Christmas in Alaska

December 13 is St. Lucia Day, but it is also the day many remember the life and death of St. Herman of Alaska. I’d never heard of him until this year, but he truly led a fascinating life. He was one of the few who brought the gospel to Alaska over 200 years ago, enduring many hardships, and protecting the native people he had grown to love with his life. Some of his fellow missionaries were martyred. Father Herman died and was buried on December 13 (December 25 in the West).

I had the privilege of hearing his liturgy sung in a beautiful cathedral as a special birthday treat this year. (I have loved cathedrals ever since my mission trip to Romania in 2003). And I’ve thought about him several times, as the days here continue to get colder and darker. How blessed I am to have a warm home and relatively easy life; yet how wont I am to complain when my feet are a bit cold in the car, or there is ice covering the parking lot at the grocery store. I am humbled when I remember that many Christians have endured great hardships and horrible conditions to bring Christ to a dying people.

I believe that God has given us this great cloud of witnesses so that no matter what challenges we face in our daily lives, we can know that we are not alone. Someone at some time has faced similar things and more, whether in Alaska, or Jerusalem, Romania, or Ecuador. We remember them and rejoice in the faithfulness of God. He has a long history of doing great things with small people.

Merry Christmas from Alaska!

- by Elizabeth Jackson
photo by Sarah Plett

Down From His Glory

The Church of the Annunciation in Nazareth:
a breathtaking reminder of the Incarnation.

Someone has placed these little plaques at numerous churches all over Israel. This one reads:

Jesus made himself of no reputation,
and took upon himself the form of a servant,
and was made in the likeness of men.
Philippians 2:7

Considering his person and his gifts, no one
on earth has followed such a way of humiliation,
of hiddenness and misunderstanding as Jesus,
the Son of God, did as a boy and carpenter in Nazareth.
Whoever loves Jesus will choose such a way.

Christmas Memory

I may not celebrate Christmas in the same way or to the same extent as many people, but I find that as the day draws closer, I once again have slipped into a stage of reflectiveness, remembering some of the Christmases of years now passed. There is one thing in particular that I am remembering right now....

The sky was perfectly blue- one of the brightest, deepest blues I had ever seen. The sun was shining and I was short-sleeved and barefoot, and it was Christmas time. Instead of the snowy landscape and forested land, I found myself walking through the Rabbit brush and tumbleweed in a high mountain desert so very far from what I had nearly always known as 'Home'.

We were starting over, my parents, sister and I, after 15 years of living in South East Alaska- 15 years in which were contained most of my memories and all that I really ever knew. We had only been in our new desert home in Colorado for a little more than a month, and that day, as I walked toward the mailbox that had been empty for many days, and looked up at the sky, there were tears in my eyes. For the first time since our move to Alaska those long years before, I was once again a stranger, only it wasn't so easy this time. I felt so very alone, so very far from what was familiar, and the people that I loved and the kinds of Christmases we'd always had before. Yes, I was thankful to be in my new home. I was learning to love Colorado, and I knew that this is where God wanted us, but starting over this time seemed so very hard.

I desperately wished for just one thing- one little thing that would remind me that I really wasn't all alone, that being a stranger was not forever. I didn't know what, or even what to pray for, but God heard that unspoken prayer.

That afternoon, as I stood in the kitchen trying to make sense out of the cupboards and what needed to go in them, there was a gentle knock on the door. I almost thought it was just the wind rattling the door again, for who would be coming to see us? But it came again, a bit louder, and when the door was opened, a little Hispanic lady stood there, smiling brightly and holding up a tin of Christmas Cookies. "I saw that you were new here," She explained, "And I wanted to wish you a merry Christmas..."

I didn't catch her name, and I heard little of the rest of the conversation, and after the door closed again, the rest of the family dispersed back to their former occupations, and I stood alone in the kitchen, the little tin of cookies in my hand, with tears once again in my eyes, as I looked out across my new desert valley, and up to the mountains.

She was just a stranger- a lady I never saw again in for the rest of the time that I lived there, even though I looked for her often. It was simple cookies from Wal mart, but they were worth a whole lot in my eyes.It was just a little thing, but that little thing meant the whole world to me right then.

Several Christmases have since passed, and once again it is Christmas time. I live in a new place now, and life has changed so much since that Christmas, but each year I cannot help but think of that Christmas, of that little lady, and of her gift to our family and what it meant to me. And it makes me think... have I passed on this Christmas blessing of sharing?

We can be so self centered, so focused on us, on our own little cozy circles, and what we are getting or what is going on in our lives that we forget to reach out, beyond our comfort level, beyond the normal, to someone else who may be in need. They may need something big- an investment of your time and energy and emotional support, they may need things, they may need an encouraging word, someone to tell them that they care, and that it's going to be alright. They may just need a smile. Whatever it is, look for those people this Christmas season. Pray that God will send you the opportunity to pass on the blessing of Sharing, and He will take you at your word. Don't miss those opportunities, for greater than the greatest gifts you may give or receive is the blessing you will receive by sharing.

- by Chantel Harding
photo by Sarah Plett

Second Breakfast

Congrats to Elisabeth for having her Christmas in Jerusalem article published on Boundless! Go enjoy it here.

I think the Hobbits were on to something. Tea and scones, porridge and eggs, toast and sausages are well worth considering a second time, especially on a long and cold walk near Mordor when the first breakfast consists of rabbit.

