A 250-Year Experiment

This Fourth of July will be an important milestone for families in America. It is the 250th year of this Republic and its great experiment in trusting the people of this land to govern themselves.  A genius Constitution sets the interconnected boundaries that establish and protect a series of checks and balances for this brave form of government.

Our founding fathers realized that both authoritarianism and rule by simply a majority of voters’ public opinion were equally dangerous. A system that would protect a great people from both the iron hand of a dictator and the selfishness of individualism was needed, one that kept us all aware of each other and the needs that both make us different yet uniquely the same.

We needed a Republic, a government that would give voice to both the smallest and the greatest, the urban and the rural, the most diverse and the most like-minded.  We needed a form of government that would pull each of us out of the tendency to cocoon in our personal affairs into seeing the needs of others.

Benjamin Franklin, along with others like John Adams and James Madison, believed that personal virtue was necessary if a democracy were to work. There could never be enough laws enacted to make a people do the right thing, unless they were already guided by principle and morality, an accountability to a higher authority than government.

In 1787, Elizabeth Willing Powel asked Franklin what the Constitutional Congress had accomplished. “Well, Doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy?” to which he answered, “A republic, if you can keep it.”

Dr. Benjamin Franklin, Public Ledger Building, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

His wry response remains a challenge to us now in this 250th year anniversary. Can we keep a form of government that depends on accountability to God to do the right thing?  Can we keep risking to interact with good deeds and kindness to those with whom we may not agree? Can we keep investing our time and resources in our own communities? And as Believers, can we not tire of praying for our leaders and being involved with compassion to those near us where we are?

As your family gathers to eat and play and celebrate together this national anniversary, I would suggest two films that would be good to watch with your whole group.  One is a powerful new film available on Prime, YouTube, and other platforms about the relationship between Benjamin Franklin and the English evangelist George Whitefield, A Great Awakening. This film is sure to educate and inspire.

The second family experience is Circuit Rider, a video written by Suzanne Jennings and Woody Wright, available in its full version on GaitherTV+. If you are not yet a member, it can be viewed by signing up for a 7-day trial.

This weekend, while the grills are hot and the games are being played all over the yard, remember to pray together for our country, and sing songs of gratitude for this amazing 250-year experiment we call America.  Light some fireworks in the field—and a few in our hearts!

It's All A Matter of Perspective

Bill is an optimist. He always thinks things are going to get better, or at least resolved. He believes problems are for solving, mountains are for climbing, and impossible isn't a very useful word. I tell him he's like the kid who got a barn full of manure for his birthday and was so excited because he just knew there had to be a pony in there somewhere!

Bill can make an adventure out of a convertible ride in the country and a celebration out of the first white Indiana peach to ripen in the orchard. He's made our children, and now our grandchildren, remember the times they "camped out" under the dining room table spread with a blanket to make a tent more than they remember the trip we took to Paris.

He believes in people and in the treasure of talent he sees buried in them. Even when they disappoint him and sometimes betray him, he always hopes they will learn from their mistakes and believes that God isn't finished with them yet.

Now don't get me wrong. Bill isn't naïve, and he doesn't avoid confrontation. He's an old teacher, and although his patience is much longer than mine, he is not fooled by "shenanigans," as my dad would say. When he feels the time is right, he will bite the bullet and, if he can, use a negative situation as an opportunity to teach, still believing that human resources are the most valuable creation of God and that they should not be wasted.

Many times in our lives we faced circumstances--business reversals, failures, disappointments--that might have made other men give up and quit. But Bill's nature is not to consider an obstacle a dead end. It might take a detour, but there is always a way. At times like these he always quotes an old football expression: "Just stay in the pocket."

Someone once asked Chuck Swindoll for the secret of his and Cynthia's incredible ministry--the number of books he has produced, the powerful media impact of their broadcasts. He said something like this: "Well, our main secret is just to show up for work." Bill loved that. Just keep doing what you know to do, and do it with all the energy you have.

There is a wonderful line from a well-known poem by Kipling, titled "If" that says, "If you can meet with triumph and disaster / and treat those two impostors just the same." We often quote those lines to young people who think they're winning or losing big. We often say, "The truth is, you’re probably not winning as big as you think you are, and when you fail, you're probably not losing as big as you think you are, either." Both great successes and huge failures are impostors in our lives. Real life is the regular days. It is in the ordinary that we must find something magical, like diamonds embedded in black coal.

Scripture is full of soothing and encouraging words; it is also full of instruction. But the verses that get quoted most around our house include these:

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28 NIV)

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39 NIV)

“Fix your thoughts on what is true and good and right. Think about things that are pure and lovely, and dwell on the fine, good things in others. Think about all you can praise God for and be glad about. Keep putting into practice all you learned...and the God of peace will be with you.” (Philippians 4:8-9 TLB)

June 2026 Mute Swans and their flock of cygnets

Genesis 1 tells us that God saw the light and said it was good. God said the land and the sea were good, the plants and flowers and trees with their fruit and flowers and seeds were good. God said spring and summer, fall and winter were good, the sunshine and stars and moon were good. He said the squirrels and birds, geese and wolves, woodchucks and butterflies were good and that it was good they could make babies and reproduce themselves. And then He made people and said they were very good.

God Himself found miraculous delight in things we stumble over every day and never say, "My, how good this is!" Things such as our homes, our children, the peaches and tomatoes, friendships and stars, snapdragons and water, bumblebees and business associates. Bill is right! In all that, if we "stay in the pocket," show up for work, and love God with all our hearts, something good is bound to happen. 

I Just Feel Like Something Good Is About to Happen

            I just feel like something good is about to happen.
I just feel like something good is on its way!
            God has promised that He'd open all of heaven,
And, brother, it could happen any day.
When God's people humble themselves and call on Jesus,
And they look to heaven expecting as they pray,
I just feel like something good is about to happen,
And, brother, this could be that very day!

I have learned in all that happens just to praise Him,
For I know He's working all things for my good;
Ev'ry tear I shed is worth all the investment,
For I know He'Il see me through—He said He would.
He has promised eye nor ear could hardly fathom
All the things He has in store for those who pray.
I just feel like something good is about to happen,
And, brother, this could be that very day!

Yes, I've noticed all the bad news in the paper,
And it seems like things get bleaker ev'ry day;
But for the child of God it makes no diff'rence,
Because it's bound to get better either way.
I have never been more thrilled about tomorrow;
Sunshine's always bursting through the skies of gray.
I just feel like something good is about to happen,
And, brother, this could be that very day!

Lyric: William J. Gaither
Music: William J. Gaither
Copyright ©1974 William J. Gaither All rights reserved.

