THE RAGAMUFFIN'S CHRISTMAS

"Merry Christmas!"
Welcome to the official site for author Craig Daliessio and his wonderful book;
"The Ragamuffin's Christmas"

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Advent Day 4...A Visit With My Grandparents


        See! I make all things new...

 It's colder this morning than it was yesterday...
  
There has been a lot to consider: Jesus on day one, and Santa on day two, interesting intentional irony. Yesterday was an emotional meeting with Jesus’ earthly father Joseph. That touched me deeply.
Opening the little door for day 4, I see one lone figure kneeling beside the manger and holding the infant Jesus. She is rocking him slowly as he sleeps and she is singing him a lovely song in a beautiful voice that sounds very familiar. It is lilting and sweet and it seems to call to me from years gone by. I think I know this woman, in fact I am sure I know her, but it seems too good to be true.
She leans in close to Jesus and gently strokes his forehead, the way grandmothers do.
She makes no effort to hide or even control her tears. She is safe with this child and she knows it. She has been with him in heaven now for almost 17 years but she makes this pilgrimage each Christmas. Somehow, this time, God saw fit to let me witness it.
She is young and beautiful, like the pictures that I recall from my childhood. She sings a song I recall from those many years ago. I know this song.
She possesses a most beautiful singing voice and it reminds me that she passed this sweet sound on to my daughter. I can almost hear Morgan while this woman sings. This morning she is singing a lullaby to her Savior and it is the most amazing and beautiful sound I have ever heard. It brings her peace to offer a song to Him...this baby. It brings her redemption, too.
I realize that I know this woman, and I watch through many tears. As long as I knew her -for the first 30 years of my life- she loved this child. But one mistake in her past haunted her, and she wrestled with His love for her until, quite literally, her final breath. I was there when she went to meet Him, and I remember. In the days before she went home to Him, she sought reassurance, even after walking in her Faith for over 40 years by that point. He gave her what she sought, and her words as she departed were amazing. She was reaching out her hand toward a Savior only she could see, and repeating "Oh Lord my God...Oh
Lord my God" over and over. And then, she was with Him.
Now here she is again...young, pain free, beautiful, and without shame or guilt or doubt about her eternal safety. She leans in on the infant and I hear her singing to him. It's a song she used to sing to me when I was a little boy growing up in her house. It's the song she wanted to sing to the children she left behind in one moment she regretted for 60 years. She could never find forgiveness from those children, but this child offers it freely and she is giving Him the best gift she has to offer…her love, in the form of a song.
I can't remember the name but it sounds like "Jesus loves me,” or “Jesus Loves the Little Children,” and there are strains of “Haven of Rest" in there too, which was her favorite hymn and she used to sing it all the time. I sang it back to her at her funeral. I would give anything to enter this scene and hug my grandmother one more time but I can't. Even if I could, I don't think I would. This is her moment with Jesus and I can't disturb it. I am privileged to observe it and I will leave it at that.
Her hands caress the face of the boy in the trough and I see they are no longer bent and gnarled by arthritis, but straight and gentle and soft. Her shoulders aren't stooped from the shame she carried about that one decision she made 70 years ago that she never could forgive herself for. She has peace now. Peace with her Savior and her memories.
This is the grandmother I knew and the one I didn't know. This is Dorothea Wray Shanko, my daughter’s namesake and the earliest example of a Christian I would ever see. Perfect and completed in Jesus.
There is a man next to her, and I recognize him instantly and he has the same thick shock of black hair he always did. That was a family trait that I carry too, except mine is brown. I’ve always looked like him, but the way he appears this morning...the resemblance is uncanny. This is the man I saw in his Navy pictures when he was a Seabee in WWII. He is the handsome man I saw on the deck of the "Donna-Kay", the gorgeous 32' Cabin Cruiser he once owned. He is tall and strong and clear eyed. He isn't haunted by his tortured life or his pained memories of his immigrant childhood.
He isn't chained to a bottle anymore. He is free from the demons that stalked him and stole his life. He is my grandfather, Albert Shanko. Everyone called him Jake. He is kneeling by the manger, like he did once in the kitchen of the house on 4th Avenue when I was asleep in my stroller and he didn't want to wake me up and so he got on all fours and crawled out unseen. An amazingly soft and gentle gesture for so gruff a man.
He isn't ravaged by alcohol now. He is whole and perfected. He is strong and his shoulders are straight and his smile is wide and unmistakable. He reaches into the manger and touches the little baby softly. In that touch he finds the forgiveness he needed all his life. He offers the gentleness to this baby Savior that he never had for his own children while he walked this earth. He gives Jesus the love his heart always held but never felt safe to show.
He never had the chance to ask forgiveness when he was alive but he has found it anyway since then. Here in this cave, shipwrecked at the stable, he is the man he always hoped he could be, but never was. He is the grandfather I would have loved to have. He came to this baby only a few scant weeks before he died, so in many ways he is still getting acquainted with him. The manger brings him healing and hope.
The two figures look at each other and it is different than any look I ever saw while they were here on earth. It is a love I have never witnessed. Not a marital affection anymore, but a completion. They are both loving this baby and that is their bond now. No more co-dependence, no more needy, impassioned strife. They are both who they were always meant to be and so much more.
This is the only way they could have found redemption.
They are unified by a baby in a manger. I see them in a way I never saw when they were here. It would have been a wonderful model to witness. I am happy to see it now. This is what a baby does. He changes the beaten and downtrodden and wounded into worshipers. He sobers the intoxicated with the intoxicating power of his love. He surprises you at the reactions He draws out of your soul. But only when you find yourself shipwrecked in his presence and you know you are a ragamuffin.
“We worship You…God of the second chance. Who took these, our failures, that stole the life we dreamed, and have given us life instead".