The Incarnation, the Atonement and the Second Coming are well worth considering a second time, especially on a long and cold walk through a secular land. "The Incarnation is a thing too wonderful" for us, and I think we need all the help we can get, to really get it.

So let's have second Christmas! It starts tonight, courtesy of the Orthodox Christians.

I think the Orthodox Christians are on to something when it comes to encounters with the infinite, and it's called tradition. Have you ever noticed, when you bump up against spiritual things, that you wonder what on earth to do?

Even if you bumped up against, say, Queen Elizabeth, wouldn't you find yourself at a loss if you did not know that you are supposed to courtsey (or bow) just so?

What if you met an angel? Most every person in the Bible who met an angel was so overwhelmed that he fell on his face. The most common angelic greeting is "Fear not!"

What if you met God? Moses took his shoes off. Isaiah clapped his hands to his mouth. Paul went blind. The twenty-four elders see God every day, and they continually cast down their crowns and cry, "Holy, holy, holy."

It's no wonder that God uses physical actions and objects as connecting links to communicate with us. "Come here to this Temple," He says. "Visit this city. Walk in this Land. Rest on this day. Anoint the sick with this oil. Wash away your sins in this water. Eat this bread. Touch the hem of this robe. See this blood. Feel this pierced hand."

Man-made traditions, of course, will sometimes short-circuit our connection with God: everybody knows about the Pharisees. But sometimes traditions can act like spiritual training wheels. Still, everybody looks forward to the day when we won't need training wheels anymore...when we won't see through a glass darkly...when we will turn and become as little children.

Do you suppose that as toddlers Queen Elizabeth's children felt the need of courtseying and bowing? I think they ran straight into her arms.

And so will we with our Heavenly Father, when we know Him as He truly is.

Meanwhile, "the Incarnation is a thing too wonderful," so let's spend this Sabbath...this second Christmas...looking up into His face.

And, you know, there's January eighteenth, thanks to the Armenian Christians.

Third Christmas, anyone?

"In the beginning was the Word...in Him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shined in the darkness; and the darkness apprehended it not...but I know that my Redeemer liveth, and at last He will stand up upon the earth...whom I, even I shall see, on my side, and mine eyes shall behold, and not as a stranger."

- by Elisabeth Adams
written January 6, 2007

St. Lucia Day

When does the Christmas season really begin? That’s a topic open for discussion, but to my mind it begins on the magical morning of December 13, Saint Lucia’s Day. Although our family isn’t of Swedish descent, our neighbors don’t seem to mind that we’ve adopted their holiday, and it has become a special tradition.

We’ve got the whole thing down to a science now, but the first couple of years we had a few troubles. For example, we didn’t have a recipe for the traditional saffron rolls for breakfast. “Well, kringla is Swedish,” I told my sisters. “We’ll just make that.” Another problem was the initial reactions of the sleepy family when awakened by white-robed apparitions, with candles that cast wavering shadows on the wall. Some of the younger boys, wide-eyed, told Mom about the angels that came into their rooms, while the adults’ thoughts ran on themes of “The Ghost of Christmas Past.”

Since our family consistently forgot the date of the holiday, it was easy to keep the whole thing under wraps and let it be a surprise. Most years, they didn’t know anything was afoot until we woke them early in the morning.

Most years. Until the year we girls forgot about St. Lucia’s Day. We remembered at 8:30 pm on December 12.

“Oh, girls!” my sister Katie gasped. “Tomorrow is St. Lucia’s Day, and we haven’t done a thing to get ready!”

Betsy was undaunted. “Oh, we can still do it. We’re really fast. Let’s go make the kringla.”

Our younger brothers were already in bed, so we didn’t have to worry about them seeing us baking. We closed the kitchen door and kept an eagle eye out for anyone prowling around. Betsy, who has a reputation for being very fast indeed in the kitchen, started the kringla, while Katie and I made other preparations. What we didn’t know was that Betsy simply put water and butter in a pan, turned the stove eye on high, and scurried off to do something else.

It was only a matter of minutes before we heard the sizzle. Katie and I turned around just as Betsy returned to the kitchen, and we all rushed to the stove, where the butter and water were busily boiling over, sending plumes of blue smoke into the air. Betsy jerked the pan off the stove and put it in the sink, while Katie and I grabbed dishtowels and waved them at the smoke, which by now was curling along the ceiling and heading toward the door.

“We’ve got to stop this smoke,” Katie giggled, although we were nearly frantic. Right outside the kitchen door was a smoke alarm. And right down the basement stairs from the smoke alarm was half of our rural volunteer fire department, having a Bible study under Dad’s direction. We were sure that the smoke alarm would go off and they’d all come rushing up to see what in the world was going on. They are all our neighbors – we’d never live it down!

Thankfully we were able to direct the smoke away from the door and avoid that embarrassing situation. With the kringla safely baking in the oven, we turned our attention to other details, such as our costumes. Tradition dictates that the girls wear wreaths of evergreen branches and candles in their hair (although with a firefighter dad, we opted to carry our candles in our hands!). Of course, it was too cold, dark, and scary to go outside for branches by now. Always resourceful, we cut “just a few” off the back of the Christmas tree, hoping they wouldn’t be missed.

We headed back to the kitchen with our booty, closing the door quickly to keep the delicious smell of baking kringla from escaping. That smell would probably bring the firefighters upstairs about as effectively as smoke would! Besides, wasn’t the meeting about over by now?

