Epiphany

No Christmas nativity scene is complete without the figures of the Magi. When I was growing up, we celebrated the 6th of January as Epiphany; it marked the 12th day of the Christmas season, a time when we'd bring out the three wise men, or the Magi, and their camels, and place them around our family creche. When I was younger, I did not really ascribe much meaning to the presence of the wise men, or to Epiphany for that matter, other than it marked the official end of the Christmas season: the tree and all the trimmings would be put away for another year, and school would start back up the following Monday. As I matured, though, I learned the significance of these few verses was much more important: the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles. Epiphany.

For those of you not familiar with the the Bible, the story is recounted in the gospel of Matthew; several Magi came from the east to worship the newborn King of the Jews, bringing him gifts. Along the way, they stopped off at the palace of King Herod (who had been appointed the earthly "King of the Jews" by his Roman superiors) and inquired where the new King of the Jews could be found. Understandably, King Herod was not too happy about this potential usurper to his throne, and later on Matthew tells how Herod tried to ensure his throne was secure by ordering the death of all little boys under the age of two. Pretty traumatic story, one that always made me shudder at the horrific, senseless brutality of it all. Epiphany.

Over the past two weeks, I often wondered about how odd it was that the Congressional certification of the election results coincided with Epiphany. I had never paid any attention to that ritual, let alone what date it occurred on, but this year was different (shocker...something else different and weird to happen this year). I watched with some trepidation, but mostly bemusement, at all the rumblings of a pending march on Washington, encouraged (some say incited) by our current President via Twitter, ultra-conservative news outlets, and (anti) social media outlets. To many Americans, albeit not a majority, January 6 represented their last chance to express protest of the results of the November election; the movement took on a life of its own, and hundreds of thousands of American citizens organized a march on the nation's capital. I figured it would be a repeat of the Jericho March a few weeks earlier, and that it would garner some airtime and some attention, but that it would be mostly harmless. Boy was I wrong. Epiphany.

Today I watched, for the first time in my life, the airing of the actual certification of the Electoral College votes--a tradition that goes back 232 years. My husband and I watched as Vice President Pence began the session in the House Chambers, calling on the states to announce whom their electoral votes supported, votes VP Pence would then confirm. First, Alaska announced their awarding of three votes for the Trump/Pence ticket, and Pence, after ensuring there were no objections, confirmed that announcement, and told the clerk to record it. I commented to my husband how neat it was that we were watching this process, something we had never before seen. Next, Arizona, and I again watched as the state elector announced their votes, this time for Biden/Harris, and VP Pence asked if there were any objections. This time, a Congressman objected, backed up by Senator Cruz, and officially objected to those votes, thus stopping the entire process. It was truly interesting to hear the explanation of the process, and what would happen next. Epiphany. 

No one, though, seemed prepared for what happened next (although they should have been). A peaceful march of citizens disillusioned with the outcome of the election, waving flags and wearing MAGA gear, was first just something interesting to watch, but the media was intent on making it into more than it was, using words like "riot" and "takeover" and "insurrection." According to them, the protest somehow morphed from a peaceful protest and expression of first amendment rights to a threatening storming and potential takeover of the US Capitol. What I saw? People marching peacefully, standing on the steps of the capital next to capitol policeman, waving flags, not guns, until I spied a few protesters in riot gear and camouflage and helmets breaking windows to get into the building. I almost thought they were part of the police force. Everywhere it appeared to be peaceful; folks actually in attendance were posting and tweeting their confusion over the media misrepresentation. Epiphany.

Soon, members of Congress were unceremoniously whisked away via underground tunnels and buses. The electoral confirmation was immediately halted. The DC mayor implemented a 6 pm curfew. The FBI and the National Guard were activated. Accusations were flying from both sides, and all the major media channels feigned surprise at an event that had been promised for weeks. The same media that quietly stood by and practically condoned the violence of last summer, excusing burning buildings and destroyed property and injuries and deaths and calling it all peaceful protest now called the gathering in DC a mob, a riot, an abomination, an insurrection. We turned off the TV, realizing there was no unbiased, objective reporting to be seen. Epiphany.