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Advent Day Three: Step Dad

                                                                    Step Dad

“The birth of Jesus took place like this. His mother, Mary, was engaged to be married to Joseph. Before they came to the marriage bed, Joseph discovered she was pregnant. (It was by the Holy Spirit, but he didn't know that.) Joseph, chagrined but noble, determined to take care of things quietly so Mary would not be disgraced.”
I have peeled back the leather door on this third morning of Advent. The man I see is dear to me for special reasons. He is the stepfather of the son of God.
Joseph is kneeling beside the manger where his tiny boy lay sleeping.
He stares for a long while at the little baby sleeping in the straw. He turns his head and glances at his tiny teenage bride exhausted and sleeping on a pile of dirty hay. He feels his rugged face turn crimson.
This has been a hard year for Joseph. This girl was his promised bride and a year ago they were betrothed. This year the marriage would be completed and consummated.
But somehow, during that time, Mary wound up pregnant. She told Joseph about it before she told anyone else.
Joseph considered ending the betrothal right then and there, but he is a kind man, and deep in his heart he loved her. Still, this sort of thing will ruin her reputation and that of the baby. And it would doom him as well. He has a struggling carpentry shop and he doesn't need to be the butt of innuendo and private jokes about his wife and son.
Still, the way Mary told him the story, about the vision, and God speaking to her. He was almost convinced to believe her anyway and then God spoke to him in a dream of his own. He confirmed what Mary had said and so Joseph took her into his home and decided to let people think what they wanted.
Now here they were in Bethlehem because Caesar wanted to tax all the Jews and he ordered them to go to their hometown. It was Mary's hometown too...both of them were in David's lineage after all. They started off with other members of their family but because Mary was so far along in her pregnancy now, they couldn't keep up with the caravan.
By the time they made Bethlehem, all the available rooms were gone. They knocked on every door and even asked some relatives who lived in Bethlehem for a place to sleep. Maybe it was because of Mary's condition...or maybe it was the rumors that were flying around about the baby...whatever the reason, nobody had a place for them. All they could find was this cave. An empty hole in the side of a hill where a couple of dozen sheep had been staying. They had to crawl into it and they could barely stand up. It was dark and dank and cold, and it smelled terribly.
They didn't have time to clean it before Mary went into labor. Joseph had never seen childbirth before and he was scared. They didn't know a midwife and so he and Mary just had to figure it out as they went. Mary's tiny body was wracked with pain and at one point Joseph thought he'd lost her. Eventually it was done and their son was born. In all the commotion neither of them heard the angels outside.
They only found out about them because a few hours later, some local shepherds stopped by to worship this child and they spoke of a star in the night, and a host of angels telling them about Jesus. There were four shepherds. Their stories were incredible.
Joseph was considering all of this as he knelt by his tiny son's cradle. He reached his hand in and touched the sleeping boy. Joseph whispered as to not wake his tiny wife.
"Jesus...I am humbled. I hardly know what to say to you. I believe now...I wrestled with it before but now...I believe. Truly you are from God and this was all part of some plan of His. I don't understand. The shepherds speak in terms of "Messiah" and "Savior" and "Emmanuel".
That means "God with us", my son. Is this true?
Are you really God in the flesh? Are you the Promised One?" Joseph pauses and collects his thoughts, "I am honored to take this role in your life. I always wanted a son. I will do my best to be the best dad I can be. I will seek the will of your Father as I raise you, and try my best to be a blessing to you. I feel so unworthy. I am sorry that this is all we had for your birthplace -we are very poor- I have nothing to offer you."
Joseph chokes back a few tears at this point. He is still a man after all. He is a husband and he loves his wife and he has grown to love this boy. Like any man, he wanted better for his family but timing and poverty were against him.
The baby stirs and cries softly. Joseph reaches down and picks him up and pulls him to the folds of his robe. He kisses the baby Jesus on his tiny lips and he feels the softness. He whispers” I love you my son...my Lord”. The baby seems to smile the slightest smile and then falls asleep in Joseph’s arms with his head pressed against his heart.
Joseph closes his eyes in a prayer and rocks his boy slowly. He is thinking. Thinking about the twists and turns his life has taken in the last year or so. Thinking about the tiny woman sleeping in the straw. Thinking about this child and all those dreams and visions and this place...this cave. The enormity of fatherhood rolls over him like a wave on the shore. I see the look on Joseph’s face. I remember that feeling.
Being a stepfather is difficult enough, but to be stepfather to a child whom the angels have proclaimed the Son of God? To have no defense against the whispers…at least no defense anyone would ever believe. This is a lot for any man to bear and this man is just like any of us. But somehow holding this child tonight gives him the courage and the determination to do his very best. Like anyone who loves children, this man finds a love growing in him for this baby and his resolve to be a great dad for him is firm. He will do the job God has called him to do, and he will let history determine his success. He is Joseph -Jesus’ earthly dad- and the whole circumstance has left him shipwrecked at the stable.
                                                      “Almost anyone can be a father…

                                                 …but only a special man can be a dad.”

Monday, November 28, 2016

Advent Day Two: Saint Nick

                                                Saint Nick
       “…That at the name of Jesus, every knee will bow…”