Yes, it was. Suddenly the kitchen door was pushed open by Dad, followed by half a dozen men. With shrieks of, “Don’t come in here!” we girls pushed it shut again.

“Hey, what’s going on? Can’t I come into my own kitchen?” Dad queried. “We’re just bringing our cups and plates in for you. What’s the matter?”

We were too hysterical to be coherent, but managed to tell him that one of the firefighters could bring in the dishes – our good friend Tim, who has a couple of crazy sisters himself. He just shook his head in bewilderment as we tried to explain what had happened. “Okay,” he finally said, shrugging.

Amazingly enough, the breakfast turned out beautifully. The kringla was perfect, the table was lovely, and the evergreen wreaths, while rather prickly, were silent as to their origins. It was once again a complete surprise to the rest of the family.

It was the last time to be a surprise.

- by Jeannie Castleberry
Photo by Sarah Plett

Christmas hath made an end, Part Two

It was certainly all magical enough, and only more so when all our friends began arriving with shouts of ‘Happy New Year!’ and the bonfire began leaping heavenward and the children started running to and fro in the darkness, heaping my withered holly branches and dried pine garlands onto the blaze. When we gathered for the blessing, I couldn’t help subjecting our guests to a brief—and, to me, at least—an undeniably fitting little reading:

Christmas hath made an end,
Well-a-day! well-a-day!
Which was my dearest friend,
More is the pity!
For with an heavy heart
Must I from thee depart,
To follow plow and cart
All the year after!

It grieves me to the heart,
Well-a-day! well-a-day!
From my friend to depart,
More is the pity!
Christmas, I fear 'tis thee
That thus forsaketh me:
Yet for one hour, I see,
Will I be merry.

There certainly was great merry-making around the fire that night. Sparklers for the children and bottle rockets and Roman candles for the boys and men. Old English games like ‘Christmas Candle’ and ‘Snapdragon’ that Philip and I dug out of an old book. Mirth and good cheer as Christmas trees were added to the blaze sending the flames a good forty feet into the air. After seconds and thirds of dinner had been dispensed with, my friend Rachel and I gathered all of the little girls for a special procession of the wassail and the Twelfth Night cake—which had been duly prepared with the traditional bean, pea and clove planted somewhere in its spiced depths, the discovery of which would determine the king, queen and knave, respectively, for the evening. We rehearsed our wassailing song quietly in the shadows of the great walnut tree and lit green sparklers on the cake before making our solemn way across the backyard down to the fire.

Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green!
And here we come a-wand’ring so fair to be seen!
Love and joy come to you and to you your wassail too,
And God bless you and send you a happy new year!
And God send you a happy new year!

The cake was presented amid a spontaneous burst of applause and was duly sliced and distributed by the girls to the eager guests, each desirous of their status in the hierarchy of the night. My mother’s dear friend, Wendy, was the knave, I plucked the pea from my piece of cake with an air of queenly triumph, and the king obviously swallowed his bean unnoticed and will henceforth go uncrowned. (We’ll just say it was Philip…)

There were Twelfth Night carols and Epiphany songs after that, and the inevitable Twelve Days of Christmas. And we closed on the rousing note of The Gloucestershire Wassail, each time I thought we were done another guest calling out another verse:

“The butler verse!”
“The maid verse!”
“Verse one, again!”

When all but a set’s worth (and those acquainted with Scottish or English country dancing will know what that implies) had taken their leave with many a hopeful word for ‘next year’, Philip and his brother polished off the bottle rockets while my sister-in-law and I looked on from a safe distance and savored the fun we’d already had and the enchantments abroad in earth and sky. A clear golden moon had risen early upon our festivities, out of a vaporous fog that cloaked the trees and made its light a mysterious thing. There was the closeness of the dew and the bewitchery of woodsmoke in the air. We looked up through the moonlit trees overhead and commented on how the drops that still clung to their bare limbs looked like stars all tangled in the branches. But only fitting on a night so fraught with faeirie…

Coffee and wassail and cookies in the house after that for the hearty and hale that had stayed for the dancing. Postie’s Jig and Corn Rigs and Frost and Snow were executed with commendable good spirit, despite—or, perhaps, because of—the fact that for the first time ever we had more gentlemen than ladies and a couple of un-named guys had to cross the set and dance as girls! ;) The candles wavered in their sconces as we romped by and the crepe paper fluttered overhead. And when we were all too tired to dance anymore, we flopped on the floor, the stairs, the remaining seats, and smiled sleepily at one another.

But despite my weariness, when we said goodbye and closed the door for the last time, I turned to Philip with a look of elation. My Christmas was complete; my holiday wrapped up like a present from God in one last lovely memory. We had said a worthy farewell to the dearest season of the year, toasted its memory with our laughter and songs.

And it’s only forty-six more weeks till I can start decking my halls again!

Christmas hath made an end, Part One

January 6, 2007

Last night was a chapter out of fairyland; a sojourn into a vanished realm that exists only in stories and songs—and in the very lively imagination of people like Philip and me. J I’m sitting here in my den this January afternoon with a pot of fragrant Winter Garden tea and an even more fragrant clementine, my Advent wreath lighted for the last time against the deepening sunset outside and a Mozart quintet on the record player, trying to convince myself that this sweet Christmas holiday was more than a dream. And no part of it seemed more dream-like than the Twelfth Night Revel we held here last night…

I don’t think I’ve ever been so blue about the holidays drawing to close as I was this year. Every moment was so precious that I literally watched them pass with a sigh and even a few tears. And when Philip went back to work on Tuesday and I was confronted with a quiet house and a mountain of laundry and a good-sized hill of dead greenery, it was all I could not to crawl back in bed and pull the covers over my head. It’s the price I pay for all my Christmas sentiment, I am well aware, and worth all its sweet pain. But something had to be done. And to my melancholy mind there appeared but one option: we had to throw a party.