My Deal with the Devil

Sometimes I can’t sleep, Lord.
At night everything looms large before my mind.
At night the issues of the day organize themselves into an army,
marching like an enemy advancing
to pillage my storehouse of
peace.
Worries and concerns of the day turn into terrors of the night.
Simple shortcomings and human frailties become terminal failures
for which there is no grace or mercy.
I feel as if I am slipping off a precipice
and the sapling I grasp
is coming up by the roots.
I am alone and a stalker lurks in the shadows.

I know, Lord, that You are not
the author of confusion.
You are never the source of fear,
for fear is the opposite of faith;
I recognize the terror of the night
as the imposition of Satan.

So, I’ve made Satan a promise:
If he awakens me in the night,
I will spend every sleepless moment praying.
I will pray for my children;
I will intercede for the lost;
I will lift up my husband
to the Father.
I will plead for the salvation of our neighborhood,
our country, our world.
I will pledge with the psalmist to spend every waking hour
“remembering You on my bed.”
I will “meditate on You in the night watches.”

Since I made this promise I find I win
either way:
If I am awake, I have sweet communion with You, Lord.
Or I doze into peaceful rest. Selah!

Listening to the River

Lord, it is so easy to take things into our own hands,
get ahead of Your timing, mess things up.

How impatient I am!
How arrogant sometimes--
thinking I can bring about justice,
hoping I can precipitate heart change,
believing that I can hasten the coming of Your kingdom
in the souls of other people.

Let me learn from the river, Lord.
Day by day,
year by year,
decade by decade it flows to the sea.

No matter what men do to try to change its course
to accommodate and facilitate their self-serving purposes,
the river persistently, consistently responds
to the magnet of the great waters.
It seeks its own destination from a source deep
in the bedrock of the planet.

For a while men and engineering genius
can reroute the river--
but rise the high floods,
descend the drought years,
the river from its deep source re-carves its path
to the sea, to the arms of the embracing sea.

And in its pure and unquenchable thirst for the sea,
its current carves through any obstacle in its path.
Mountains are dissected; plains are traversed,
valleys are created.

In the natural course of its mission, the river serves.
It carries rich soil to the riverbed farmlands.
It makes a way of transportation across flat stretches of prairie.
It irrigates strips of food-producing and life-sustaining land
in the midst of the desert.

Fish thrive in its cool moving waters.
Birds and wildlife grow fat along its banks.
But all these things are only results,
never for the river's own purpose.
The driving force is just the simple and powerful pull of the sea.

Lord, I want to seek You.
Let the passion of my life be to lose myself in You.
Let the deep desire that springs from the bedrock of my being
be to flow to You.

Keep me unaware of any result
except the deep peace of knowing
that part of my spirit has already reached
its destination and is at rest in You.

May the journey of my life cut its way through any obstacle
for the insatiable hunger to empty myself
into the great sea of Yourself.

You--the Source.
You--the destination.
Whatever else may happen today, let it only and always
be the natural result of a river, flowing to the sea.

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A Text from My Songwriting Friend

The other morning while Bill and I were having our coffee, I got a text from my friend and well-known songwriter Kenna West.  When I finished reading it to Bill, we were both in tears.  We thought what she said was too good to keep to ourselves, so I texted her back to see if she would let me share it with you as a guest blog.  I hope you “get it”.  It is the reason we write songs.

“Hey! Just wanted to say that I thought of you this last week. :) Mary Alice Lovelace, her daughter, and I went to hear Jimmy Webb at the Country Music Hall of Fame. He’s my songwriting hero and I’ve seen him on stage three times in the last ten years or so. He plays the songs of my childhood, yes, but he also tells the stories behind them… “Galveston”, “By the Time I Get To Phoenix”, “Up, Up, and Away”, “Didn’t We”, And my favorite song of all time, “Wichita Lineman”.

Long story, but Wichita Lineman was the song I would cry to when I was 7 years old and my parents were getting a divorce. I have a distinct memory of turning left at a big Orange Crush sign, which was halfway between both sets of grandparents where my sister and I would transition from one parent to the other. Over fifty years later, I still remember the feeling of being that little girl, and how my heart ached when we turned left at that Orange Crush sign. I still remember the sadness in the Glen Campbell song that was on the radio. And I still remember the ache in his words.

To be fair, I had no idea as a kid what he was talking about. In fact, I thought he said “Lyman,” which was a town in South Carolina where you would end up if you turned right at the Orange Crush sign. I truly thought that the guy in the song was from Lyman, and that’s how I sang the song for years. I had no idea. Yet even though I didn’t know the word Glen Campbell was saying, or even what a “lineman” was, I somewhat understood his feeling of “needing” and “wanting.” And it made me sad. And the sadness I felt as a little girl for the man I thought was from Lyman became the emotional space where I could be sad for me.  

That’s the power of a song.  

And as I sat there Friday night and listened to Jimmy Webb sing that song, my favorite song of all time, I didn’t even think about the lineman from Wichita. I sat there and remembered a little girl in the backseat of her grandfather’s car as it turned left at the Orange Crush sign. I remembered her sorrow. I remembered all of that as Jimmy sang. And I cried. I was literally wiping the tears from beneath my chin. It was this crazy mix of sadness and joy. I grieved for a little girl and her broken world, but I was also grateful for a song that became a safe space for me to feel my feelings and to let the tears fall. And I was thankful, as a songwriter, that— because of Wichita Lineman—I understand the power of descending chords upon the heart. And I was grateful that for the last 25 years, God has allowed me to co-create 3 1/2-minute spaces for folks to feel their feelings. Of course, it’s mostly all been Christian music, so what I am trying to say in a song is always framed by faith in Jesus, but my goal is still the same—to give folks a place to feel their feelings. And maybe it’s worship. Maybe it’s lament. Maybe it’s celebration. Maybe it’s conviction. Maybe it’s repentance. It’s always different. But every time, it tethers back to the first song I ever “felt,” which was “Wichita Lineman”.

As I drove home after the concert, I thought to myself, “I bet Gloria would have enjoyed the songs tonight.” And I bet you would have passed me a Kleenex. Which made me smile, so I thought I’d text.

 Hope you are doing well.

 I sure appreciate ya. And we’ve never even met. :)

 Have a great week!
Kenna

Strange Lullabies

My mother sang me strange lullabies. I was born in March after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, so now I understand why the songs about longing for a loved one to come home or a child crying in the night for a family to be reunited were on her mind. Some of her songs were probably popular on the radio in those years when I was an infant or toddler.

The songs I remember had what I call “rockin’ chair rhythms”, so were easily adapted to the times in which this beautiful young mother was rocking her child to sleep. And in the war years, everyone was waiting for someone to come home. Or not.

One of the songs that I can still remember verbatim was a reflection of the era as well as an unforgettable story.  Like many great songs, the meaning between the lines was greater than what was in the lines.  It reflected the importance of telephone switchboards and “party lines” that we now only get to know in movies.