I suppose it’s ironic…or poetic, that the next visitor to this cave is Santa Claus. Ironic because in the Christian circle I formerly tread, Santa was anathema to us. He was here to rob us of the true meaning of Christmas. He was a tool of the devil. It’s poetic for the same reason…
When I was growing up, there was a mindset amongst some believers that Santa was evil. They went looking for "sin" anyplace they could and they squeezed it out of some pretty bizarre places. Playing rock records backwards, (don't we all?) telling stories about women who wear pants being cursed. You know, good solid theology. It wasn’t one church by itself, it was a popular trend in fundamentalist Christianity in that day. They were good people at heart; they just had a really distorted view of God.
Anyway, one particular target was Santa. He was secretly trying to displace Jesus. He was the spawn of Satan. If you rearrange his name you can actually spell Satan! (gasp) He was the leading cause of over-commercialization of Christmas...good solid factual objections.
Personally, I loved the old guy. I still do. I loved reading Clement C. Moore's "The Night Before Christmas" when I was a kid. I watched "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" in clay-mation and never in all that time did I once think of him as displacing Jesus. I never thought of him as dimming my view of that little manger, or the star in the heavens, or the real reason we celebrated. In fact, it was made clear to me that he did what he did every Christmas Eve because he loved Jesus and did all this in His name.
Otherwise he could have picked any night of the year to fly around the world and slide down several billion chimneys delivering toys. In fact, if he wasn't trying to do it all on Jesus' birthday, he could have sent the packages by Fed Ex and turned the reindeer out to stand stud at a breeding farm.
No, Santa was all about Jesus and I knew it. We all did. Nowadays, with Christmas under attack the way it is, Santa might really be our best ally. I mean we are still allowed to talk about him freely so why not go ahead and use him as a springboard to talk about Jesus? When some kid asks, "Why does he do it all on one night?" we can go into Santa's reasons for that particular night.
You see...I think Santa is a Jesus worshiper. I see the whole story as a way of explaining that ultimate Gift. In my mind he doesn't take away from Jesus, he adds to His fame. This legendary man does what he does because that's how he keeps Christmas in his heart. If anybody tried to hijack it and twist it away from Jesus, it was us. The Santa legend wasn't designed to refute Jesus; it was about making Jesus famous. Maybe we ought to take it back. Maybe we should, as I suggested earlier, use Santa as a witnessing tool.
Remember, God used a talking donkey once.
I was proved right as I watched him walking up to a little cave in Bethlehem, removing his red wool hat, pocketing his pipe, checking his red suit for appearance. He is a large man, so he has to bow his head so he can get through the doorway, and taking his place on his knees next to the manger where the poor, homeless, infant savior lies only hours old. He leans in on the little sleeping figure and his eyes well up in amazement.
He is silent for a long time and when he speaks he whispers a hoarse whisper..." You should see the happiness I brought in your honor tonight, my Lord. I did the best I could, but I am not you. I hope you are pleased." Then Santa's shoulders quake a little as the tears flow a more freely. "I didn't bring you anything. I went through my sack, and there was nothing I had that felt appropriate, nothing worthy. So I only have my love, and the contents of my heart. It is you who brings me the joy I give others. It is you who is the Source of my wonderful laugh. I am a giver of gifts on earth, but I do not compare to the gift you bring, sweet child. My only gift to you is my worship and my love...and to let you love me as you desire."
The old man remains quietly on his knees a long, long time, enraptured and lost in the miracle of the infant Savior in the feed trough. Even in the hustle and bustle of the commercialized, de-Christianized world, Santa finds a place amongst the shipwrecked at the stable.
I find myself chuckling silently as I watch this. Christians especially, get so worked up about the secularization of Christmas. I detest the whole “Happy holidays” thing too, but have we really removed Christ from this day? Does that mean that for all these years, our Christmas spirit was actually dependent on Wal-Mart greeters saying “Merry Christmas” when we walked in the doors, or is that just a handy excuse for the fact that I have lost touch with the Advent?
Do I care that my daughter doesn’t have a “Christmas Party” at school anymore? Because she has yet to forget it is Christmas. These thoughts race through my head as I watch this legendary man lost in worship and holding the key figure of all of history in his red-suited arms.
Each Christmas season, the greatest Christmas special ever made plays in prime time. “A Charlie Brown Christmas” has run each year since 1964. Each year the beautiful bubbly flow of Vince Guaraldi’s “Linus and Lucy” will resound once again as the “Peanuts” gang dances around Schroeder’s piano. Charlie Brown will be unable to reign in his charges, he’ll pick that pathetic little tree and at the height of his despair, he will let out a call “Isn’t there anyone…who knows the real meaning of Christmas?”
And then the moment that reduces me to tears every year like clockwork. Linus will take center stage and say “Lights please” and then he will recite the nativity from Luke chapter 2 verbatim. On national TV… during prime time.
I can’t wait to find out some day how many people wound up finding their way to the stable and to a face to face relationship with Jesus because of that little two-minute interlude. This nation may not be the bastion of Christianity it once was, but we still know why we really celebrate Christmas. Linus never lets us forget.
That was why I never got worked up about Santa Claus with my daughter. Because Jesus Christ is powerful enough to withstand being deposed by a fat man in a red suit. It isn’t even close. Ask a child the true meaning of Christmas and the vast majority will tell you about Jesus. Maybe their theology is off, but they know who the central figure in history is. Everyone does. Santa, elves, reindeer…it makes no difference. The answer to the question; “Why does Santa do all this,” has not changed. He does it to honor the ultimate Gift.
Now some traditions I miss and they should never be messed with. Kenny G should not supplant Frank Sinatra singing Christmas carols. George C. Scott was never the Ebenezer Scrooge that Alastair Sim was. Bruce Springsteen sings the greatest version of Santa Clause is Coming to Town. Ever. But the one truth about Christmas is Jesus.
While they don’t always admit it, everyone knows it. And at Christmas, even Santa bows at the manger and is changed by the touch of a tiny baby. And tonight, for whatever reason God saw fit to allow me to bear witness. I have seen the heart of this giant and legendary figure as the real reason for his existence has come to light. He is touched by this baby, as he was when he Nicholas of Myra a saint of the early church whose acts of kindness inspired this legend.
…to honor his Lord

    "Behind Every vanilla 'Happy Holidays' under every sprig of mistletoe and in every cup of Christmas Cheer, there is the truth of this baby in Bethlehem. Try as the world might, there is no denying this."
                                Brennan Manning
            

Advent Day Two: Saint Nick

                                                Saint Nick
       “…That at the name of Jesus, every knee will bow…”