So we invited our friends to a Twelfth Night Revel. It’s something we’ve wanted to do for ages, but with it falling on Friday this year—coupled with the desperate need I had for festivity—it seemed the very moment in time for such a frolic. So Philip got the bonfire ready and put out the chairs in a wide arc around it, and I decorated our big copper lanterns with wired-on greenery and doled out food assignments with each RSVP. I set up tables for the pots of chili and the platters of cornbread and the bowls of salad that were coming and spread them with branches of pine and big, ferny sprigs of cedar, interjected by tall glass hurricanes with white tapers. The front hall was cleared for dancing, and the chandelier was woven with a wreath of ivy and strung with bright crepe paper, red and green, that extended in winding ribbons to the four corners of the room. I made an enormous pan of Mexican cornbread and a pot of my favorite ‘White Christmas chili’ and took the remaining cookies I had made out of the freezer.

And all through the preparations the day of the party I listened to the thunder rumble and watched the rain falling outside—a veritable monsoon—and fielded phone calls from anxious friends.

“Are we still on for tonight?”
“Who would have thought we’d have such weather in January?”
“Well, we could always eat in the house…”

I laughed and soothed and projected the weather as best I could. But not, I confess, with an untroubled heart. It just seemed like our whole beautiful holiday would end on a flat note if our bonfire was rained out. Not to mention the fact that I had no back-up plan for seating the hungry hordes that would soon be descending upon us. And so I prayed roughly a dozen or so of those desperate little pleading requests: “Oh, Lord! I know that there are a million-and-one other things tremendously more important in the scheme of the world than whether it rains on our party or not—but oh, please, please let it clear up!”

There was nothing else to be done but continue with the preparations and hope for the best. The forecast was quite dour; the heavy-laden clouds that kept rolling in from the west were too disheartening to look at. It poured on Philip all the way home from the office. But at five-thirty a miracle occurred. I don’t hesitate in the least to call it a miracle, albeit a small one, for in it I heard the Lord say ‘I love you’ just as clearly as if it had been an audible voice. (And is it not those little personal miracles that show us—perhaps best of all—His great and lovely tenderness?) A glint of gold appeared in the west, piercing the leaden mantle with arrows of light. In a matter of moments the whole sky was suffused with a glory of saffron and apricot, crowning the tops of the trees in splendor and brimming the pasture below with a light-filled mist. I dropped my dishcloth and stood at the window, perfectly transfixed. My heart was filled with praise, for not only had God allowed the weather to clear up, He had done it in the most beautiful way imaginable. Every drop on every branch was a living gem, sparkling and flashing as if for joy. Birdsongs sweetened the already vernal air and Philip and I wandered about in the yard, laughing at how gorgeous it suddenly all was. I thought of the words to a song we’ve sung much this Christmas, All hayle to the days:

December is seene appareled in greene, and January fresh as May
Comes dancing along with a cup and a song to drive the cold winter away.

As twilight fell the world only became more glamorous: the mist rolled up along the terraces in the pasture and crept over the lawn, and stars winked out in the velvet overhead.

“I feel like we’re in Merry Olde England!” I cried to Philip.
“Or Ireland!” he supplied.
“Or Scotland!” I exulted.

to be continued...

Merry Christmas from the Little Pink House!

December 23, 2006

Dear Family and Friends,

Christmas lights twinkle around our big picture window, framing the snow falling gently down outside. We decorated our little live Christmas tree last night. When spring comes, we’ll have a little blue spruce to plant in our yard, around our little pink house. Except, hopefully we’ll have the siding on by spring, so our house won’t be Tyvek-pink anymore.

It’s been so fun to walk down to the mailbox each day, and find Christmas cards addressed to “Mr. and Mrs.” It’s so good to hear from each of you who have been such a part of our lives. Having just finished our wedding thank you notes, I don’t think Christmas cards will make it in the mail this year. So please let this email greeting suffice to say Merry Christmas from the little pink house to each and every one of you!

2006 was a year of many milestones for us. Getting engaged. Building a house. Our wedding. An explosion and helicopter ride to the hospital. And our first Christmas together. How do you summarize such in mere words?

Merritt and I rang in the New Year together at my grandparents’ ranch. And after a Christmas of mailing packages to each other and talking on the phone, we hoped and prayed that somehow, we could spend our next Christmas together.

On Valentine’s Day, Merritt knelt down on one knee, slipped a beautiful diamond ring on my finger, and asked me to marry him. In my surprise and joy I forgot to say yes, but he concluded that my answer was in the affirmative. We set the date, and while I returned home to buy a dress and plan a wedding, Merritt built us a little home on the very spot he had proposed.

Our wedding day was a dream come true. We enjoyed every minute of May 27. Walking down the aisle to join hands for life with my love, my best friend. After the pastor shared the story of how we’d met ten years before, we all sang “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” And every word rang true.

