Writings and Ramblings

The night so ordinary, still The quiet sheep did have their fill Beneath the stars the shepherds lay The town of David not far away
When suddenly a glorious light Broke through the dark, removed the night The terrifying sight did see By lowly shepherds on bended knee
And as the beings offered praise As if they'd sung this all their days The silent shepherds heard their song As more did join to sing along

Glory to our God on high! His son, just born, has come to die Wrapped with cloth in manger lay The prophesies of old did say
Beneath that mysterious star was found A tiny one they gathered round With awe and adoration speak Of Savior that they all did seek
And remember we that Holy night Imaginings hold wondrous sight As we come to worship him With heads bent low and lights so dim
And shall we sing the angel tune A glorious song in brightest moon To share with those in darkness now Good news to hearts that will allow?
Glory to our God Most High He sent his son that he should die …

It is born out of need every year.  We gather them up and bring them to the makeshift hospital I've set up in our home.  The lame and broken are scattered on the counter before me, and I get to work restoring them all.

One year, I remember, I cared for two decapitated Cinderellas.  The tragedy of it all overwhelmed my little girls who's pictures were forever posed right beside the delicate ornamental characters, their smiles clueless to the brokenness so close to them.  It was a strange site.  They were right beside the severely injured, yet so unaware of their neighbor's plight.

A dab of stubborn glue healed the situation and they were placed back on the tree.  You'd have to look closely to see the hairline scar, a reminder of what was.


It's nearly Christmas.

Our Advent calenders are dwindling down, and the kids are full excitement.  I remember how slowly the days would pass.  Now I feel there is barely enough time to breathe deep before another sun rises.  I'…

Life never seems to follow the picture I create in my mind, but then I'm a bit of a dreamer.  I get lost in the imaginings of perfect scenarios, those happy Norman Rockwell paintings.  Every year I hope for a heavy snow to fall on Christmas just to feel the slowness of a day that keeps you right where you are.  It stretches its cozy arms around while the fireplace pops and hisses, all while we sip that frothy, rich cocoa as white lights of the tree throw shadows on our faces.


This has never happened anywhere but in my vague imaginings, and yet some version of it finds me hopefully wishing.  Tis the season?


We erected the Christmas tree this week.  My children, all together in their joy, pulled tokens of preceding years from these intimate boxes.  It was furious excitement all about the room as the carols whirled happy tunes in and out of the background.

Divine restraint kept my hands away from the heavily decorated base of the tree.  I stood away from those twinkling lights, away…