Jesus, today, one more survey popped up on my screen, asking my dog’s opinion of winter. You know I don’t have a dog. But if I did, perhaps he’d agree there are too many surveys in this world.
Image by Claudia from Pixabay.
Instead, shouldn’t humans, canines and all creation ask the bigger and better question:
Have you already decorated your Christmas tree(s)?
Not me. Pumpkins, fall leaves and acorns still adorn my fireplace mantels and front door.
This decorating delay doesn’t indicate inefficiency on my part — perish the thought! It does reflect autumn’s short season. Thanksgiving items are placed on clearance before kids trick-or-treat.
Given that many hate winter, why do we forget fall so fast? Why not linger in Thanksgiving Land?
It was wild and wonderful, wasn’t it?
Even if I had to shovel out spare rooms and wash sheets.
Even if wrestling the defiant turkey into the oven resembled a Friday Night SmackDown sans tights and sparkles.
Even if appliances didn’t feel blessed. Our disposal rebelled Thanksgiving morning. Worse, our oven adopted a relativistic philosophy, insisting if its controls read “350,” the actual 500-degree temperature was irrelevant.
Image by G.C. from Pixabay.
Even if, having stocked up on dark meat because we ran out last year, I was asked if our turkey was a mutant. Ditto for yeast rolls that resembled trolls.
Even if drains and conversations occasionally clogged.
And I can’t pretend I have six months to Christmas shop. …
Still, with four generations feasting and sharing gratitude to God, our Thanksgiving was a blessed celebration.
Admittedly, the grandchildren’s sugar energy levels could have endangered not only our house, but the entire city block. Thankfully, we all defused at a large community room I’d rented.
No one sent the Monopoly game airborne when he landed on Boardwalk with hotels.
Everyone ate mutant turkey and rolls.
Not only was there enough pie for all 17 diners, plenty remained for Grandma and Grandpa’s post-host-survival celebration.
Despite that, I still can zip my jeans! — and ignore nasty online pop-ups advertising tent-sized attire for New Year’s Eve.
Bottom line: Our family arrived safely, rejoiced, loved, and gave thanks together, then returned home, grateful to again sleep in their own beds.
Can such a rich celebration be considered a mere practice run?
We can correct whatever went wrong at Thanksgiving to improve Christmas gatherings. Hosts can repair the carbonizing oven and replace air mattresses that flattened overnight. Hubby watched a YouTube video that helped him fix the disposal. I might even practice making rolls that look like … rolls.
Image by Richard Duijnstee from Pixabay.
Soon autumn decorations in our home will give way to poinsettias, evergreens and jingle bells. A Christmas tree will grace our living room window.
But thanksgiving won’t be packed away until next November.
I pray it saturates my Christmas season … and New Year’s … and Easter 2024 … and …
Image by Deborah Hudson from Pixabay.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What are your reasons for thanksgiving, even after Thanksgiving?
Well, new to me. My friend’s outgrown Mary Janes boasted slightly taller-than-average French heels.
My mother distrusted anything French except toast. “You’re too young for those!”
How could I wear winter-worn oxfords with my “new” dress?
Mom gave in. Eventually, she allowed glorious, pinchy-toe, high heels that made me walk like a camel.
St. Augustine probably passed on French heels, but when he abandoned his sensual, doubt-ridden life and was baptized, he donned special Easter shoes. Shoes that symbolized he would walk in the steps of Christ.
Steve and I took in the view of Jerusalem atop the Mount of Olives.
I walked in Jesus’ steps, too, in Galilee. Down to the Dead Sea. Up the Mount of Olives. Down to the Garden of Gethsemane.
Image by Jeff Jacobs from Pixabay.
That Man walked and walked!
Jesus didn’t wear Dr. Scholl’s® sandals as he traveled mountainous, unpaved roads through Scorpion City. He needed no Fitbit to calculate travel’s toll on His tired, bruised, filthy feet.
One woman poured thousand-dollar-per-ounce perfume on those feet and dried them with her hair.
Image by Dorothée Quennesson from Pixabay.
Did Jesus’ disciples go overboard, too? Hardly. Instead, He pushed aside supper to wash their dirty feet — all 24, including Judas’.
Soon, His own were nailed to a cross as if they had no nerves. When Jesus appeared after His Resurrection, he showed the disciples His hands and feet, printed forever with His love for them.
His love for saints like Augustine.
For the child who in her Easter shoes glimpsed His gift of newness of life. For that child now turned Dr. Scholl’s® queen.
To all, Jesus shows His beautiful feet.
Easter feet.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Did you know Jesus loves you, too?
O Lord, why a fussy, tropical plant named after a politician should figure prominently in commemorating Your Advent seems a mystery. But You designed lovely, gaudy poinsettias. You also loved a party … and disliked nitpickers. So, OMG, I will celebrate You any and every way I can!
O my God, “Happy Easter”? My yard looks more like “Merry Christmas.” This snowy Monday morning seems to have killed off any possibility of life. But OMG, when You make up Your mind, not even an uncooperative weatherman can stop Your Resurrection!
O my God, when a squalling baby interrupted a Christmas brass choir concert, I inwardly grumbled, “Why did those parents bring that kid?” Then, OMG, You reminded me: “The group is playing ‘What Child Is This.’ But you think babies shouldn’t be allowed at Christmas?”
This past weekend, when our two-almost-three-year-old grandson was staying with us, an odd November tornado also dropped by our area for a visit.
Thankfully, our little guy slept through much of the storm, then seemed to enjoy the novelty of the accompanying power outage. We cuddled and read stories by the light of a camping lantern and flashlights and sang songs about the wise man who built his house upon a rock.
We comforted him when the thunder and lightning and wind grew too scary. But the scenario reminded me of years ago when my little ones — and a God surprise — comforted me.
Purple-blue clouds raged and roiled in the yellowish sky. Enormous trucks roared around us on the interstate through curtains of blinding rain, shaking my little car like a wet terrier. Tornado warnings crackled on the radio. But my preschooler played contentedly with her Barbie® Dolls in the backseat. My two-year-old munched the crackers I’d given him.
How I envied their serene trust in me! If only I possessed such faith.
“Let’s pray Jesus will take care of us!” I said in the bright mommy-tone I always use when all is lost.
They bowed their heads and folded chubby hands. Their sweet prayer calmed my terrors.
“Look!” I cried.
An exit loomed ahead. We would leave this nightmare and seek shelter!
Even as I pulled into a truck stop and parked, the rain began to diminish.
My little children taught me a little about faith.
I turned to my children, almost crying with joy. “Jesus is with us!”
“’Course He is.” The two-year-old stared at me. “I see Him.”
“No, honey,” I patted his little hand. “We can’t see Jesus. But He’s with us all the time.”
My toddler looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Jesus is right there, Mommy!”
My stomach, which had quieted, lurched anew. “Wh-where?” The hair on my neck prickled. “Where’s Jesus?”
He pointed an indignant finger. “There!”
Slowly I turned around, quaking.
On a nearby semitrailer, a huge colorful mural of the smiling Savior with wide-open arms offered us a hug.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Do you remember when children taught you a thing or two?
O my God, when we go to church on Easter Sunday, we look so saintly and sweet. But OMG, You know what we’re really like—yet You loved us more than Your life.