When I researched this song, I found it was written not after World War II, but in 1901, by  Charles K. Harris. The conflict then was the Philippine-American war, which took the lives of 4,200 Americans and an estimated 20,000 Filipino combatants, plus thousands of civilians who died of violence, famine, and diseases.

Charles Harris’s thoughtful lyric seems to have resurfaced whenever mothers waited for their soldier sons to come home. This song my mother sang to me was revived by the war of her generation, and though my father did not serve in World War II, his brother did.  Many more in their circle of family and close friends were wounded or died.

So, as mother rocked me to sleep, these words embedded themselves in my mind. In this story, a young mother has died, evidently leaving a grieving young father and a little girl, who is trying to call her mother on the telephone, routed through the switchboard of operators called “central”.  The song lyric my mother sang went like this:

          “Hello central, give me heaven, for my mother’s there.
She’ll be waiting with the angels on the golden stair;
She’ll be glad it’s me who’s speaking; call her, won’t you, please...
For I surely want to tell her we are lonely here.

          When the girls received the message o’er the telephone,
How their hearts grieved with sadness, and the wires began to moan;
We will answer just to please her—‘Yes, dear heart, I’ll soon be home.’
‘Kiss me, Mama, kiss your darling through the telephone.’”

The song would sometimes make me cry myself to sleep out of compassion for the little girl and her lonely father.

Another war song I remember my mother singing emerged later as a prayer song my sister and I sang as a duet at our state camp meeting.  I was still so short I had to stand on a chair to sing with her. The church knew this song as “Search Me, O God”, but the song mother had sung to us was much different. Evidently, when I was six, it was recorded by Bing Crosby, and in 1948 it was one of the top ten pop songs in the nation.  It was credited to Clement Scott, Maewa Kaihan, and Dorothy Stewart. It was sung to me like this:

           Now is the hour when we must say good-bye,
Soon you’ll be sailing far across the sea;
While you’re away, oh, then remember me;
When you return, you’ll find me waiting here.

Another song mother sang to me was “When My Little Boy Blue Went to Sleep”.   I found an old Jimmy Davis recording of the chorus. Another recording was by the Sons of Song.

           “When my little boy blue closed his eyes and went to sleep,
He prayed ‘...the Lord my soul will keep,
And if I die before I wake, I know the Lord my soul will take;
Now, darling mother, do not weep.
God bless my daddy, too, for he’s been so kind and true,
His soul, dear Lord, I know you’ll keep.”
Then he closed his big blue eyes and sailed to away paradise,
When my little boy blue went to sleep.

            Sometimes he comes back to our house in a dream
He sits on the rug on the floor,
He takes out his playthings, and plays once again,
And we live in our haven once more…
When my little boy blue, closed his eyes and went to sleep....”

She also read me a poem by Eugene Field titled “Little Boy Blue” and all the children’s poems by Robert Lewis Stevenson.

Often mother would tell me what a treasure I was to my daddy and her.  She would say they knew God would protect me, because He had promised them that I would be a glory to His Kingdom. That, she’d say, was why they named me Gloria.

Looking back now, I believe it is important for a child to know that life isn’t perfect. People aren’t always happy, and things sometimes disappoint us and destroy our best plans. But the arms of our Lord will hold us secure and be present in all circumstances. No matter what happens, we are and always will be in good hands.

Seams and Curls

She combed through my wet hair, clean from washing with green Prell shampoo, then parted off narrow vertical portions. One at a time she wrapped the wet sections around her finger, making curls she then secured vertically with bobby pins.

Gloria at age 4

It was Saturday night—bath night—and the pinned-in-place curls were soft enough to sleep on. By morning they would be dry, and mother would remove the pins, gently brush out the curls, forming shiny ringlets for church.

After our breakfast of bacon, eggs, and biscuits, she would pull my freshly ironed dress over my hair. I would find clean white socks with lace around the edges tucked into my black patent leather shoes to put on for church. Most of my dresses had a sewn-in sash that mother would tie in a bow in the back. She hand made all of my dresses, as well as those of my sister and her own.

She was an expert seamstress, a skill she learned from her mother that equipped her to work before I was born at a designer dress shop in Battle Creek, called the Francine Dress Shop, where she was part of the designer sewing team. She also modeled these dresses in style shows and for magazine and newspaper ads for the shop.

My red satin dress

Mother was a stickler for finished seams and sculpting details that made a garment “hang right” as she used to say. And both my mother and her mother loved quality fabrics. One of my favorite dresses when I was around ten years old was made of red satin with a white yoke.  I felt so beautiful when I wore it, and at ten, beautiful is important. I didn’t wear this dress to regular church; it was saved for special occasions.

Most of our life revolved around the church, since daddy was the pastor. Even special occasions were special services like New Year’s Eve watchnight services, area conventions, or performances of the Easter and Christmas plays and programs mother wrote and directed.

From the time I was four years old my parents pastored churches in small towns, churches that were struggling that they nursed into strong, stable congregations. This was a full-time job, and I don’t remember ever hearing the phrase “my day off” from my father’s mouth. Our phone rang at all hours and on every day in the week with calls from someone who was in trouble, in need, or in a hurry. We had weddings in our living room, cook-outs in our back yard, and area youth skating parties at the rink just down the road. Our car was the taxi for kids or older people who didn’t have a ride to church.

Like getting my hair set on Saturday night, watching my mother construct fine garments out of good fabrics, or hanging out in the barn where my dad made beautiful things out of wood, I saw my parents take whatever characters a community provided and love the best out of people, then patiently train and encourage them into a strong commitment to the Father of us all. Some characters were more difficult or complicated than others, but my parents thought everyone had the potential to become more than even they believed they could be.

Some of the toughest old characters there were just the best challenges to my dad. I watched him take on crusty men who wanted nothing to do with the church and persistently and consistently meet them where they were. Some never came to church but came to respect and embrace what the church stood for. Others became some of the strongest believers with the most amazing testimonies to what God can do in a life.

Burlington Church as it looked when we went there

We went to the Burlington church when I was four. I literally grew up with many of the families that became (and are still) a part of that church. One family had children my age. I remember one Sunday when most of the families were snowed in from a serious blizzard and, for good reason, couldn’t make it to church. But daddy shoveled out our driveway and went to the church early to shovel off the steps and porch of the church. He turned up the heat while mother put some pine sprigs and holly on the communion table.

Gloria at 14 with the Sunday School class she taught — Janet Funk is standing in front of Gloria

“Well, at least we’re here and God’s here!” my dad said.  About the time we decided it would be just us, in drove a big farm tractor with George and Eleanor Funk and their three small children, bundled up to their noses in coats and scarves and hanging on for dear life to the tractor seats.  They lived in the country and probably the farthest from the church. But, bless their faithful hearts, they were there to worship, snow and all! 