I suppose it’s ironic…or poetic, that the next visitor to this cave is Santa Claus. Ironic because in the Christian circle I formerly tread, Santa was anathema to us. He was here to rob us of the true meaning of Christmas. He was a tool of the devil. It’s poetic for the same reason…
When I was growing up, there was a mindset amongst some believers that Santa was evil. They went looking for "sin" anyplace they could and they squeezed it out of some pretty bizarre places. Playing rock records backwards, (don't we all?) telling stories about women who wear pants being cursed. You know, good solid theology. It wasn’t one church by itself, it was a popular trend in fundamentalist Christianity in that day. They were good people at heart; they just had a really distorted view of God.
Anyway, one particular target was Santa. He was secretly trying to displace Jesus. He was the spawn of Satan. If you rearrange his name you can actually spell Satan! (gasp) He was the leading cause of over-commercialization of Christmas...good solid factual objections.
Personally, I loved the old guy. I still do. I loved reading Clement C. Moore's "The Night Before Christmas" when I was a kid. I watched "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" in clay-mation and never in all that time did I once think of him as displacing Jesus. I never thought of him as dimming my view of that little manger, or the star in the heavens, or the real reason we celebrated. In fact, it was made clear to me that he did what he did every Christmas Eve because he loved Jesus and did all this in His name.
Otherwise he could have picked any night of the year to fly around the world and slide down several billion chimneys delivering toys. In fact, if he wasn't trying to do it all on Jesus' birthday, he could have sent the packages by Fed Ex and turned the reindeer out to stand stud at a breeding farm.
No, Santa was all about Jesus and I knew it. We all did. Nowadays, with Christmas under attack the way it is, Santa might really be our best ally. I mean we are still allowed to talk about him freely so why not go ahead and use him as a springboard to talk about Jesus? When some kid asks, "Why does he do it all on one night?" we can go into Santa's reasons for that particular night.
You see...I think Santa is a Jesus worshiper. I see the whole story as a way of explaining that ultimate Gift. In my mind he doesn't take away from Jesus, he adds to His fame. This legendary man does what he does because that's how he keeps Christmas in his heart. If anybody tried to hijack it and twist it away from Jesus, it was us. The Santa legend wasn't designed to refute Jesus; it was about making Jesus famous. Maybe we ought to take it back. Maybe we should, as I suggested earlier, use Santa as a witnessing tool.
Remember, God used a talking donkey once.
I was proved right as I watched him walking up to a little cave in Bethlehem, removing his red wool hat, pocketing his pipe, checking his red suit for appearance. He is a large man, so he has to bow his head so he can get through the doorway, and taking his place on his knees next to the manger where the poor, homeless, infant savior lies only hours old. He leans in on the little sleeping figure and his eyes well up in amazement.
He is silent for a long time and when he speaks he whispers a hoarse whisper..." You should see the happiness I brought in your honor tonight, my Lord. I did the best I could, but I am not you. I hope you are pleased." Then Santa's shoulders quake a little as the tears flow a more freely. "I didn't bring you anything. I went through my sack, and there was nothing I had that felt appropriate, nothing worthy. So I only have my love, and the contents of my heart. It is you who brings me the joy I give others. It is you who is the Source of my wonderful laugh. I am a giver of gifts on earth, but I do not compare to the gift you bring, sweet child. My only gift to you is my worship and my love...and to let you love me as you desire."
The old man remains quietly on his knees a long, long time, enraptured and lost in the miracle of the infant Savior in the feed trough. Even in the hustle and bustle of the commercialized, de-Christianized world, Santa finds a place amongst the shipwrecked at the stable.
I find myself chuckling silently as I watch this. Christians especially, get so worked up about the secularization of Christmas. I detest the whole “Happy holidays” thing too, but have we really removed Christ from this day? Does that mean that for all these years, our Christmas spirit was actually dependent on Wal-Mart greeters saying “Merry Christmas” when we walked in the doors, or is that just a handy excuse for the fact that I have lost touch with the Advent?
Do I care that my daughter doesn’t have a “Christmas Party” at school anymore? Because she has yet to forget it is Christmas. These thoughts race through my head as I watch this legendary man lost in worship and holding the key figure of all of history in his red-suited arms.
Each Christmas season, the greatest Christmas special ever made plays in prime time. “A Charlie Brown Christmas” has run each year since 1964. Each year the beautiful bubbly flow of Vince Guaraldi’s “Linus and Lucy” will resound once again as the “Peanuts” gang dances around Schroeder’s piano. Charlie Brown will be unable to reign in his charges, he’ll pick that pathetic little tree and at the height of his despair, he will let out a call “Isn’t there anyone…who knows the real meaning of Christmas?”
And then the moment that reduces me to tears every year like clockwork. Linus will take center stage and say “Lights please” and then he will recite the nativity from Luke chapter 2 verbatim. On national TV… during prime time.
I can’t wait to find out some day how many people wound up finding their way to the stable and to a face to face relationship with Jesus because of that little two-minute interlude. This nation may not be the bastion of Christianity it once was, but we still know why we really celebrate Christmas. Linus never lets us forget.
That was why I never got worked up about Santa Claus with my daughter. Because Jesus Christ is powerful enough to withstand being deposed by a fat man in a red suit. It isn’t even close. Ask a child the true meaning of Christmas and the vast majority will tell you about Jesus. Maybe their theology is off, but they know who the central figure in history is. Everyone does. Santa, elves, reindeer…it makes no difference. The answer to the question; “Why does Santa do all this,” has not changed. He does it to honor the ultimate Gift.
Now some traditions I miss and they should never be messed with. Kenny G should not supplant Frank Sinatra singing Christmas carols. George C. Scott was never the Ebenezer Scrooge that Alastair Sim was. Bruce Springsteen sings the greatest version of Santa Clause is Coming to Town. Ever. But the one truth about Christmas is Jesus.
While they don’t always admit it, everyone knows it. And at Christmas, even Santa bows at the manger and is changed by the touch of a tiny baby. And tonight, for whatever reason God saw fit to allow me to bear witness. I have seen the heart of this giant and legendary figure as the real reason for his existence has come to light. He is touched by this baby, as he was when he Nicholas of Myra a saint of the early church whose acts of kindness inspired this legend.
…to honor his Lord

                            “…behind every vanilla “Happy Holidays”, under    
                                   every sprig of mistletoe and in every cup of
                              Christmas cheer…there is the truth of this baby in
                                      Bethlehem. There is no denying this…”

                                                            --Brennan Manning

Advent Day Two: Saint Nick

                                                Saint Nick
       “…That at the name of Jesus, every knee will bow…”