As I was eating dinner, I began to cry. I tried to not focus on what had transpired, the implication of what I had seen. I tried to believe in the goodness of people, that truth would win out, that all this would just be another expression of freedom of speech, and that voices would be heard, even if the outcome of the election was not changed. But it felt hopeless, and suddenly became clear to me what was happening. Truth was twisted, voices were silenced, drowned out by the echo chambers of reporters and the internet.  I cannot prove it. I am not even sure what happened. Other than, yet again, millions have been manipulated to believe what the world wants them to believe, to see what they want them to see. And all the protesting or trying to convince folks otherwise, is pointless. Epiphany.

I don't know what happened today, but intuitively I know it is not what the news reporters and social media would have you believe.  And no, I am not spouting some ill-founded conspiracy theory. Nor do I believe President Trump is blameless and innocent of manipulation. However, I do not trust the narrative being hawked by glib, well-dressed, talking heads posing as journalists. Today, Americans tried to express their support of their candidate, peacefully, and somehow that protest was hijacked by forces wanting to discredit everyone who refuses to subscribe to the secular rhetoric of a nation bent on socialism. But I guess that's what happens when  we make gods of money and power and fame, when we put self before others, when  we put our trust in earthly leaders instead of Christ, and when we worship the creation instead of the Creator. Epiphany. 

Scars

Just when I thought the wound was healed, scab was gone, with no visible scar, bam! One small comment, one random reference, and the pain comes flooding back without warning, and I am struggling to hold back the tears and to focus on the present, my breath quickens and gets more shallow, and the all-too familiar panic sets in. The speed and sinister ability to snake its way into my heart and my soul, to hijack my emotions and my thoughts, positively astounds and frightens me. It is as if I have no control over what will trigger fears and emotions, and perhaps I do not have any control over those impulses. Intellectually I KNOW why it happens. I have read and studied the wonderful mysteries of the brain: its parts, its functions, the rapidity of its processes, and the way my experiences shape my memories and affect my responses to things, responses that occur in nanoseconds before I am even aware of what is happening. But that does nothing to prepare me for how suddenly I am a quivering mess. 

Yes, that happened today...it started out as a conversation about being Christian in a fallen world, which evolved into how to evangelize to non-believers, first friends, then family. Sharing concern over the heartbreak of knowing loved ones are not believers, how they may not be able to articulate what they believe, we spoke about how we deal with the insecurity, the not-knowing, and how my only recourse sometimes is to pray, to love, to reflect Christ. Next thing I know, the conversation shifted to talking about our family, bringing up memories of family members who are no longer in our lives. Within a fraction of a second, I am sucked back into the vortex of pain and betrayal and hate and vitriol that have characterized my life over the past four years. And as we drive to lunch, my husband purposely exaggerating the curves to thrill our three granddaughters, it takes every ounce of self-control, and frantic, silent prayers for over 30 minutes, to quell the panic and anxiety that have exploded without any notice, pain so searing and hot even the giggling, gleeful screams emanating from the back seat do not snap me out of it.

Absolutely mind-boggling how fast it all happens, how helpless I am, how quickly I succumb to the fear and the panic, evidence that, though I KNOW to lean on Jesus, to give it all to him, to trust Him, I still forget. And I wonder if the scars will ever completely heal and disappear, and not be a source of unexpected, savage pain, and that I will someday finally be able to breathe and not dread that some minuscule thing--a word, a picture, a smell, a sound--will hit that scar and release the pain all over again

I am so broken and lost. Despite all my brave words, my prayers, and my brave face I wear, the only thing holding me together is God's grace. His wonderful, precious, free grace.