What an impression that made on this little eight-year-old! I have never forgotten the beauty of the Family of God. On our 61st wedding anniversary, we got this text from the woman who was the four-year-old on that tractor that snowy day in Michigan:

Happy Anniversary, Gloria and Bill!  I just want you to know that I am thanking God for both of you...still impacting people with the gospel all over the world!! And, Gloria, you and your family have impacted my life personally for so many years!  I know God is blessing your family.  Have a special celebration of your years together.

Much love,   
Janet  

The Funk family were just some of the great “regular people” who have been giants along my path.  And whether I’m called on to curl hair, make a dress right, shovel off a walk, or plant roses that won’t bloom until after I’ve moved away, I just hope that all I do today will be done right and for the glory of God.

CONNECTED

There are things that tie the generations together, and I think of those I’m tied to as a chain of paper dolls cut out of newspaper.  Mother used to cut them for me out of the Battle Creek Enquirer and News when she was cutting patterns for sewing.  Both the paper dolls and the patterns amazed me.

The patterns she would cut from the folded edges of the paper, and by some miracle, the cloth she would then cut from the pattern would fit to the next piece and suddenly as she sewed them together, take shape as a dress, blouse or skirt that fit our bodies perfectly and looked as professional as any “store-bought” garment.

The paper dolls she cut, too, from the folded edge--in fact, many folds.  She would cut only half a person as if the doll was hiding behind the paper and only half of her was showing.  But by what seemed to me some miracle, when mother unfolded the layers of paper, there was a chain of dancing girls, all holding hands like the dancers do around the May pole in their celebration of spring!

It seems as I look back over my life that I am also in some great dance, connected hand to hand to the strong women and men that preceded me.  Hand to hand they have passed on to me their treasures of experiences, skills, and wisdom that they mostly learned the hard way.  They modeled integrity, honesty, hard work, and compassion.  Our table is often a testimony to the foods they loved to cook.  My walks through the woods are informed by the names of trees and wildflowers they taught me to recognize or the footprints of animals they taught me to know. They taught me to sew, paint, to love color, and plant flowers. All taught me to endure, persist, hope, and, when necessary, wait.  They taught me to pray. Some of them taught me what not to do and say.        

Every day I feel them holding my hand, and my parents’ hands and my grandparents’ hands.  I hope my daughters and son learned from me a few of the delights and disciplines these generations have handed down to me.  And I hope they have also learned the dance steps of joy that these who came before taught me.          

In his book The Wisdom Pattern, Richard Rohr writes, “We must hold the hands of both ancestors and children—hold them well....The chain of being is even longer and bigger than us church folks imagined—and we best come to the telescope and microscope with our shoes off....”

In this time of division and polarization, it seems someone has torn the chain of connectedness apart.  Even families seem to have lost the ability to recognize the ties that bind, ties that should transcend the rancor of social media and loud discourse and hold to things eternal.         

Maybe it’s time to make some people-chains so that we can recognize once more that we are cut from one sheet of paper; we are connected.  Maybe the sequester of COVID was an unlikely gift that shut us in with the people we most love. At least it was a good time to practice, on a small scale, those qualities that would re-connect us to the larger community Jesus taught us to love: qualities like forgiveness, patience, compassion, self-control, kindness.  Right now it is assignment enough to love those who love us. Then, perhaps, we will have sharpened the tools for daring to love our enemies and see that they are also connected to us.

Fiercely Present

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God.” - Isaiah 41:10a

The Lord is fiercely present, though some have painted Him as a blithe spirit, easily offended and quick to dissipate like some mist in the scorching sun.  He is powerfully and fiercely present.  In times of fear, He is present and fear has no power when we focus on that presence.  In times of doubt, He is present, nudging us to knowing, crowding us to the certainty of Himself.   When we are full of joy and confidence, He is there in the festival, whispering that He, not we ourselves, is the joy pure and essential.  He is there.  He is present.   He is.  His presence fills the whole earth, and He is not fragile.

Law and Love

Judas is busy making a deal with the chief priests and elders he thinks will force Jesus into starting the new kingdom. Judas is thinking he will be a major player when this happens. He is selling access to Jesus for thirty silver pieces. He then shows up for the Passover meal with the rest of the disciples.

During the sacred meal, Jesus says, “One of you will betray me.” Everyone at the table is distressed by this and each begins to ask if he could possibly be that one. Jesus says it is the one who dips the bread in the common bowl with him. Well, that pretty much would have included every one of them. But then Jesus dips a piece of the broken bread and hands it to Judas.

Then, Jesus says a strange thing. He says this betrayal was prophesied and would of necessity be fulfilled, but it would be horrible for the man who did it. Judas then joins the “Is-it-I” chorus and Jesus says to him, “You said it.” Judas then goes “out into the night”, as John later told it, and, indeed, out into the darkness of night Judas goes.

Judas misses the agony of the next few hours in Gethsemane, the cup of sorrows Jesus saw there, and what was in it for Jesus to drink. Jesus’ anguish was so great that his human body was not equipped to bear the realization of what God’s son must do—to become both the victim and the victimizer of all sin from the beginning of time to the end of time—yes, to drink it all.  His very pores hemorrhaged great drops of blood at the immensity of this eternal realization.

“Oh, remove this cup from me,” Jesus pleaded with his Father, but the cup was not removed, and he would have to drink it.

The sleeping disciples were most likely awakened by the approaching sound of the mob that came with Judas and the chief priests and elders to seize Jesus.  Judas identifies him by a prearranged sign—“the one I kiss”. That begins the horrific chain of events that leads to the beatings, the mock crowning of the “King of the Jews” with a crown of thorns, and all sorts of cruel humiliations.

Judas, ever the literalist about the Kingdom Jesus came to build, realizes that the betrayal has gone horribly wrong. He takes his bag of silver back to chief priests and elders, and by confession, tries to relieve himself of the immense burden of guilt.

“I have betrayed innocent blood,” he cries, but their cynical response is, “That’s your problem.”  Judas throws the silver down and runs out and hangs himself.

These same law-keepers who allowed the porch of the temple that was to be reserved for the poor, the strangers, and the visiting pilgrims, to be filled with crooks—these same priests and elders who were so concerned about Jesus “healing on the Sabbath” and legitimizing the story of the lepers being made whole—these same law-keepers had another meeting. This time it is to decide what to do with the 30 pieces of silver Judas has thrown down at their feet. 

“We can’t put this into our treasury,” they say to each other, “because it is blood money, and that would be against our laws.”  They decide to use it to buy a useless piece of land that potters used to discard the chards of shattered pottery. The same hypocrites that cheated the poor and usurped their welcoming porch are now concerned about keeping the law prohibiting blood money from being used in their treasury.  And they decide to use this useless field to “bury the poor”.

But broken pottery eventually weathers back into soil, clay soil for making new pottery. And on a hill not so far away, a Potter on a cross is making provision for shaping shattered vessels into something beautifully brand new.