I suppose it’s ironic…or poetic, that the next visitor to this cave is Santa Claus. Ironic because in the Christian circle I formerly tread, Santa was anathema to us. He was here to rob us of the true meaning of Christmas. He was a tool of the devil. It’s poetic for the same reason…
When I was growing up, there was a mindset amongst some believers that Santa was evil. They went looking for "sin" anyplace they could and they squeezed it out of some pretty bizarre places. Playing rock records backwards, (don't we all?) telling stories about women who wear pants being cursed. You know, good solid theology. It wasn’t one church by itself, it was a popular trend in fundamentalist Christianity in that day. They were good people at heart; they just had a really distorted view of God.
Anyway, one particular target was Santa. He was secretly trying to displace Jesus. He was the spawn of Satan. If you rearrange his name you can actually spell Satan! (gasp) He was the leading cause of over-commercialization of Christmas...good solid factual objections.
Personally, I loved the old guy. I still do. I loved reading Clement C. Moore's "The Night Before Christmas" when I was a kid. I watched "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" in clay-mation and never in all that time did I once think of him as displacing Jesus. I never thought of him as dimming my view of that little manger, or the star in the heavens, or the real reason we celebrated. In fact, it was made clear to me that he did what he did every Christmas Eve because he loved Jesus and did all this in His name.
Otherwise he could have picked any night of the year to fly around the world and slide down several billion chimneys delivering toys. In fact, if he wasn't trying to do it all on Jesus' birthday, he could have sent the packages by Fed Ex and turned the reindeer out to stand stud at a breeding farm.
No, Santa was all about Jesus and I knew it. We all did. Nowadays, with Christmas under attack the way it is, Santa might really be our best ally. I mean we are still allowed to talk about him freely so why not go ahead and use him as a springboard to talk about Jesus? When some kid asks, "Why does he do it all on one night?" we can go into Santa's reasons for that particular night.
You see...I think Santa is a Jesus worshiper. I see the whole story as a way of explaining that ultimate Gift. In my mind he doesn't take away from Jesus, he adds to His fame. This legendary man does what he does because that's how he keeps Christmas in his heart. If anybody tried to hijack it and twist it away from Jesus, it was us. The Santa legend wasn't designed to refute Jesus; it was about making Jesus famous. Maybe we ought to take it back. Maybe we should, as I suggested earlier, use Santa as a witnessing tool.
Remember, God used a talking donkey once.
I was proved right as I watched him walking up to a little cave in Bethlehem, removing his red wool hat, pocketing his pipe, checking his red suit for appearance. He is a large man, so he has to bow his head so he can get through the doorway, and taking his place on his knees next to the manger where the poor, homeless, infant savior lies only hours old. He leans in on the little sleeping figure and his eyes well up in amazement.
He is silent for a long time and when he speaks he whispers a hoarse whisper..." You should see the happiness I brought in your honor tonight, my Lord. I did the best I could, but I am not you. I hope you are pleased." Then Santa's shoulders quake a little as the tears flow a more freely. "I didn't bring you anything. I went through my sack, and there was nothing I had that felt appropriate, nothing worthy. So I only have my love, and the contents of my heart. It is you who brings me the joy I give others. It is you who is the Source of my wonderful laugh. I am a giver of gifts on earth, but I do not compare to the gift you bring, sweet child. My only gift to you is my worship and my love...and to let you love me as you desire."
The old man remains quietly on his knees a long, long time, enraptured and lost in the miracle of the infant Savior in the feed trough. Even in the hustle and bustle of the commercialized, de-Christianized world, Santa finds a place amongst the shipwrecked at the stable.
I find myself chuckling silently as I watch this. Christians especially, get so worked up about the secularization of Christmas. I detest the whole “Happy holidays” thing too, but have we really removed Christ from this day? Does that mean that for all these years, our Christmas spirit was actually dependent on Wal-Mart greeters saying “Merry Christmas” when we walked in the doors, or is that just a handy excuse for the fact that I have lost touch with the Advent?
Do I care that my daughter doesn’t have a “Christmas Party” at school anymore? Because she has yet to forget it is Christmas. These thoughts race through my head as I watch this legendary man lost in worship and holding the key figure of all of history in his red-suited arms.
Each Christmas season, the greatest Christmas special ever made plays in prime time. “A Charlie Brown Christmas” has run each year since 1964. Each year the beautiful bubbly flow of Vince Guaraldi’s “Linus and Lucy” will resound once again as the “Peanuts” gang dances around Schroeder’s piano. Charlie Brown will be unable to reign in his charges, he’ll pick that pathetic little tree and at the height of his despair, he will let out a call “Isn’t there anyone…who knows the real meaning of Christmas?”
And then the moment that reduces me to tears every year like clockwork. Linus will take center stage and say “Lights please” and then he will recite the nativity from Luke chapter 2 verbatim. On national TV… during prime time.
I can’t wait to find out some day how many people wound up finding their way to the stable and to a face to face relationship with Jesus because of that little two-minute interlude. This nation may not be the bastion of Christianity it once was, but we still know why we really celebrate Christmas. Linus never lets us forget.
That was why I never got worked up about Santa Claus with my daughter. Because Jesus Christ is powerful enough to withstand being deposed by a fat man in a red suit. It isn’t even close. Ask a child the true meaning of Christmas and the vast majority will tell you about Jesus. Maybe their theology is off, but they know who the central figure in history is. Everyone does. Santa, elves, reindeer…it makes no difference. The answer to the question; “Why does Santa do all this,” has not changed. He does it to honor the ultimate Gift.
Now some traditions I miss and they should never be messed with. Kenny G should not supplant Frank Sinatra singing Christmas carols. George C. Scott was never the Ebenezer Scrooge that Alastair Sim was. Bruce Springsteen sings the greatest version of Santa Clause is Coming to Town. Ever. But the one truth about Christmas is Jesus.
While they don’t always admit it, everyone knows it. And at Christmas, even Santa bows at the manger and is changed by the touch of a tiny baby. And tonight, for whatever reason God saw fit to allow me to bear witness. I have seen the heart of this giant and legendary figure as the real reason for his existence has come to light. He is touched by this baby, as he was when he Nicholas of Myra a saint of the early church whose acts of kindness inspired this legend.
…to honor his Lord

       “…behind every vanilla “Happy Holidays”, under every sprig of mistletoe and in every cup of Christmas cheer…there is the truth of this baby in   Bethlehem. There is no denying this…”
                                                           --Brennan Manning

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Advent Day One...



“Why did Jesus take the lowly route of incarnation? Why choose the slow, and maybe poverty-lined years of the carpenter’s cottage? Why not receive fame as a king at once? ...Why not split the skies in the fiery chariot in which Elijah went up to heaven and descend some black night, preceded by the voice of an archangel?"
                                           -Leonard Ravenhill

I opened the little leather door and was stunned by a torrent of memories from years past. All the times I had opened an Advent calendar door as a child, and again as a dad with my little girl. The memories were as fresh as the smell of a Christmas tree.
But it’s not my own child I see behind the beautifully crafted, tiny leather door, it’s the child.
Jesus…the Savior
Advent really begins and ends with Jesus and so does this calendar. Its review, I suppose, but there He is, a tiny baby in about as "un savior-like" a situation as can be. If you were searching for a savior for the world, the last person you'd think you'd find would be an illegitimate baby, lying in a feeding trough in a cave with a teenage mom.
The last thing you'd think you'd see would be fanfare provided by some local shepherds who look and smell like...local shepherds. If you figured the King of Kings was arriving with full entourage and secret service, you would have missed Him altogether. Yet here He is. Unassuming, totally approachable, intimidating no one and wooing every heart with His innocence and vulnerability.
The unmistakable power of the baby in the manger was that He blew open the door of access to God. He did it by entering this world the same way we all do, and by allowing Himself to be as vulnerable and touchable as all babies are. And by doing what all babies do...making us smile, touching our hearts, giving us hope. Babies do exactly that for us. They are like little second chances for us every day of their lives.
There is something miraculous about holding a baby, particularly if you have never done it before. The way they look at you, the way they see into your soul. Babies especially those only minutes or hours old- have no preconceived notion about us as we hold them. They don’t have the slightest idea about our past, our failures, and our secrets. They only know what they see before them right now…just like Jesus has been telling us for 2,000 years. That He has removed our sins from us as far as the East is from the West. That He came to, once and for all, remove that ugly block of guilt and shame that stands between us and that Father who loves us so dearly He’d sacrifice His own Son to bring us home. He trumpeted this message in the cry of a tiny babe, in a cave in Bethlehem.
That is why -among other things- God chose to give us glimpses, in two of the four gospels, of Jesus as an infant baby. Because he wanted to make certain that we got it. That we understood why he allowed His son to enter this world the way every one of us has entered it.
He wanted us to all find ourselves here at this dank, cold, musty cave where His own Son would meet us if only we would come find Him. This is the place where He would lay in our arms, silent, vulnerable, precious and loving.
This unsuspecting cave was where He came into this world longing to be loved, handled, held, and touched. All we need do is simply crawl through that small opening and find our way, by faith, to this trough where He lay waiting for us.          The creation coddling the Creator. The ultimate act of trust, vulnerability, and loving invitation.
Jesus was as much a human infant as my own daughter was...or as your child. He needed to be burped after he ate. He made messy diapers that made his parents laugh. He slept when Mary wanted to be awake, and he was wide awake when her teenaged body was worn out and needed to rest. He blew spit bubbles without knowing he was doing it, but He laughed anyway. He smiled instinctively at the sound of his mother’s voice. He probably had dark, unruly hair that had a mind of its own.
All those wonderfully precious moments that mean so much to parents of newborns, Jesus provided them to Mary and Joseph. Maybe so much so that his parents occasionally forgot about the angels, and the voices from God, and those visions and dreams. He curled his tiny hand around Joseph’s finger more than once and reduced his stepfather to tears of joy, fear, and feelings of unworthiness.
When we come to this manger, in this cave, and we see this infant for ourselves, it changes everything. All those images of God as a lightning bolt throwing, angry, mean-spirited God have no place here. This baby destroys lies about a lack of forgiveness that we have attached to this wildly forgiving God.
Until the moment of His birth, learned men who claimed to speak for God, spent 4,500 years teaching us that He was mad at us. That He hates us, punishes us and then enjoys the pain we are in. But in one moment that forever splits history, the infant baby Jesus demolishes that image and replaces it with that of a tender little boy, hours old, reaching out to wounded hearts bound in fear of judgment. Jesus came here and took on the form of a baby. Not just any baby, but a poor, illegitimate, scandalous child who would grow into the “Man of No Reputation” of Philippians chapter two. He became nothing.
You can’t fear a baby. Period. A baby wasn’t around when I did those things I am so ashamed of…he is only a few hours old. His memory begins and ends with me holding Him. He touches my deepest wounds and darkest places and his touch sets me free.
That’s what babies do…especially this baby. God knew that. He knew that to break down the walls of fear and shame that man had built between him and us it would take something amazing and special and miraculous.