We honeymooned in Yellowstone National Park (where we met) and the Grand Tetons, and returned home to finish our little home. What fun to learn from my husband how to wire lights, lay floor, and hang cabinets! In two weeks we were settled in, and while Merritt cut hay I finished unpacking. We were happy as could be in our little pink house.

Then, God showed His faithfulness in a whole new way. Merritt was welding on a fuel tank here on the farm when the tank exploded, burning his arm and shattering the bones in his lower left leg. After 55 days of marriage, you don’t expect to be checking your husband’s IV and adjusting his oxygen tube while waiting for him to go into surgery. But God was so good to us. The accident could have so easily left me a widow. Instead, I got to be a nurse to my favorite patient! After two surgeries, Merritt felt a lot better with two rods and three screws in his leg. 10 weeks on crutches, a few more with a cane, and lots of physical therapy later, Merritt has only some nasty scars and a limp to show for it. But we learned so much about how the Lord cares for His own. Provision for the bills through the generosity of many friends and other believers in Samaritan Ministries, neighbors who stepped in and baled the hay when Merritt couldn’t, and such complete healing for Merritt’s leg that as of now he doesn’t even need a bone graft. We can only say great is Thy faithfulness!

Since July, our year has gone at a slower pace. As soon as he was able to be up, Merritt and I spent our days working in the family store, Front Porch Antiques and Produce. Doctor’s visits and physical therapy appointments filled our days off, Sundays were spent with our new church family. But when the third cutting of hay was ready, Merritt was back in the tractor, baling the alfalfa. Then in November, Merritt and I joined my dad on a week-long elk hunting trip. Camping out in the rain, wind, and snow made for a lot of fun memories—and lots of good therapy for Merritt’s leg.

We celebrated Christmas early with my family in Oregon, getting to see my brother home from college, my sister’s harp concert, and my youngest brother all grown up. It was fun to see so many dear faces again—grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and my church family.

But it was good to come back home, to our little pink house, for our very first Christmas together.

Yes, 2006 has been a year of many blessings. Special times with family and friends. Holding my husband’s hand as he came out of surgery. Learning how to be a farmer’s wife. Seven perfect months of marriage to my best friend.

But the greatest Gift of all is the One we now celebrate.

Wishing each and every one of you a new year filled with testimonies of His faithfulness…

Mr. and Mrs. Merritt and Gretchen Acheson

Remembering

The Lord’s Supper is a time of remembering. We remember Jesus’ sacrificial death on the cross, the love that He showed, and the fact that our sins are forgiven through His blood. We remember His sufferings.

I have to admit that I don’t often remember Jesus’ sufferings. I’m too taken up with mine. Trivial as they may seem, it’s easier for me to remember the time a friend betrayed me, a time my feelings were hurt, a time I felt that no one loved or understood me. I can remember pain, sorrow, and disappointment in great detail, even things that happened long ago. But the pain my Savior bore for me? Too often, I don’t take it seriously.

Why is it important to remember? At His final meal Jesus said, "This is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me." (Luke 22:19) Remembering His sacrifice ensures that we won’t take it for granted. It also humbles us, as we realize how much He gave for us, who did not yet love Him. (Romans 5:8: "But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.")

Our sufferings are painful, too. I’m not denying that. But as we think of our own pain, it should remind us of Jesus’ sufferings. Because the reason He went through that was to deliver us from sin and suffering.

"He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.

But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.

All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the LORD hath laid on him the iniquity of us all." (Isaiah 53:3-6)

Christmas is a time of remembering. While we remember Jesus' birth, let’s not forget the real reason He came.

- by Jeannie Castleberry

Merry Christmas from Alaska

As I sit here in my dark living room this morning, looking out at the snow piled high on our balcony and the lights from the city twinkling through the fog, I am thinking how different this December is from last. Last December the fact that it was still completely dark at nine-thirty in the morning was rather depressing. This year it is just part of a life we have gotten used to and even love. Alaska in all its drastic and extreme beauty.

Last year was our first Christmas as husband and wife. It was special, but also hard to be so far away from family. This year we have little William Allan, our precious two-month-old baby, and it feels right to be spending Christmas together, just our own little family. Our first Christmas tree shines brightly in the corner, and William’s first ornament—a polar bear—dangles from the branches with the other decorations.

It has been a year of wonderful memories and growth in our Lord. Learning to accept and embrace this place where we live; to be a family together; to make important decisions together. It is the year we found our church, the year our son came to us, the year we experienced loss together and came out stronger for it…

May God bless you all this Christmas as you remember all the things He has done for you this past year. And especially as you remember what He did for you 2000 years ago in a little town called Bethlehem.

Blessed Christmas wishes from Alaska,

Elizabeth Jackson

Christmas Version of 1 Corinthians 13

If I decorate my house perfectly with plaid bows, strands of twinkling lights and shiny balls, but do not show love to my family,
I'm just another decorator.

If I slave away in the kitchen, baking dozens of Christmas cookies,
preparing gourmet meals and arranging a beautifully adorned table at mealtime, but do not show love to my family,
I'm just another cook.

If I work at the soup kitchen, carol in the nursing home and give all
that I have to charity, but do not show love to my family,
it profits me nothing.

If I trim the spruce with shimmering angels and crocheted snowflakes,
attend a myriad of holiday parties and sing in the choir's cantata, but do not focus on Christ,
I have missed the point.