Stench or Fragrance

According to the book of Matthew, after his “triumphal entry” into Jerusalem, Jesus “cleansed the temple” in a confrontation with the bunch of salespeople who were selling to outsiders animals for the required sacrifice for Passover. The whole rotten system used the spiritual requirement as an excuse to swindle two ways: requiring local currency to buy a sacrificial animal, then overpricing the required animals. Visitors had to first change their money at whatever rate these crooks wanted to charge them, then use that new currency to buy overpriced animals.  This all took place at tables set up in the porch space that was reserved to welcome the strangers.  

Jesus was furious that this crooked system was going on in the name of God, leaving no welcoming space for the strangers and pilgrims.  He went through the whole porch, pitching the tables to the ground, scattering the money being collected, and probably opening the cages holding “holy” doves and other animals.  Is there anything that displeases God more than doing evil in the name of God?  What could have been a service to visitors had been turned into racketeering enterprise, deceiving the innocent and trusting.  This confrontation from the “gentle Jesus” made him lots of liturgical enemies and probably a lot of grateful friends of those too powerless to confront the system themselves.

Two days before Passover, Jesus had told his disciples that he would be delivered up to be crucified. What about this did they not get?

Meanwhile, the chief priests, scribes, and  elders had a committee meeting, at the home of the high priest Caiaphas, to plot how they could trick Jesus and kill him.  But in the meeting they shrewdly decided that the people would riot if they captured Jesus during the days of “holy” feasts. 

During this evil gathering, Jesus was at the house of Simon who had been a leper before Jesus passed by his life.  While at Simon’s place, a woman came in with an alabaster flask of  essence of spikenard oil. She broke the seal and poured the oil on the head of Jesus while he was at the table with Simon’s family and the disciples.

The disciples went crazy at the “waste” of something so expensive and gave her a hard time for not selling it and donating  the proceeds to a cause benefiting the poor.

Okay, let’s just stop there.  Jesus had already told them how precarious the next couple of days were.  How oblivious can we be sometimes?  How many ways can we still miss the point?

Jesus had to spell it out for them, even then. “Quit picking on her,” he said. “She is the one that gets it. She has the intuitive and sensitive heart.  While your greed accuses her, she has anointed me for burial.  It is her tender story that will, in her silence, preach the gospel to the whole world.  She has not only done a holy and sacred thing out of love, but this will also be a forever memorial to her.”

What timing! The very next character in the Jesus story was to be Judas who was absent because he was out making a deal with the chief priests.

The Dance of Life...and Death

IT  WAS GOOD FRIDAY, and Sunday would be Easter.  Death and resurrection danced together, not only in the death and resurrection of our Lord but in spring's final battle with winter. Alphas and omegas, beginnings and endings seemed to whirl and clash in such a blinding confusion it was hard to tell them apart.

There is struggle in both dying and birthing, and although we tend to think something has to be born to die, the truth is, says the Word of the Lord, something has to die to be born. "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit" (John 12:24 NASB).

On Good Friday a year before, our daughter Suzanne was having a very difficult time with a pregnancy that had begun just two weeks before she had undergone what turned out to be major surgery. Not knowing that she had conceived, the doctor had laser-stripped her reproductive organs of a serious case of endometriosis. The hope was that this procedure would give her a chance to conceive. The truth was, a tiny life was developing already.

As the pregnancy progressed and her lasered-raw womb expanded, Suzanne grew weaker and weaker until about all she could do was sit with me on our front porch or make a short trip to the grocery store.  There were times she felt she wouldn't live to mother her child; other times she was able to gain fresh energy from the hope that once the baby came, her body could begin to repair.

Then too she was concerned that her child might have been damaged by the surgery itself or the anesthesia she had been given.

At last, in August, little Will was born. What joy we felt, what relief, to find that he was healthy and that Suzanne had survived this whole process. Maybe that was why Bill and I were such crazy-and thankful-grandparents!

The following spring, as we enjoyed this new life given to our family and as new life sprouted all around us in nature, my mother was in the last stages of cancer. For five weeks my sister and I stayed at the hospital to be with her. "Well, we've never done this before," mother said to me, for she was always an adventurer. This was the last and most risky adventure my sister and I would ever take with her.

On that Friday before Easter, as my sister and I watched our grandbabies play games in the hospital room, our mother began her last journey. It was a difficult trip. Earth does not give up easily, and winter sometimes rages its final grasping storms violently. I remember years when there was snow even on Easter. But winter is doomed, nonetheless. Spring does come.

The blustering wind rattled the hospital windows behind the spring daffodils and hyacinths friends had sent to bring color and fragrance to Mother's room. Along the street outside, the ornamental crab trees ventured their first white and pink blossoms.

I turned from the window to rearrange the pillows to make Mother more comfortable, then leaned down to kiss the velvet cheek that was so familiar to me. Because her kidneys had almost ceased their function, her skin had turned the color of the daffodils on the windowsill. I soaked a washcloth in warm water and steamed her calloused feet, then rubbed them with expensive cream. Touch becomes very important when touch is all you have left to nurture the spirit.

This body is like the casing of a seed, I thought. It won't be long until it will burst with the life that swells inside. My mother had always been hungry to learn, thirsty to drink every drop of truth life could teach her. This body wouldn't hold this sprout much longer. Winter's shell would soon explode with the urgency of life.

"Death is swallowed up in victory" (1 Cor. 15:54 KJV).

Alphas--beginnings. Omegas--endings. In Him, they are both the same. I had watched Will playing with his cousins, so new, so eager to learn all the new things. Mother had celebrated her eighty-fourth birthday, frustrated by the same limitations that frustrated little Will.  So much to embrace, so little time.

I sat down beside my dying mother. Time and earth were shackles to her that Will was only beginning to know. Like a snake's skin, like the casing of a seed, the confines would have to give way to life.

I wrote in my journal:

The process--this alpha-omega dance, this rite of spring--may thrash and rage and threaten; but death, though it will have its ugly moment, will itself die. It's been Friday all day. Tomorrow will be Saturday. But Sunday's coming! There is Easter in our bones!

A few days later I held my mother in my arms as she breathed her last breath. A lyric I had written years before sang to my heart. I had proven it true for myself.

Where, death is your victory?
Where, O grave is your sting?
Come, children, and dance with me!
Sing to our living King!

I knew Mother was dancing too. Alleluia!

Resurrection 
Hang out the banners and shout the news!
Blow the trumpets and horns!
"Til there is no one who has not heard:
"We shall not die anymore!"

I'm here to tell you that Jesus lives;
As He lives, so shall we!
Dying and fear have passed away, Swallowed in victory!

Morning has broken the cords away!
There's no reason to fear.
Why seek the living among the dead?
Jesus, your Lord is not here—He is alive; He's not here!