So when the time had come, he said “They've had 4,500 years of seeing me as mean-spirited, angry, harsh, and distant. They need to see me as I really am... crazy in love with them. I know what I'll do. I'll go and live amongst them. And I'll come as a baby, so they'll see me as I long for them to see me, touchable and wanting to love them". Who can resist that?” I think it worked. 
Welcome, Savior

Chapter One: "It Just Doesn't Seem Like Christmas...

“...He watches out for the widow and the orphan.
And He places the homeless in homes of their own.”

Wick Radcliffe was chattering in broken Chinese when
I turned the corner off Arch Street. He was standing in the doorway of his tiny bookshop talking to his neighbor.
It was amusing to me to watch him attempt the Mandarin dialect as he did.
He was animated and loud and his neighbor seemed mildly amused at his efforts. I was nonetheless impressed…God knows I couldn’t speak the language of this neighborhood.
Arch is the main thoroughfare of the Chinatown section in Philadelphia. Wick’s store is on a small side street that runs perpendicular to Arch. It’s really almost an alleyway. My sister had discovered Wick’s shop on a walk from her house to her job at a coffee shop about 3 blocks away. She liked the uniqueness of his store and the fact that he specialized in Christian titles. He was one of maybe two or three shopkeepers in Chinatown who was not actually Asian. Wick had found his little shop quite by accident and the rent was very low and he liked the area. Over the years he had gotten quite friendly with his neighbors and considered them family.
Stoic Wilson Radcliffe was from the Main Line area of Philadelphia. He came from money and his family had been prominent Presbyterians in this predominantly Catholic city. His parents had given him his very unique name because his mother wanted something that engendered a strong demeanor, and his father was a self-styled philosopher and so the Stoics were a favorite read. His middle name of Wilson was shared by his father’s favorite author and preacher A.W. Tozer.
Wick hated his name. “Who names their kid ‘Stoic’?” he asked me once. As early as he can remember he wanted something else but he never could convince his parents to let him change it. Shortening it to “Wick” was as close as he could get. As for living up to their “good “Chrustian expectations” as he would say in a forced drawl, (making reference to the classic line from Flannery O’Connor’s “Good Country Folks”), Wick never followed his family’s piety. He discovered Jesus after waking up in a gutter in the middle of February in Dewey Beach, Delaware, after a weekend of drunken debauchery with no recollection of how he got there.
Somehow Wick had gotten a copy of Brennan Manning’s “The Ragamuffin Gospel” and had his face to face meeting with the Christ of God. Manning is his favorite author. During our first meeting, when he discovered my fondness for Brennan, he pulled out a worn paperback copy of the first printing and opened the page to reveal “To Wick -best wishes, Brennan” written in purple crayon.
Before I could ask, he explained that he crossed paths with Manning in the Philadelphia airport and neither of them had a pen. The only thing they could find was a kid with a single purple crayon and a five-page coloring book that was provided by the stewardess from United Airlines. So they borrowed the kids’ purple crayon. Wick loved that story.
Today was the twenty-seventh of November and a typically cold, grey day in Philadelphia. I was home for Thanksgiving and had journeyed up the highway to my hometown and the familiar sights and sounds. I stopped in at Tony Luke Jr.’s for the city’s best cheese steak and a hug from the owner. Tony is my friend, and while it’s hard to catch him in one place for very long, when I do it’s a treat. I visited with Tony for a half hour and then headed to Wick’s shop, not really knowing what I was looking for. I knew I wanted an advent calendar for my daughter, because each Christmas we had one and I wanted to keep the tradition going.
The truth was, I wanted to visit with Wick because Wick is a true ragamuffin. A broken life who never forgot what Jesus Christ really did for him when they met, and who had never really wandered far from what made him such a rascal in the first place. This kept Wick “soft and tenderized” as he liked to say and never far removed from the hurts of another. Wick knew that under all our bluff and bluster…we are all ragamuffins.
It had been a very hard two years for me and I always felt better about my own humanity after spending an hour with Wick. I don’t know anyone who is more appreciative of who he was, who he is, and what could have been if not for God’s intervention in his life. Wick grows on you.
It was Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, when Christmas shopping officially kicks into overdrive and the holiday season roars out of the gate. I wasn’t ready for the coming holidays and that worried me. I am a “Christmas guy” as my friends say. I get into the Holiday season like few others. From mid-November to the second day of January, I am one big happy Italian who can’t get enough of traditions and sights and sounds and smells. My family celebrates Dei Festa de Sette Pisci, “Feast of Seven Fishes” on Christmas Eve. Morgan and I have a very specific list of movies, TV shows, and music that must be played during the season.
Somehow this season had snuck up on me and I wasn’t ready. Over the past two years I had lost my house, my career, and my possessions when the mortgage industry collapsed. I was a mortgage banker and had been for ten years. But by 2008 I was homeless and living in a 1995 Volvo hidden behind a church.
I stayed in Nashville (where I now live) because my daughter is there with my ex-wife and I have to remain in her life. Otherwise I would have come home to Philly and never looked back. I like Nashville just fine, but Philadelphia is home. This year I was sad as Christmas approached instead of my usual joyful self. Walking down the little side street to see my friend Wick, I knew one thing: I didn’t know what it would take to make me happy again.
Wick greeted me with the usual “Yo!” as I turned the corner. This is the way Philadelphians have said hello for generations, and it’s a true term of endearment for us. Then he turned and said something in Mandarin that was obviously funny to his Chinese neighbor. They both laughed and the Asian man looked at me with mild awe in his eyes. “What did you tell him Wick?” I asked. Wick smiled and was about to answer when the Chinese man spoke in halting English, “Mr. Wick says you are far to rarge a man to have such a dispreasant rook!” I smiled and the Chinese neighbor laughed. “How you get so big?” he said with a straight face. I stared at him for a split second and then felt an involuntary smile crossing my lips. “You’re playing with me right now, aren’t you?” The man broke into peals of laughter and I felt myself relax a bit. Wick spoke up as he reached his hand toward mine. “This is Mr. Xiao. He is a professor of English at Temple University.” I smiled and reached for Wick’s hand, “It’s… Engrish,” Xiao said with a chuckle. Something about that made me laugh deeply and he extended his hand to me. “You can call me John” he said in a voice and pronunciation as perfect as radio announcers. “John…nice to meet you.” I offered.