Love stops the cooking to hug the child.
Love sets aside the decorating to kiss the husband.
Love is kind, though harried and tired.
Love doesn't envy another's home that has coordinated
Christmas china and table linens.
Love doesn't yell at the kids to get out of the way,
but is thankful they are there to be in the way.
Love doesn't give only to those who are able to give in return
but rejoices in giving to those who can't.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all
things, endures all things.
Love never fails.
Video games will break, pearl necklaces will be lost,
golf clubs will rust,
but giving the gift of love will endure.

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Author Unknown

- submitted by Betsy

Wintertime thoughts from Gretchen...

Trudging through the snow in the growing dusk, on my way home from work, to make supper for my husband. The picture-perfect winter wonderland outside my living room window. Listening to my husband read Dickens’ Christmas Carol, as I rub his sore leg, with the Christmas lights twinkling around us. Peppermint ice cream and homemade hot chocolate. Cozy firelight reflecting on the ceiling as we go to sleep to Handel’s “Messiah.”

It’s December, and I’m loving every minute of it. We got all our Christmas shopping done before the first of December. The gifts are all wrapped and at my in-law’s, awaiting a Christmas tree to sit under. Next, we’re going to make Christmas cookies.

It’s been fun to have more time for reading, during the slower hours at the store. St. Elmo, Mother, and The Rackety Packety House have already made the trip back and forth in my basket this month. We found another bookshelf, so now instead of being stacked in cardboard boxes, two rows deep, all our books have their own place on a shelf. We even got them organized by author and subject. I love to just sit and read the titles, like I did when I was a little girl. At “rest time” I would lay on the couch with my face towards Mom’s bookshelves, and memorize the titles and authors. Now they are my own books, and I am allowed to read all of them!

The fire is crackling, and my husband’s exercise bike is whirring, which means I better start on the pancakes I promised him for breakfast. But before I go, may I ask again that you pray for his doctor appointment on Monday, Dec. 11? He’s finished physical therapy, and the leg muscles are doing so much better. But that bone had a lot of growing to do, last time we saw an x-ray. Thank you for praying.

Now find a cup of hot chocolate, turn on some Christmas music, and put up some Christmas lights…and just take a few minutes to enjoy the beauty of the season. Merry Christmastime!

The Nativity Story, Part Two

Among the comments on April's review of The Nativity Story, there was the following observation:

I was a bit disapointed with some of the extra things they slipped in- I don't recall the Bible ever mentioning that Mary didn't want to marry Joseph, and Mary seemed somewhat sulky at the beginning of the movie.

Here's what April had to say:

This was exactly how I felt at the beginning of the movie. Righteous indignation welled up in me..."Mary wasn't like that! God chose her to be the mother of Jesus because He knew she was and would be the most godly woman to ever live and was the only woman in all of human history worthy enough to be the mother of the Savior! She would never have engaged in a wrestling match, no matter how playful! She would never sulk or run out of the house when forced to marry Joseph!"

But is that true?

The Bible doesn't say that she did those things (and therefore I agree that it was "creative license" that inserted those events), nor does it say she didn't do those things. Actually, it says very little about Mary's character. If you think about it, we're actually told more about Joseph's character than Mary's - that he was a righteous man (Matthew 1:19). All we are told about Mary is that she found favor with God (Luke 1:30), but we aren't told why. Was it because she was more godly than anyone who had ever or would ever live? Maybe, but the Scripture doesn't say that. Could it have been that God, in His sovereignty, rather chose to use a flawed young girl who would be submissive to His plans?

Luke shows us Mary was godly and knew the scriptures (Luke 1:46-55), but it doesn't say that she was perfect, always decorous, always respectful to authority. I think we get that picture into our minds, especially at this time of year. In our mind's eye, Mary is a figure dressed in blue silk with hands folded and a halo around her head.

In reality, Mary, and indeed all the people God used who are recorded in the Bible, were flesh and blood humans just like us. God didn't choose to only use perfect people, because there have never been and never will be perfect people. He uses people who, through no other virtue of their own, are willing to be used for His glory. That is a lesson The Nativity Story drove hard home to me. I have no excuse to look at the people of the Bible and sigh because I will never be as good as they were - good enough to be used by God. God chooses imperfect people like Mary, and yes, even like me, to accomplish His purposes in this world, and I am so thankful for that.

The Nativity Story

The Nativity Story is the first Biblically-based movie to be produced by a major film company since the epic Ben-Hur (1959). Epic The Nativity Story is not, at least not on the grand scale of Ben-Hur or The Ten Commandments (1956), with lavish sets and thousands of extras. No, the strength of The Nativity Story lies in giving us a glimpse of the real lives and real emotions of real people.

Mary, a young girl forced into marriage to an older man she barely knows. Joseph, who chooses this girl because he sees in her a rare purity. Elizabeth, the godly older woman who understands Mary when no one else does. Joseph’s raw agony when he sees, in front of the entire city of Nazareth, that his bride has been unfaithful, and then his unbending commitment to his wife when he learns the truth. Mary, learning to love and trust and respect this man who is willing to share and posses her lifelong humiliation and ostracism from the people who were once her friends.

The film is simply and realistically set, and is supported by a strong historical context. The music in many places contains haunting reminiscences of well-loved Christmas carols.

As Christians, we believe “Jesus is the reason for the season,” but we have heard the story so many times, it has become flat. The Nativity Story reminds us that the people God chose to take the most important roles in the birth of Christ were ordinary people like us with dreams, disappointments, hopes, and fears.