Where, death, is your victory?
Where, oh grave, is your sting?
Come, children, and dance with me!
Sing to our living King!

Love wins over everything,
Melts the spears and the swords.
Join hands, let your voices ring;
Christ is our risen Lord.

Open the prisons and ring the bells!
Join the ransomed and free
In celebration for what He's done;
Jesus, the Christ sets you free—Jesus, the Christ sets you free! 

Lyric: Gloria Gaither
Music: William J. Gaither and Michael W. Smith
Copyright©1982 Gaither Music Company and New Spring Publishing, Inc. (admin. by BMG Music Publishing, Inc.). All rights reserved.

Promise in the Snow

There was another big snow last week.  Every twig, every fence, every pine branch was heaped high with frosting.  Even the basketball net looked like expensive lace.  The whole landscape was a photograph in black and white.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Well, except there was a tell-tale hint that it might not be a black and white. In the dormant forsythia outside my kitchen window perched an outrageously scarlet cardinal.  (No wonder the cardinal is the Indiana state bird!) My photographer friend, Angela, popped in to say she was headed to the creek to take some pictures.  She sent back another hint that we were not living in a black and white photo.  Two of our white swans were swimming on the silver pond.  Their orange bills gave such a splash of color that they looked like they had been photoshopped in!

Photo by Angela Kellogg

The bones of the maples and oaks, willows and sycamores revealed the amazingly beautiful and strong framework that in summer holds the weight of such luxuriant foliage that it would break a weaker structure.  Winter tells the whole truth.  The cedars and arborvitae that are, in summer, a dark aggressive green have backed into a more submissive, humble brownish-gray so as not to intrude on the stark drama of winter.

It was time to put on boots and earmuffs and make a few tracks of my own. Such a wonderland deserved a closer look.  I found it was too cold for the snow to pack; it was like angel dust, and the slightest gust of wind made the glistening flakes fall again—from the stack piled on every high branch. I passed the northern magnolia and, lo!  The tips of each twig had a swollen, velvety bud.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

The maples that from a distance looked so bare, were not bare after all, but held clusters of last year’s seed—helicopters, we used to call them, because the new ones in spring fall spinning like propellers to pierce the loose soil of my gardens, sowing seed for maple and boxelder sprouts everywhere.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I held the fragile “bare” branches of every tree and shrub as I passed—the lilacs, the forsythia, the pussy willows, the dogwoods.  Each branch ended with a small tight bud. Life!  Just waiting and poised to respond to the first warming day, to open to the wooing of sunbeams.   Even in snow there is the promise of spring.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I get it.  I have discovered that in every dormant season of my soul, in every paused waiting period, there is a subtle moving of something deep in my roots that is pushing its way upward and outward toward a promise.  There is a throbbing in the frozen vessels that insists that in spite of the most colorless day, even in the most chilling discouragement, resurrection will not be denied.  The strong framework of former growth makes me know that the budding that seems tight and frozen now will burst open with new flower and thick leaves. The trunk and branches of proven faith will hold the weight of glory to come!  The roots that have been driven deeper by the frigid days will pump new energy up, up to the very tips of my being.  The sun will shine again.  The earth will green again.  Spring will come, and my heart will sing!

Though the skies be gray above me
And I can't see the light of day;
There's a ray breaking through the shadows
And His smile can't be far away.

Though the earth seems bleak and barren
And the seeds lay brown and dead;
Oh the promise of life throbs within them
And I know spring is just ahead. 

Thank God for the promise of springtime;
Once again my heart will sing.
There's a brand new day a-dawning;
Thank God for the promise of spring.

By William J. and Gloria Gaither
© 1973 Hanna Street Music (BMI) (adm. at CapitolCMGPublishing.com) All rights reserved. Used by permission.

Running Shoes and Slippers

A luxury afforded Bill and me at this juncture of our lives is most days to own the first couple hours of the day.  We can actually put on slippers, wrap up in our warm robes, and leisurely drink our coffee, read the paper and our inspirational books, and discuss everything from new revelations and insights to Pacer basketball editorials and the current headlines.  We then make the bed together and get ready for the day.

The other morning I noticed Bill just standing there by his bathroom closet, dressed and ready, but rocking back and forth on his new walking shoes.  He was smiling.

“What?”  I said, waiting for him deliver a bit more information.

“I love these shoes,” he finally said.

“And...?” I asked.

“Well, I love drinking my coffee with my slippers on, but when I put on these shoes, I shift into another gear.  My brain clicks into excitement for whatever comes today.”

He smiled again, quit rocking on his cushy running shoes, and then left for the office.

That left me to process this weird behavior.  Just maybe, I thought, there is a balance, a lovely rhythm to the intake—output of life.  I am coming to believe that both are so necessary.  Just maybe to start off into the flurry of activity without any intake may not only be unhealthy, but may leave the mind and heart gasping for spiritual and emotional oxygen somewhere in the middle of the day’s demands. To spiritually and relationally stretch and breathe deeply, take in the beauty of gratitude, to inhale the fresh gift of one more day, to just BE before we hasten off to DO, changes our perspective and widens our sensitivities to all good things to come. Maybe it is as necessary as stretch conditioning before a physical workout.

But there also comes a time to use that fresh energy to “run the race”, to kick off our slippers and appreciate the bounce in the running shoes of life. It works both ways.  Too much lounging in slippers and not enough running shoes makes our leg muscles atrophy; the blood never gets pumping to our brains—or the contemplation to our souls.  Yet too much running around in frantic flurry of activity without quiet intake, spending time with the lover of our hearts, absorbing the wisdom from that “still small voice” that speaks peace produces little but stress, exhaustion, and frustration.

I can’t help thinking of the “run the race” metaphor from Saint Paul, who advises us to rid ourselves of encumbrances, things that hinder and entangle, and do some deep breathing and changing of our aspirations, setting our goals on much higher expectations.  Then when we kick off the slippers and tie on our running shoes, Paul inspires us to run with determination and endurance, knowing that there is a stand full of accomplished veteran runners who have “finished the race” cheering us on. The promise is that if we fix our eyes on the “pioneer and perfecter of our faith,” who is empowering us with the fresh air of victory, “we will not grow weary and lose heart”.

Too long in slippers makes for too little running. But too little slipper time makes for purposeless running.  It’s almost never either/or.  It’s almost always both/and.  Isn’t there a shoe called new balance?  Oh, I so hope to find it!

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Just Be

Being is life’s most articulate monologue.  All other statements must fall in line behind what we are.  Being what we truly are at the core of our character makes no appointments for convenient times to be seen.  There are no “on” and “off” switches to the way we live our lives, though we may have times when we “look good” or “act nice” or “perform for the camera.”  But even then when we may fool a stranger or con a novice for a while, sooner or later a roll of the eyes, a gesture of the hand, a sigh, or our body language will give us away.

