells ringing, angel's tears surely spilling, two more bells to hear, and I think world is listening. Slipping gold string around Noble Fir branch, I hung glass angel, and inhaled deep breath of promise. The kind of promise that transforms ugly into beautiful, impossible into possible, weak into powerful. Do you hear what I hear?  Said the king to the people everywhere, listen to what I say, pray for peace people everywhere...The babe's weapon was love, and for that I humbly, passionately, adoringly, give thanks.

Children Of The Light

I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life

A blazing gold sunrise stole my breath, curbed anxious thoughts, thoughts about television news, tragedy and sadness. The rising hues draped eastern horizon like a comfortable shawl, easing tension, casting bright light in its glorious wake. It's always the light, the luminescent moments, unpretentious moments that sow seeds of hope, always bringing me back to the beginning, to first love, inseparable love.


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When our twin grandsons were infants, my husband and I entertained them with a ceiling fan. Pressing buttons on remote, we delighted in watching their diminutive eyes widen in surprise, smiles playing on lips as cream-colored round bulb brightened and fan swirled in three separate speeds. All for you! All for you! As months passed, boys learned how to operate remote, to engineer speed of blades and degree of illumination, punching eagerly on green-colored buttons. Looking like texting pros, elfin fingers pressing with ferver, they mastered the art of ceiling fan commando's. And if light extinguished during process, dimpled hands swiftly raised, pointer finger showing the way toward darkened glass. Pleading eyes pinned on adult while speaking unintelligible cries for help, to fix. Joy, unspeakable joy. Now, when they arrive at our home, twin boys zip past grandparent's eager welcome, words like: "uh-oh! han, eeh" tumble from toddler lips. Sound of feet racing like Roadrunner on hardwood floor, straight toward ceiling fan in living room, always toward the light. Simultaneously, they point toward tan blades, unlit dome light, earnestly repeating sacred words: "uh-oh! han, eeh." A rich desire to be spoiling grandparents, we willingly turn on switch, grin at boys instant happy faces, their contentment, all is well. Approaching age of two,  they are mobile, four feet traveling fast, the demand is far greater. Our house contains four ceiling fans.We have not taken them to Home Depot by ourselves. Donning extra sweater, dusty blades swoosh-swoosh, goosebumps raise tall in winter's chill from breeze, a small price to pay. The joy and excitement, high-pitched "whooaahh!" so precious to behold. Bubbles of pure joy float inside of me, translucent, un-poppable joy. All for you! All for you! In the book, The Prodigal Son, Henri Nouwen writes it well: "People who have come to know the joy of God do not deny the darkness, but they choose not to live in it. They claim that the light that shines in the darkness can be trusted more than the darkness. They point each other to flashes of light here and there, and remind each other that they reveal the hidden but real presence of God."

In the eyes of a child I see wonder of it all. Flashes of light, unabashed joy, unblemished appreciation. Can it be that simple? Is that the Christmas message in condensed, child-like version? Angels singing, wise men following bright light. A baby in a manger. I watch for flashes of light, for reminders of first love, hearing silent words children of light understand...All for you! All for you!