- by April Hala

For the World Magazine review, click here.

It's Christmas in October

I'm working on my Christmas cards today. I'm going to watch It's a Wonderful Life, light the candles and pretend it's colder outside. :) I'm trying so hard to stay ahead of the game this year, especially since we're going to Colorado for Christmas. I'd like to have the cards done and most of my gifts done and ready to go before Thanksgiving.

It feels to us like it's been a lot longer than a year since Christmas. Last year we had my brother and sister-in-love and our two nieces here for the first two weeks of December, and we got to decorate our tree, make our annual trip to Knott's Berry Farm with my parents, and do most of our traditional things with them. But then, when we received the call that my dear friend's husband of four months had been killed in a work-related accident and we rushed to Missouri, we didn't feel very "Christmasy" anymore. I ended up with some of our cards unsent and we were finishing our last bits of shopping the day before Christmas Eve... but all of that didn't matter so much last year. Matt's death was the third Homegoing of someone close to us in a month's time. By the time we reached Christmas Day, John and I were just thankful to be together. I think we gained so much more of an eternal perspective during that time, and realized the importance of giving glory to the Savior and focusing on Him above all else.

This year, we're anticipating the thrill of enjoying Troy during his first Christmas, being able to spend time with both sides of our family during all of December, and truly showing to those around us the wonder of Christ's love for us. I want to soak up the memories, focus on the people, enjoy our family and grow closer to my Jesus... not be rushing around making a silly attempt at having everything "perfect."

So, in the Baker home, Christmas is starting in October--cards being written, family picture being taken on Saturday, gifts already thought out and some bought, a trip to Big Bear in the near future to finish up. I'm excited. :)

- by Ashleigh Baker

Thank You Notes

In our family, it's a required tradition to write thank you notes. After every birthday or holiday, we get out a 4x6 card and make our list of people to thank (preferrably before we put away the gifts, so we actually remember). That includes the great aunts who sent a card, much to our distress in younger years: "Mom, what do I say besides 'thank you for the card'?"

But despite the sometimes laborious nature of the task, we know the thank yous are always appreciated. In fact, my grandmother has been known to send a "thank you for the thank you note."

It's a habit I want to pass on to my children, of always making sure to let people know their thoughtfulness was appreciated, their gift used. (Back when Mom previewed our notes before they were sent, we were informed that we were not to list the dollar amount someone gave us, but instead tell them what we planned to use it for. Usually, that was buying another book or two.)

I have but one Christmas thank you note left on the list today. I've saved the easiest for last--I'll have such fun telling my man thank you for all the sweet things in the flat rate priority mail Christmas package I received!

Then I have three more notes to write. Two "thinking of you" cards (one being a belated birthday wish), and a sympathy card (the kind you never want to have to write).

Who do you need to write a note to today?

written January 2006

It's all rushed by so quickly...

Am I the only one still playing Christmas music? Lanier's post on Keeping Christmas is fabulous. Go read it for the photos alone--doesn't it look like something out of an Austen or Dickens novel? And I am sad to admit that I can think of only two or three times this month I took even twenty minutes to just sit and enjoy the Christmas lights in our living room.

Ah. But one of my brothers just came and jumped onto my bed to talk to me. And the YLCF looks nice and I'm caught up on my writing homework. But still. I know I have to somehow make more time to be instead of just do. Any tips and ideas? How can we do this? Er, there I go again.

Merry Christmas!

It's Christmas--
That joyous time of year.
A time for families,
Love and cheer.

So let's not be stressed.
Don't rush through it.
Open the gifts leisurely.
Take time for joy and wit.

Don't stress out
Over the turkey dinner.
It doesn't matter if it's late--
Your family will think it's a winner.

Don't rush the dishes--
Make them a family affair.
Have Dad wash the cups,
As kids dry the silverware.

Be thankful for the gifts--
Don't say, "You shouldn't have."
Christmas is a time of giving,
Expressing with gifts our love.

Don't try to make memories--
They happen, they aren't planned.
Memories are made
With love and joy at hand.

Take time for laughter
And recalling memories--
The gingerbread, the fruitcake,
The pie and Christmas trees.

Make it a happy day,
A joyous time of giving.
Thanking Christ for being born,
Living and dying.

This day is for Him--
Would He want rushed stress?
No, He'd want peaceful reflection
On the way we are so blessed.

He'd want peace in our hearts,
Love and thankfulness, too.
Christ is the joy in Christmas
For me and for you.

Copyright Gretchen L. Glaser, 2000

Mary's Heartcries

Five years ago this Christmas, I played Mary in a pantomime. On stage, you have to become the character you play. I could not be Gretchen when I was up there--unless I was completely engrossed in the character of Mary, I would not be convincing to the audience--I had to feel just like Mary felt. Marjorie Holmes' book Two from Galilee was just what I needed to help me get into character for the drama. But it did more than that. Reading the book, then acting out the scenes between Mary and Joseph and the angel, made the Christmas story come alive to me as never before. I wrote this poem while meditating on all that took place 2000 years ago. And each year, as I re-read Two from Galilee, I am once again in Mary's place, magnifying the Lord for all He has done.

