I brought three books with me while away in Mexico: 1) The Message (the physically smallest version of the Bible I own; I wanted to keep up with my study mates), 2) Crazy, Cracked, Warm and Deep (freshly published memoirs by my sister) and 3) The Church Cracked Open (for book group gathering when we get home). Yesterday I finished Susan B. Clarke’s memoirs. Today I read 1 Corinthians and the Introduction to Stephanie Speller’s treatise. I am in tears. These are exactly the books for me now.
*Japanese art of repairing cracked or broken pottery with gold.
Driving the I-90 bridge, I tighten. My heart constricts. Drip, drip—calcium deposits in another joint, building my armor of protection. I remember when we were young and driving East. Wild and carefree. The mountains were magnetic. Traffic moving, at breakneck speed. I was driving the orange Datsun. Flying along, weaving between lanes. When BANG!…the little vehicle tilted around me, still plowing along but now sparks were shooting from the back left side. What the hell?!
No wonder I am vigilant.
Here I am, decades later. The nuts on this car are tight; the wheel won’t come off. Still, I tense, remembering. Now, my friends are the magnets. I whizz through fog to the lake’s edge, then the forest. The chance to ponder and write on this gorgeous morning shines, like a jewel. Sharing splendor is compelling. Deep joy is worth any risk.
The other day I took cookies to a friend. She and her sisters are clearing out the home where they grew up. Their 96-year-old mother has moved into a retirement home. Um, hard and loving work.
I can relate. I am one of three girls too. Our mother is old.
Christmas Day was magical for us. Carolina actually picked up her Grand-Mother so she could come to church and hear us sing her best-loved carol, “In the Bleak Midwinter.” Later, this daughter of ours, our favorite chef, made the four of us a scrumptious pork roast. We enjoyed a quiet feast complete with a call from Clarke and Jannet, who were celebrating with her family in the Cities of Angels and Meadows.
When I think back on the year, I am full of warmth for these dear ones. Mom is making her way to the finish line; we are the lucky ones to love her and cheer her on. If you know this woman, you remember that, if she is nothing else, she is nice and determined. We are fortunate to live nearby.
And our kids! I am swelling with pride. They have worked, essentially, as an experienced teacher and an all-star foodie throughout the pandemic. Now each has bought themselves a home, one an urban townhouse, a few blocks from a new lightrail station and one a rural tiny home in beautiful Skagit Valley. She completed constructing it herself.
We are well and grateful too. Rob gardens, raises bees, and makes music. I am a spiritual gangster. Deep laughter and tears massage me through and through more often.
Each year in December I wonder, “Is this the year we will respectfully love Creation more and only send an electronic letter?” But I can’t help myself; I love snail mail. I suspect USPS, sadly, is approaching the finish line too. So much for “forever” stamps. So, here’s half of our nod to the hybrid version. Who knows how much longer we will also mail hard copy photo cards, delivered straight to your door? One thing I know for sure: I will continue luxuriating in this tradition of the Twelve Daze of Christmas, maybe writing a few extra words while at the beach house, maybe even extending the due date for mailing cards to St. Valentine’s Day. Some church traditions are worth leaning into.
Don’t get me wrong. I have gobs of sweet memories from our recent feast day. Namely, my mother was well-loved and seemed to enjoy herself all afternoon. This was my conscious intent for the day.
As our guests arrived, I noticed how few of us were both white and straight. It occurred to me, “Maybe that name game would work here in my home.” We could each introduce ourselves by sharing the story of our name, with ancestry coming forward from around the globe.
I am embarrassed to admit. In the year when I have recognized the historic pain and loss this particular holiday represents for many, I did not foresee the sad clarity offered by this simple icebreaker.
Every person referenced Europe in one way or another. Alas, there’s only one explanation for it, that c-word. At least someone named it—Colonization—the awkward elephant in the room. After which, unleashed playing (and praying) abounded.
Always Bridging 