Giving Thanks

For me, Thanksgiving has always been synonymous with family; as far back as I can remember, Thanksgiving has been a day for family to travel from near and from far to gather round the table and eat and talk and make memories. When I was little, it was with grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles, and the kids were always relegated to a small folding table to the side of the big table where the adults sat. Later, after I had gone off on my own, I would always travel back to my dad's house and celebrate with him and my stepmom and my brother, along with some of the same aunts and uncles (a bit older, of course); we would have the same fare, and watch football, and talk and laugh and relive Thanksgivings past. One year I even flew from Cleveland to Cincinnati in my then-boyfriend's plane, arriving at the house just in time for dinner. As the years went by, and I was married, then had children of my own, our house became the gathering point for those memorable turkey dinners--sisters, nieces and nephews, parents, and sometimes even friends would gather round the table and in the living room afterwards, reliving the experiences of Thanksgiving Days past. Even when my family suffered fractured relationships, and some no longer joined us, we continued to gather--my parents, my in-laws, our kids and their kids--we would celebrate that special day, and plan ahead for the following Thanksgiving Day and discuss the details: who would host it, who would come, who would make the pies. Then, in 2018, we celebrated our final Thanksgiving with my parents--just me, my husband, and my brother gathered around my parents, holding hands, and giving thanks for the years past, the memories we shared, and later partaking in a catered turkey dinner picked up from a local restaurant.  Six months later, both my parents and my in-laws had died, gone on to celebrate a heavenly Thanksgiving. The next year, neither my husband nor I could bring ourselves to celebrate the way we had in the past--the pain was too fresh, and the memories only brought tears. Now I sit here on another Thanksgiving Day, remembering all the Novembers I have had, the memories pouring in and cascading through my mind as tears fall down my face. Today we have simple plans, no extravagant, giant turkey in the oven, or myriad of sides, or even the ubiquitous pumpkin and apple pies.  Acoustic praise and worship songs are playing on the TV, Alex is cooking up a double batch of goetta, and I will be planting 150 spring blooming bulbs, and then we will have a simple dinner at Cracker Barrel with my brother. 

Looking back, there are memories and laughter; I can hear the voices of people long gone, see the smiles of loved ones unable to join us, smell the familiar aromas wafting through the house. 

Looking forward, there are memories to be made, laughter and the tears; Thanksgivings will be different, and we will reminisce about the holidays past, but we will have no regrets. 

Looking up, I praise the author of Thanksgiving and all the days, and I am thankful, for every day is a day of thanksgiving, no matter who we are with or where we are or what food we prepare. 

Pinning my hopes

 

Election day: an event holding huge promise for everyone, not just the candidates, an event on which many pinned hopes. Hope that the election results would bring answers and resolution to all our fears: the pandemic, healthcare, the future of our country, riots, unrest, and economic insecurity. Hope that we could once again be one nation, under God, indivisible. Hope that we could return to a time when civil discussions were the norm. Hope for a political and ethical reset. Hope for affirmation of our ideals. Hope for a return to patriotism and respect and kindness and civility. And I secretly hoped for my side to win to achieve some sort of narrative closure and a reaffirmation of the basic good and decency of the American people.  I had not just pinned my hopes on the wrong thing--I had wrong hope, and had placed my trust in princes.

Like many of you, I expected, no prayed, for this election to NOT be a close call, but instead to unify us towards a common goal. But why would I, like my fellow voters, expect, or even hope, that the election would reflect anything other than the stark, irreconcilable differences touted on Facebook, Twitter, CNN, Fox, church pulpits, street protests, and even dinner table conversations? Because I was placing my confidence in earthly systems, and counting on a flawed process to bring America to its knees, to acknowledge that, as a nation, we have abandoned our Christian values and are blatantly ignoring God's law. Ashamedly, I secretly hoped for a landslide to crush the opposition and show them, once and for all, who is boss. So here we are, 48 hours after the last polling station closed, and not just me, not just the country, but the world waits with bated breath on the outcome of this election, as if the outcome will make all our dreams (or nightmares) come true. I hate this waiting, the not knowing, and worst of all, I am mad that things are not going to go my way; even now, it is taking a Herculean effort to NOT turn on the news or go to my browser to ascertain if Arizona has declared a winner or if the Congress' balance of power has shifted right or left. And this scene is being repeated millions of times across the country, with folks stressing out over whether their ballot had all the right answers, thereby validating their choices, their values, and their beliefs; some are even already protesting when there is nothing to protest. 