Mary's Heartcries
Down the road he is coming, oh what will my beloved say?
What will he think now, when he hears what I've been told this day?
What does it mean, this angel's story?
I am to bear the Christ? But Joseph and I have yet to marry!
How wonderful, yet frightening--oh Lord, can it be?
That God has chosen His simple servant me?
But Joseph, my dear betrothed! What does it mean for he and I?
Oh Lord, I love him! Help him to understand my cry.

Here he is now--his shoulders broad and strong.
A carpenter is my Joseph--he works hard all day long.
"Oh Joseph, my dearly beloved, how shall I tell you this?"
He wraps his arms around me, saying, "I hope nothing's amiss?"
"Oh my dear--it is just that an angel has appeared to me.
And Joseph, I'm to bear the Christ Child as my baby!"
"My dear, are you sure!? Mary! Can it be?"
"Yes--it is true! Oh my dear, oh Joseph, please keep me!"
"My girl, we must think and pray. Why, the scandal--we aren't married.
Oh, that the house had been done already, had I not tarried."
"Oh Joseph, God is with me--with us. Surely, He'll provide a way.
Please, please! Oh my darling, don't go away."
"I'll be back, Mary. But I must think and pray.
You are right--God will make a way."

Oh these days, of joy and despair!
Praise the Lord, He's with me. For it is His Son I'm to bear!
But Joseph, will he leave? What shall I do?
How can a single girl be the mother of a King, too?

A knock sounded--firm and strong. Oh, it is my lover--
What will he say? "Lord be with us!" is my prayer.
"Mary! Oh my girl! Praise God! An angel told me
All will be well. I'm to take you and we shall marry."
"Oh Joseph, I knew God would be with us and guide us to
His perfect will and plan. But now what shall we do?"

We were married and it is wonderful.
Joseph is a man of such integrity and a husband loving and dutiful.
But now, this census--and I'm about to deliver.
But God will be with us: This I must remember.

"Oh Joseph, I'm so weary. Will this rough road never end?"
"Mary, my love, hold on. Bethlehem is around the next bend."
"Praise God! I can rest. Oh, let's do quickly find an inn...
But it's full, oh Joseph, help! The Baby's on its way, inn or no inn!"
"Here Mary, a stable--the hay's warm and dry,
Though not very fancy for a King to be born by."

But we didn't need wealth that night. Emmanuel the Savior came
Just as any other child--and yet, it wasn't the same.
Shepherds came to visit at this birthing place.
And angels stood guard as we watched the Child's face.
Joseph stood beside me so proud of this Baby.
Though not our own son but our Lord and Savior, you see.
That glorious night was just the beginning,
For this Baby was Jesus Christ the King!
Praise be to the Most High! My soul magnifies the Lord.
He has come to redeem this world!

Written and Copyright December 13, 2000 by Gretchen L. Glaser

Blue Christmas

Ever notice how all the Christmas songs are love songs? My man pointed that out to me on the phone last night. The thing about the holidays is that they are traditionally spent with loved ones. And so whether you have no one "special," or your "special someone" is miles away, you still feel lonely.

It's not Christmas yet, but so far I've managed to keep the Christmas blues at bay. Part of it could have to do with the love letters I keep getting in the mail. Or the flat rate priority mail box filled with no less than 9 presents for me to unwrap, all from my man. Part of it could be the fact that he's coming to see me for New Year's. And part of it could be simply that I'm trying to stay cheerful so he will.

But when I re-read what I wrote back in 2002, I realize that a lot has changed. In fact, I am the one who is sending out a Christmas letter filled with the news I scorned reading in others': the happiest of courtships that began on February 23, 2005.

So maybe it will encourage some of you who are feeling blue this year, to know that God can do a lot between one Christmas and another. Merry Christmas! And God bless us, every one!

“I'm dreaming of a White Christmas,” croons the old song…but mine will be blue this year. Every year it gets a little harder. And this year is the worst yet. Romance is in the air all around. Two good friends got married this year. One is expecting a baby come spring. The other just sent me romantic pictures of she and her hubby together with a Christmassy background. Then there's my friend who just got engaged, and another who will soon. And the rest have a special guy.

All around me is romance and cheer, weddings and babies. But I sit in the corner, alone. No man is singing, “Just put a ribbon in your hair, darlin'.” No baby calls me “mamma.” There's no one to meet under the mistletoe.

Somewhere maybe a guy is waiting. But he better hurry up. Tonight I'm lonely and blue.

What is it about this time of year? Why does the chill in the air, the snow on the trees, and the fire on the hearth make us all wish for someone to cuddle up with? Why do all the Christmas songs have romance mixed into their lyrics? And why do Christmas carols floating from the radio make me feel sappy?

There should be a law against Christmas movies ending with happy couples smooching on the screen. And it should be illegal to announce your engagement during the holiday season.

Why is it at Christmastime that everyone who is in love or engaged has to tell you how wonderful it is? Why do the married couples rub it in by kissing under the mistletoe every chance they get? And why are all the Christmas letters filled with news of more weddings and new babies?

I'm ready to ban Christmas. Forget the gifts and the goodies—I want a man. A man to love and cherish me all the days of our life…a man to spend sixty Christmases with me, seventy if the Lord allows. I want a man to sweep me into his arms and kiss me at the mere mention of those green leaves.

But until that time, I don't want to see another sprig of mistletoe tied with red ribbon. Wherever you are, my dear, please hurry. ‘Cause with Elvis Presley I'm singing, “I'll have a blue Christmas without you.”

by Gretchen Louise Glaser, 2002