The place where we are most often what we truly are is at home, for more of our true being is done there.  Home is where we can and do shed our protective facades.  It is where we can “relax and just be.”  So that is where our true selves speak loudest of all.  It is where the interaction between differing personalities is more intense and goes on for the longest time, making more demands on our character at a deeper level than between more transient and temporary relationships of the school or workplace.

John O’Donohue put it this way in his lovely collection To Bless the Space Between Us:

“Most of what happens within a home unfolds inside the ordinary narrative of the daily routine. Yet later on in life, when one looks back more closely, it is quite incredible how so many of the roots of one’s identity, experience, and presence lead back to that childhood kitchen where so much was happening unknown to itself.”

But the being that makes a difference, at home or anywhere, takes being fully alive--plugged in and aware.  Those who bring joy seem to notice everything.  The simplest things bring them joy—the exuberance of children, the raindrops on the holly leaves, the way the sunbeams through the window cause rainbows to dance on the wall, the first blossoms in the spring, the taste of the first ripe apple—everything brings them joy and that joy is infectious.

 Perhaps this ability to be tuned in is what Jesus meant when He said, “I come that you may have life, and have it with abundance.”  Being “alive with His life” is a wonder in this pessimistic world.  It is, well, a light! No wonder the gospels seem to use the terms “light” and “life” interchangeably!

Think of the people in your life that seem to be the “presence” to brighten the space wherever they are.  They seem to be light, walking.  They are the ones that seem to not only bring the joy, but they also bring hope when there is pain.  They are the calm in the storm and the wisdom in chaos.  It’s not so much what they say (although these are the ones we are drawn to for great conversations and bits of wise advice) as what they are.

They are the silent “yeast” that makes the bread of life so delicious.  They are the flame where the children go to ignite the sparklers of their dreams. They sing the lullabies that calm spirits and bring us to rest.  They are the ones who can build a shelter out of scrap lumber, create a masterpiece from left-over paint and a piece of old canvas, or sew a designer suite with the fabric of our days.  They show us that to live is a blessing but to be is holy.

Leave the harsh directives and judgmental accusations to others.  The “sermons” that really change us are most often unspoken but lived out by those who have learned to let the Holy Spirit do what He does while they do what they do best— delight in the Lord and just be.

Sand and Sea

Bill and I took a little respite from our Indiana winter and went to Florida for a week.  We fortunately landed on a week of sunny and perfect 75 degree days. It was just the two of us, so we had no schedule and no hurry.  Bill got in his usual 10,000 steps almost every day, and I got reading and writing done and absorbed the delicious sunshine.

About our main decision for each day was where we would eat dinner.  Two of those dinners we shared with dear friends who were in the area. We also saw a great movie and watched the Indiana football team win the college finals of the Peach Bowl.  Indiana has historically been famous for basketball, but this year the whole
country was talking about Indiana football for a good reason. 

I am a water person.  I grew up in Michigan surrounded by lakes, in a state that is surrounded by lakes bigger than most of the seas of the world—and those Great Lakes are  filled with fresh water.

But there is nothing in nature I love more than the ocean and the sand that surrounds it. I spent my mid-day sitting with my books (Cindy Morgan’s The Year of Jubilee and Richard Rohr’s The Tears of Things), and my journal, at a patio table where I could watch people parasailing, the children playing in the sand, and the teen-agers tossing frisbees and playing volleyball.

I couldn’t help missing our kids and grandkids and their childhoods on all the beaches of our lives.

When they were little, I always packed a bag of plaster of Paris in my craft bag.  I would mix the plaster powder with tap water, then press their little feet into wet beach sand and pour the prints full of plaster.  When these were dried thoroughly, I’d take them to the cottage and keep them on the counter until it was time to go home.  Over the years, I had footprints hanging on the playroom wall that began small, then got bigger and bigger as they walked almost to the ceiling.

Today I could see those footprints in the sand, getting bigger as they walk away from me into the far beach of the horizon.  I can’t help seeing each of them—our kids and their kids—from infancy to now, more than half a century of being our child and grandchild.

This life is a telescope extending into a vision of the future. I hold the eyepiece close, adjusting the focus, trying to bring the future of each of them—and the two of us—into view. But I can’t bring the future into focus. Each section of the scope has to be lived in its own time.  I have to be satisfied with staying focused on the now-piece of the extending telescope.  Grateful I am for this piece, this clear vision of today only.

Here at the beach, like all the beaches of our lives, I can only pick up a jar full of perfect or broken shells, shells of things that, too, have a living history.  I will take them home and pour them in the garden that encircles our backyard fountain and little pool.  Come spring, I will revisit these beach days when I turn over the soil to plant a new season of seeds.

This Second Week of the New Year

This second week of the New Year, the journey continues.

The star promises that the Messiah is already a reality in this earthen world and hints that there are those who have found Him—some have even embraced Him. Yet for even those who are wise enough to seek, this day is a desert day of dust and sand, plodding and enduring—until the star stops.

Artist buses at National Quarter Convention 2025

Most of us believers—who travel in caravan—visualize as we go where that star-place will be. We can’t help feeling that the place must be wonderful—an oasis, a resort, a fine abode fit for a King.

Like those first travelers, we are way too literal minded to keep focused on the wonder of the Incarnate One, Himself—that He is the wonder.

Will we be disappointed with the destination of this day’s journey when we find no place spectacular? Will we, like the poet, miss the glory of the summit because of bramble distractions?

Lord, today as every day, the hope of finding You on my journey—that starring promise—guides and pulls me along the dusty way.

Satisfy my seeking heart with the pleasant reality of Your sweet Self,
resting there in the familiar surroundings
of common things.

And, Lord, fill me with gratitude for Your provisions along my way to You.

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Party Animal and Friends

Reproach has broken my heart, and I am full of heaviness; I looked for someone to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none.
~ Psalms 69:20         

Still today it is the same. Everyone loves a party. The crowd tunes in to the power of positive thinking, but that attention gets very short if the positive thinking is long-term and entails some getting worse before it gets better.

Throw a free picnic and you can't keep an accurate count of the multitudes that show up. But drag those same folks to Gethsemane at night with Calvary in view, and you lose their attention, even if, on some grand philosophical plane, they profess to understand.

Esteem seems to be generated by being the bold and the beautiful, the wealthy and the powerful.

But lay down the power, become poor, quit being a party animal, and let the tears flow, turn ugly from pain, and you, too, will be able to count your friends on one hand.

But oh, what true friends!

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Rest In You Tonight

We know the story of Christmas.  Many of us can quote it from Luke 2 from memory, because it was read to us every Christmas since we can remember. The wise men from the East were part of the church pageant that we helped play years ago.  A stable with animals, a manger, shepherds with lambs, bright angels, kings with precious gifts—all these have surrounded the baby Christ-child, until now they seem more fable than a reality so quietly profound that it changed the course of history.