On Tuesday night, when it became painfully obvious the election results not only mirrored, but reinforced the division of our country, I noticed my chest was tight, I was irritable, anxious, and wanted above all else to escape from everything related to election results and partisanship. This distressed me emotionally and spiritually, and I struggled to squelch the anxiety and refocus on God and Scripture, so I began to dissect those feelings and thoughts to try to make sense of them. I turned to Scripture and Christian resources, and began to work through it, as uncomfortable and distressing as these feelings can be. I was anxious—election anxiety.

Anxiety, regardless of the genesis of it, is inordinately hard, because anxiety triggers the fight or flight reflex, and the overwhelming desire to master the situation, conquer the anxiety, and above all, be in control. Being a Christian does not preclude the presence of anxiety; sometimes suffering anxiety as a Christian causes even MORE anxiety, because we wrongly interpret God's word on the subject. Casting all our cares on Him, or not being anxious about anything, does not mean we will never be anxious.  We will be anxious, simply because we are humans; in the Psalms, David asked God numerous times to help him with his anxiety and cares (Psalms 13, 23, 30, 91 and 139, to name just a few). Like David, we can cast those fears and anxieties and misgivings on the Lord, and He will help us walk through them. Hopefully, with God's help, I will reflect to others that we trust in God’s sovereignty.

Put not your trust in princes, in a son of man in whom there is not salvation. When his breath departs, he returns to the earth, on that very day his plans perish. (Psalm 146, 3-4)

Family Tree

Have you ever noticed that only the really young and the really old care about the past, the family history,  and what Grandma did for fun when she was little? Our grandkids are constantly peppering us with questions about their parents as little kids and what we did "back then" for fun. The young ask the questions, the old answer them. Now in no way do I consider myself really old (not yet, anyway), but I find myself suddenly engrossed in researching my and my husband's ancestors, and trying to go back as far as I can. I have never really given it much thought before, but suddenly I am in danger of turning into one of those crazy, old, blue-haired aunts that can regurgitate family names, marriages, number of children, and spicy stories five, six, even seven generations back. 

It all started innocently enough--I couldn't sleep, so I decided to organize the basement cedar chest--the one with the scrapbooks, memorabilia, and baby books.  As I was sorting it all into piles--one pile for me, one for Alex, one for each of our children, and a big box for grandchildren's artwork--I came across some things I had not seen in a very long time. One of those items was a handwritten genealogy of my dad's family tree, all the way back to my great-great-grandpa: twelve pages of meticulously documented names, birth and death details, marriages, burial locations, even their professions and nicknames. I sat and stared at it, then began to study it, closely, until finally, I just had to plug all those names and dates and data into an actual family tree so I could see it all spread out in beautiful, magnificent flowchart fashion. Voila, problem solved with the discovery of an extremely user friendly program; I could plug in the data, and it automatically searches existing genealogical data and gives suggestions, sources, dates...in short, everything. After one night I had a family tree that, in some areas, extended all the way back to the 1700s. Mind boggling, seriously mind-boggling the amount, complexity, and detail of the data at our fingertips. A tad bid scary as well. All I did was type in the information of five generations in my dad's family tree, and suddenly, little blue boxes and notifications were popping up next to all the names on my family tree, telling me there were more sources, more data to digest and validate, more details, more, more, more, more.  I was hooked, maniacally digging for more data, more dates, more names, trying to "complete" our family tree, but every time I thought I was finished, yep, more notifications, more little blinking blue boxes, being spit out by computers and the cloud and whatever else generates all this data stored in cyberspace. I would never be finished, some data was just too hard to find (like my husband's ancestors in Spain--I am convinced that Spanish surnames actually are a family tree in and of themselves). 

So I stopped. And then it hit me. One day, 50, 100, or 150 years from now, one of my descendants would ask her grandma what it was like when she was a little girl, and her grandma would talk about life, share memories, and perhaps even show her a family tree with my name in a little white box six generations before the little girl was even born. What would the computer sources have spit out for my name? What little fun details would be listed? What stories could that grandma share about me with my future great-great-great-great-great-great to the nth degree granddaughter? What will I have accomplished, said, demonstrated, or lived that would leave a mark on the world, especially on that little girl's life? Will I be known as someone who loved and followed Jesus? 