Wick, John Xiao, and I stood in the street for a few moments as the day grew dark in a hurry. It was around 4 p.m. and sunset was upon us. Inside the caverns created by skyscrapers, the shadows grew even faster. A lull in the conversation allowed me to ask Wick the question on my mind. “Wick…I am looking for an Advent calendar.
Something a little more substantial than the cheap paper things I can buy everywhere around here. Do you have any?”   “Yeah I might have something…” Wick said with a smile.
John walked in with us and we grabbed cups of coffee and walked to Wick’s crowded and overflowing worktable. Besides retail sales, Wick was recognized as a master in restoring old texts. He had re-covered an old Bible of mine three summers before and he was always wanting to show me his latest rare first edition that he had discovered in a yard sale someplace for a nickel and was bringing back to life.
Wick didn’t have a book to show me this time, he was busy working his way through his first reading of “Davita’s Harp” by Chaim Potok and hadn’t had a restoration project in about two weeks. I chided him for only now discovering Potok, who was a favorite of mine since college. Wick laughed and reminded me of all the authors he had recommended over the years that I still haven’t explored. I lowered my head in mock shame. Wick got us back on point as he pulled out a box of Advent calendars and showed me each one. There were a few of the traditional paper calendars with the little door that you open each new day for the month of December. There was a fabric calendar with 25 pockets sewn in, one for each day where you inserted a little reliquary or symbol of Christmas.
There was a wooden version that dated back to about 1928 and was handmade by some Amish folks in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. None of them sparked my interest and none of them seemed to have what it took for me to get back whatever it was that was missing from my holiday season.
Wick was puzzled and didn’t think he had anything that I would really want. “What are you really after?” he asked me. “I don’t know Wick, something that would take me back to when I was a boy. Something that will get my daughter back into the spirit. This is the first year she doesn’t believe in Santa and it is sort of hard for me.”
Wick laughed at this. He had never had any children of his own but had befriended my daughter when she was about age four and referred to him as “Uncle Wick”. He knew Morgan’s love for the season and her love for her daddy. His laughter hid a tinge of sadness that I could detect in his eyes. Wick is my friend and he understood that I was hurting this year after all I had gone through.
“Have a seat Craig,” he said. He, John, and I walked over to three huge leather chairs and sat down. “Okay…tell me what the matter is really,” Wick said. Before I realized it, I felt hot tears welling in my eyes and I looked at my shoes instead of my friend’s face. “Wick,” I began. “I have never felt so lost…not in my whole life.”
Wick, sat back in his leather chair. He was almost to the point of lying down. He had known most of what I had been going through over the last three years and he was concerned. But somehow he suspected that my current state wasn’t just about the losses I had been enduring.
“Craig we’ve been friends for a while, and I know you well enough to know that this isn’t just about losing your home, or your job. This isn’t about being homeless. This is a lot more.” I was silent for a while and suddenly the words poured out like water bursting a dam. “Wick” I began, “I just feel so lost. I feel so sad and so sorrowful. It’s almost Christmas, usually I am happy beyond belief right about now but I just feel sadder. I am not living in my car any longer but I have never felt more homeless, or more alone in this world.”
Tears were flowing now and I was silent for a long time with my eyes closed. I was thinking about my daughter being “too old” for Santa. It had all happened so fast…those first ten years of her life. Being divorced from her mom since Morgan was two only accelerated the passing of that time. How many bedtime prayers had I missed? Too many for my liking.
I was thinking about my fatherhood and how I treasured it, and then I began thinking about my own father. I have only met my dad once in my life, when I was 43. He desires no relationship and I have stopped trying to have one. I have the rest of the family and I am thankful for that.
But still, the holidays are a time for family and being together and here I was about to be alone yet again. I said all this to Wick and to John Xiao and they just absorbed it like sponges without saying much at all. Wick was thoughtful as he finally began to speak, “Craig, it’s no mistake you are here looking for an Advent calendar. You really need an advent.” He could tell by the look on my face that I wasn’t following him.
“Adventus,” he said. “Huh,” I offered quizzically. “Adventus, it’s the Latin word where we get ‘Advent’, it means Christ’s being amongst us, the anticipation of his coming.” I wasn’t following the line of thinking and Wick said, “Jesus entered this world as one of us -exactly as one of us, the same way we do- as a baby. Have you ever wondered why he did that?”
“I’ve thought about it some,” I told Wick. He knew I was a
Brennan Manning fan and he knew I had read “Lion and Lamb” by Manning. “He came as a baby so we would find him accessible and approachable. So we wouldn’t be intimidated.” Wick nodded approvingly. “He came vulnerable so we would understand that His place in our lives is totally at our mercy, He would only enter where we asked him,” I said, more to myself than to Wick.
I hadn’t noticed that Wick had walked to the other side of the room and when I “snapped out of it” he was standing next to my chair with a box in his hand. John Xiao was smiling approvingly and he nodded toward the box in Wick’s hand. “Take it” John said. Wick handed me the box and before I opened it he began to explain, “Craig this is a special advent calendar…but I can’t tell you why.” That was a strange statement for Wick to make and my puzzled look betrayed me.
“John has had these in his family for 78 years. Supposedly everyone who has ever displayed this calendar over the holidays has had a special encounter with Jesus during that time. The encounter varies and seldom does anyone talk about it. Apparently it can be so deeply moving that others would find it hard to believe anyway. John and I think maybe you need this.” I could sense the enormity of this gift as Wick handed it to me with John’s approval.
The calendar wasn’t a lot different than all the other advent calendars I had seen. It was much nicer than the paper versions available in stores and supermarkets. It was leather, like a book, but it had no pages. The cover had 25 small handmade doors that were hinged with tiny leather strips.
Whoever made this went to great effort. It had the words “ADVENTUS” in large block letters burned into the leather at the top. Each day was marked in script. It wasn’t typical dark leather, but was about the color of a baseball glove, a light tan. It was more a work of art, to me, than it was a calendar or a Christmas reliquary. It must have taken a very long time to make and it was obviously a labor of love. It seemed mystical, in the truest sense. As if somehow God had visited this little handmade calendar. If Christmas really had a spirit…this calendar contained some of it.