Maybe this particular December, this story seems more “sweet” and “nice” than earthshaking. But when we snap back into reality from magical ambience of Christmas days, we are more likely to cry for a solution to the world’s, and our own personal chaos.  In our individual story, this God sometimes seems so far away.

Broken hearts, broken homes, broken children, broken churches, broken communities and, yes, our own broken country—all cry together for this Jesus to please come on down from His throne in heaven and comfort our children, mend our families, and restore some kind of idealized normality to our world. There seems to be a disconnect between our Christmas wonder and the shambles we have together (or apart) made of things.

In a song (“Rest in You Tonight”) that Bill wrote with Gerald Crabb, there is a picture of a lonely child peering through a frozen window, watching for a dad that really isn’t coming home with gifts for this Christmas Eve...or ever.

But the promise of that star and manger, stable, and host of angels is this:  our Father did and always does come home to where we are.  And no matter what chaos rages around us outside, the HERE He came to, was the home of our hearts.  He came to bring peace and joy, and the best gifts ever to fill the hole in our souls.

Hark! The angels sing!  Again and again and again! Yes, the hopes and fears of all the years are met in Him—tonight!

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Remembering a Country Christmas

I believe there is a homing device in every human heart.  Even if we’ve never had a good home to go home to, there is an innate yearning for one where we are cherished and understood.  In our yearning, we see this as a place of peace where there is no pretense and where we are accepted for who we truly are--not for what we’ve accomplished or how we look.

And there is no time like Christmas for pulling us back to such a place.  Usually, how much we love and look forward to Christmas as a holiday is in direct proportion to how close to this ideal our home really is.  Sadly for many, the reality of the holiday is one of the most painful experiences of the year.

Perhaps the reason we cling to the ideal at Christmas more than any other time is that this celebration is in honor of the One who came to bring true peace, joy, love, and a place to belong.  And the truth is that no family home and no human relationship can ever totally give us what we need.  Every parent fails sometimes.  Even love falls short.  Every child disappoints and turns prodigal at one time or another.  No sibling is totally supportive or faithful to protect the secrets with which he or she has been entrusted.

Even so, home is the nearest thing we have to a metaphor for belonging.  The imperfection of us all keeps us yearning for another place--the place that will truly be Home. 

Thankfully, our memories tend to preserve the good and forgive the flawed.  I’m sure my Grandma’s house in the country was not as good as I remember it.  The “front room”, as she called it, was not as big, the kitchen not as warm, the snows not as white or as deep as I remember trudging through to get to that farmhouse with the fieldstone porch.

As I recall, she and grandpa opened the big double doors to that front room only for special occasions.  The piano was in there, and she would always have the old itinerate piano tuner come just before Christmas so we could sing carols around that piano when we all crowded in.

The Christmas tree she put in that room was not a pine, but a cedar tree Pa would cut fresh from the woods behind the barn.  The ornaments were of World War II vintage and before–scenes painted on clear glass balls–and there were strips of foil we called icicles, big lights of every color, and real candy canes.  Grandma would always make fresh popcorn balls with sorghum molasses, wrap them in a new thing called Saran Wrap® and hang them on the tree for us kids to “snitch” when no one was looking.

Grandma baked for days before Christmas: pies of apples and cherries from their orchard, fudge, taffy, and “divinity” layered in boxes between buttered sheets of waxed paper, cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and homemade bread.  These were all prepared before the real cooking started.

To this day I find myself running my fingers over mixing bowls in antique shops that have brown and gold sheaves of wheat on them or picking up green Fire King baking dishes and pie pans, longing to take them home to see if they would somehow turn things I make into the magical tastes of my childhood for my grandkids to remember.

Country life always seemed to separate the boys and the men from the women and girls.  The guys would “mosey” out to the barn to talk to Pa while he milked the two cows they always kept to supply them with milk and butter.  The boys would help him throw down hay for the night, feed the cats, and gather the eggs from the henhouse.  On summer mornings gathering eggs was Grandma’s job, but in the winter when she was less sure of her footing, Pa brought in the eggs.

Meanwhile, the women would take up stations in the kitchen peeling potatoes, opening jars of green beans Grandma had canned the summer before, and cutting up squash, onions, Brussels sprouts, and turnips.  The girls would set the table in the living room, then work on the puzzle that became a family project all through the days of Christmas. 

I don’t remember much about the gifts.  They were simple, practical, and usually handmade.  I do remember hugs and thank you’s.  I remember Grandma loving whatever I gave her as if she’d been wanting it all her life. I have a picture of someone in our family holding up a string of pearls, probably ordered from the Sears catalog--“the wish book,” we called it-–and looking as if this necklace was as precious and rare as diamonds.

There was never any doubt why we had Christmas.  Since Grandma had lost most of her eyesight, my daddy read the Christmas story from Luke while the children sat on someone’s lap or on the floor leaning back on some seated grownup’s knees.  We all knew the words by heart, but familiar as they were, they always brought tears to our eyes – like we were hearing this wonderful story for the first time.

Grandma would pray, and when she prayed, the angels quit fidgeting around, swishing their wings, and got still.  We knew that sooner or later every one of our names would be specifically mentioned; Grandma would thank the Lord for the gift of each one of us and ask His tender care and guidance as we grew and changed and became what He intended for us to be. It seems to me now, looking back, that I was the most adored of children, and I know all the grandchildren would say they thought they were.  Truth is we all were.

After prayer and presents, the music would begin.  Grandma played both the piano and the guitar; Pa played the “fiddle” and the “mouth harp”.  We all knew sooner or later he’d grab Grandma by the arm and try to make her dance around the room; she’d say, “Oh, Pop, quit!”  And we’d all laugh.

The children would ask for their favorite of the songs that Grandma had always sung to them: “Redwing”, “Mockingbird Hill”, or “Listen to the Mockingbird”.  It never seemed strange that all our favorite songs were about birds. 

We also sang Grandma’s favorites: “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”, “I Must Tell Jesus”, and “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms”.

As night fell and the kerosene lamps were lit, it seems to me that the love in that house could be touched, like soft velvet or the smooth fur of a kitten.  The snow could pile to the eaves for all we cared.  We were home, we were fed, and we were loved.

When Bill and I started thinking about recording a video for Christmas with the Homecoming Friends that would be Christmas in the Country, it was the images of Christmas at Grandma’s house that came to mind.  To that, I added the memories of my own childhood home and the rituals that have been now handed down first to Bill and me, then to our children, and now to their children.

Someday there will be a new celebration in a new Country.  There will be no gap between the ideal and the reality; the relationships around that circle will be perfect and totally beautiful.  There will be songs of thanksgiving and praise for Christmas completed, for the One who brought heaven to earth will have then brought earth to heaven, and we will all finally be Home. 

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