All those white boxes and lines on my chart, filled with names and dates and places where they lived--but that is all they are. Boxes, two-dimensional shapes on a screen. The living, breathing people who came before me made a difference, in their lives, their community, my grandparents' and parents' lives, and ultimately mine, because someone in my family tree told me about Jesus, about my heavenly  Father, and because of that, I am now grafted onto the ultimate, eternal family tree. 

Let that be my mission, my passion, my goal in life. Out of the box.

This little light of mine

I’m in Texas visiting my friend this week, my best friend actually, whom I haven’t seen for nearly two years. She has been going through some life changes, life changes that seem to me to be repeats from her past choices. Since January 2019 we’ve been communicating via text and videochats, and while that’s fine for mundane issues or catching up about kids and the job, it is woefully inadequate to discuss life’s deeper issues, and definitely not the channel to discuss divorce, bitter child custody disputes, or the desperate need for God in our lives. I’ve shared my faith before, and hopefully I reflect Christ. All the chats and talks since last year have been fraught with emotion and misperceptions, and everything I said seemed to generate more misunderstanding. So little wonder that I was initially conflicted about traveling and confronting her about the issues that are heavy on her heart; however, I decided, finally, to come and confront the dragon (not my friend—the glaring issues). 

Part of my visit overlapped her weekend custody of her 5-year old, Nora--a precocious little ball of energy and the center of this nearly year-long controversy over who will get to raise her. We had a fun weekend, trying to just have a "normal" fun time at the beach, reading books, watching movies, and the like; it also included me teaching her little ditties and snippets of songs. One that popped in my head the other evening was "this little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine." 

I had been so worried about what to say, what to do, how to express my love and support and friendship, and it was all in that sweet, simple song from childhood Sunday school. Let my little light shine.

"For this very reason make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue, and virtue with knowledge, and knowledge with self-control, and self-control with steadfastness, and steadfastness with godliness, and godliness with brotherly affection, and brotherly affection with love. For these qualities are yours are are increasing, they keep you from being ineffective or unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ...for if you practice these qualities you will never fall." (2 Peter 1:5-8, 10

Taking Inventory

Have you ever had to take inventory to ascertain what you have on hand, and what you need to order? I used to assist my dad in his drugstore, counting greeting cards, bottles of aspirin, shampoo, nail files, even helping him enumerate prescription pills. My dad was amazing at this--he could hold up a bottle of pills and guess how many were in it, and 99% of the time, he hit it on the nose. Oh to be that skilled at identifying my own surpluses and deficits. Self-inventory, or finding out who I am, who I am supposed to be, and how God purposed me. Easier said than done, because everything I thought I knew about myself and who I was has been stripped away over the past five years, leaving me confused and unsure of my identity, my worth, and my faith. When you have been told, from infancy through middle age, you are no good, a problem, wrong, and will never amount to anything, you believe it. All of it. Especially when it comes from the lips of the person put on this earth to nurture and love you unconditionally. Yeah, my mom, but I am not going into all that right now.  And yes, my sisters betrayed me, believed her lies, shunned me, and have totally cut me out of their lives and their children's lives. I have written about those dysfunctional relationships ad nauseam, prayed about it, received counseling for it, and shed enough tears to float an armada; none of that changes anything. It happened. It sucked. 

So now what?