“It’s perfect Wick,” I said. Wick was smiling broadly, almost knowingly. “Yes…yes it is,” he answered. “How much?” I asked, and when I did he smiled again. “There is no charge, because you can’t keep it. When the Christmas Advent is done, and Epiphany has begun, you have to return it. It is the only one we can get and next year someone else will need it.” He said that as if he knew all along that this was the exact calendar for me. As if the entire conversation was just a test to see if I was ready.
Perhaps that was exactly the case.
John and Wick and I talked for a few more minutes, maybe a half hour in all. Then I took my package and headed out into the chill of the Philadelphia night, looking for my car and feeling the faintest glimmer of hope that this Christmas season would be special after all. This beautiful calendar seemed to spark something in my heart. I couldn’t wait to show my daughter.
I drove out of the city and across the Platt Bridge on I-95 south. I was lost in thought, as I frequently am when I drive. I saw the exit for highway 291 -the old “Industrial Highway.” This road used to be the only link into Philadelphia when I was a child. I-95 ended in Essington back then, and if you were continuing North, you had to get off at the Boeing plant and take 291 past the Westinghouse factory. From there you would travel over the Pennrose Avenue Bridge, which lies next to the scrap yard -where they turn crushed cars into big rusting bricks that look like giant steel wool pads- and then on into town. I thought about exiting and driving down 4th Avenue and past my grandparent’s old house, but it was already dark and there wouldn’t be any point to it.
I miss that house sometimes. My grandparents are long gone, but I spent so much time there that it was like home to me. Especially at Christmas…when I always turn to thoughts of home and family and when living in Nashville feels as far away as living on the moon. The memories associated with the house on 4th Avenue weren’t all good, but there were enough good ones to make it call to me as Christmas approaches.
When I am home I stay with family, and on this trip I stayed with one of the two families who had “adopted” me years before. Bob and Cathy had first met me when I coached their son Bryon in high school ice hockey. They quickly became friends and then my family. I lived in an apartment over their garage for about three years and I still stay there sometimes. On this particular trip home in 2009, that’s where I was.
I turned up the drive and pulled my car to the back. I grabbed my package and walked first to the house before going to the apartment. I wanted to show Cathy and Bob the wonderfully unique advent calendar I had gotten on my trip to Philadelphia. They were sitting in the kitchen when I walked in the back door.
“Look what I found today Cath,” I said as I pulled the handmade calendar out of the bag and showed her. She marveled, as I had at the detail and the loving way this calendar was put together. We talked for 15 minutes or so and then I excused myself for the night.
I walked across the driveway to the doorway leading up to the apartment and felt the cold sting of freezing rain drops.
The November night sky was spitting hesitantly and I paused to look up. Somewhere above that grey canopy was an early winter moon. I could see the light as it spread across the top side of the cloud cover but was unable to find a break and penetrate the night.
Something in this occasion made me sad. Like there was some light somewhere that needed to touch my soul and illuminate my own darkness and it wasn’t able to get through to me. The clouds became symbols of something holding me back. Not sinister necessarily, but restraining. I waited in the night -very still- hoping for something to change and the moonlight to find its way through, but all I felt were the infrequent droplets hitting my face.
I walked to the door and up the stairs to the place I had called home for three years. I set my bags down at the top of the stairs and called my daughter to say goodnight. I sat in the big easy chair and waited for her to pick up. “Hi Daddy,” she said…as she always does. “Hi honey!” I replied. Ten minutes of exchanging stories about her day and the upcoming holidays and finally I got to the real purpose for my call…the calendar.
“Guess what I got us today?” “What?” she asked me. “I went to Uncle Wick’s shop and found a really amazing handmade Advent calendar. So this year we can do it again and it will be very special, it’s really amazing. Mom C saw it and she loves it. Morgan calls Cathy “Mom C” and considers her a grandmother.
Morgan didn’t say anything and I was instantly wondering why. “Don’t you think that’s just amazing?’ I asked. “I guess so,” she said. I waited for a minute -a long time when you have nothing to say- “You don’t really care to do the Advent calendar this year, do you?’
I asked her. Her long pause answered without words. “I don’t care…it’s okay I guess...” she said.
I knew right then I’d lost this one. She’d outgrown the Advent calendars too. We talked for a few more minutes but I scarcely remember what we discussed. I told her I loved her and I would be home in two days. We hung up and I sat there in the darkness with just a small table lamp across the room. This was not going to be the holiday I had hoped for and I was beginning to really dread the upcoming Christmas season.
This was unlike me. I was always a Christmas person. I never wanted to lose that trait and here it was, after losing so much personally in the past few years, now I was losing a beloved tradition too. It was too much for me. I sat there for a long time, I was thinking about my grandmother, and the alabaster Nativity set she would put under the Christmas tree each year. I was missing my grand mom and feeling the years rush past.
Hours passed. The clock struck midnight at Saints Peter and Paul, the old Ukrainian Orthodox church next door, and I realized it was December 1, and Advent had begun. I fumbled through the bag and picked up the beautiful calendar that only hours before had held such promise. Now it was yet another symbol of disappointment and the changes my life was enduring.
“Well, it’s December First. I suppose I should do this anyway” I said to nobody but the darkness of the room. With no small measure of reluctance, I opened the little leather door on day one and this mystical Advent had begun.
“The Shipwrecked at the stable are the poor in spirit who feel lost in the cosmos, adrift on an open sea, clinging with a life and death grip to one solitary plank. Finally, they are washed ashore and make their way to the stable, stripped of the old spirit of possessiveness in regard to anything. They have been saved, rescued, delivered from the waters of death, set free for a new shot at life. At the stable, in a blinding moment of truth, they make the stunning discovery that Jesus is the plank of salvation they had been clinging to...”
                                           -Brennan Manning “Lion and Lamb”