Confidence shattered, first I withdrew into myself, began to believe the lies and the distortion of the truth, that I never was, and never would be, good enough--sister, wife, mother, Christian...fill in the blank. Hard to believe I was ever in charge of anything in the military, or a subject matter expert in manpower and personnel, with accolades and awards and promotions one right after the other; hard to believe, because that person seemed so far removed from my current state it was as if I was two distinct people. That "other me" had a job to do, that person had authority, and the trust of her subordinates, peers, and supervisors. That person exuded confidence, self-assurance, and expertise at all jobs--military and civilian: cashier, respiratory therapist, student, waitress, bartender, military member, contractor--that person thrived on challenges. Regardless of the assignment, she never gave in or gave up; that person was a leader, a go-getter, an over-achiever, and, most importantly, respected and loved. Airmen I worked with decades ago still look up to me and credit me for their success. Kids I taught in Sunday school twenty years ago invite me to their weddings. Young women, my daughters included, listen to me, ask my advice, and tell me how articulate I am, that they envy my confidence; for all intents and purposes, to them, to others, to the outside world, I have it all together and have life all figured out. 

In my personal life, nothing could be farther from the truth, especially since 2015. Within the boundaries and disciplines of a well-defined job, sure, but in the nebulous ambiguity of relationships and socialization, I am a mess--insecure, uncertain, ill-equipped, ever questioning my own motives. In other words, I completely lack any confidence in myself, my thoughts, my words, my past, and my effectiveness, and, worse still, I use the yardstick of my estranged family's opinions of me to measure my success...at anything. I mistake the most innocent comment from one of my adult daughters as an accusation, and then I descend into a vortex of self-incrimination. Not a fun place to be, and definitely not healthy--emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually. Spiritually--funny I should go there, because that is where I should have started, where I should always be returning...to God, to Jesus, to the Holy Spirit, because only in God can I discover my true identity.  So I jump off this merry-go-round of self-deprecation and self-condemnation, and proceed to determine who I really am, and to take inventory of my strengths, my weaknesses, and my sins--the facets that make me who I am, and that align with the purpose God has in store for me. 

All of us are endowed with natural abilities, which we should develop and use accordingly, for the good of God's creation (although not everyone does that). God has blessed me with intelligence, a propensity for being task focused, awesome organizational skills, and a natural appetite for learning and understanding; I am also sensitive, empathetic, a good listener, and a natural caregiver. On the flip side, however, some of these very same strengths are double-edged swords and, used wrongly, become stumbling blocks and weaknesses. While intelligent, I tend to become impatient when someone does not understand what is apparent to me, and my sharp wit can quickly degrade into sarcasm, or (cringe) passive aggressiveness. And while being highly sensitive alerts me to infinitesimally small changes and levels of discomfort of those around me, it also has the unfortunate reaction of making me uncomfortable and defensive, causing me to withdraw from, or outright avoid, social situations. Likewise, my natural ability to discern the root cause of an issue sometimes elicits anxiety and exacerbates my deep-seated fear of confrontation.

So what do I do with this inventory? It's not like I can order up some more strengths like my dad would order more aspirin, nor can I simply hide my weaknesses; that does not work--trust me, I've tried. Followers of Christ are blessed with abilities, even those abilities we may view as handicaps, to strengthen the faith of others, not for our own gain. The secular, worldly view? We can be whatever we want, we create our own successes, and we deserve to be lauded and appreciated and admired for our achievements. According to Scripture, though, our gifts and our abilities are not earned or deserved, but a matter of grace to be used to serve others, strengthen them, and fulfill God's purpose in our lives and theirs. “I long to see you, that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to strengthen you, that is, that we may be mutually encouraged by each other’s faith, both yours and mine.” (Romans 1:11,12). 

Yes, even our weaknesses point to our Creator and to Christ; in our weakness He is made strong. Throughout this journey of being broken, of having my insides laid wide open, naked and afraid, I have grown closer to God and marvel at how He uses me to fulfill His purpose. Because of, not in spite of, my trials and my weaknesses, I see that same pain and suffering in others, and can share my testimony and point them towards the Gospel. 

"As each has received a gift, employ it for one another (or serve it up to one another) as good stewards of God’s varied grace: whoever speaks, as one who utters oracles of God; whoever renders service, as one who renders it by the strength which God supplies; in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ." (1 Peter 4:10,11)

Inventory complete, except for one glaring omission, my most critical strength: chosen, adopted, loved, and cherished child of God, daughter of the King. He covers all my sins, my weaknesses, and values me and loves me for who I am.