Emmanuel...God with ME

Emmanuel.

God is with us.

Mary rode for hours on the back of a stinkin’ donkey.  When they FINALLY arrived at Bethlehem her disappointment was palpable as Joseph went from lodging to lodging, hoping to find a place for them.  She was getting impatient:  the load she was carrying was too much for all this travel.  A modern day doctor would have advised against it. 

When they arrived at the final option, both of them held their breath:  “no room.  No room, I’m sorry. 

But I DO have a space.  It’s far from perfect.  But you can get off that donkey and settle in.”

Mary, with feet so swollen they hurt (and itched!) finally dismounted that cursed donkey.  I mean, nothing against donkeys, but SERIOUSLY.  Over a week on that stubborn, fuzzy, smelly beast was absolutely too much. TOO much!

With relief she dismounted and walked around the stable…legs still formed around the donkey, Braxton Hicks riding hard along about now. And, lo, she WAS afraid.  What was actually going on inside her young body?  She felt the baby doing cartwheels inside, felt the little one with hiccups, felt when he was finally sleeping.  The angel had already told her she was having a son…long before the world’s first ultra-sound.  But Emmanuel?  She was supposed to name him Emmanuel?

After hours of fearful labor and pushing, no hand-maidens to assist, no doula, no Pitocin, just a terrified fiancé who had never been intimate in those regions, let alone even SEEN them before, offering timid assistance as the baby began to crown.

And then. 

The baby’s first breath inhaled....That same breath He, as God, had breathed into Adam's lifeless body at creation, now being breathed into his own fleshly body...jump starting the blood coursing through his tiny veins.  His robust cry pierced the air and he struggled to find comfort and sustenance at the breast of his young mother.

As Mary held her baby close, her Jesus-child, tears slowly coursed down her cheeks.  He was so perfect, his ten little fingers, ten little toes.  His sweet rosebud mouth feeding so fervently, tiny nostrils breathing in air as his mouth busily drank his mother’s milk.

Had Mary known what the future held for her baby, would she have mourned his very birth?  Would she have cried as he ate?  Did she have an iota of an idea of what was to become of her son, Jesus?

What if she had known that his first breath, that same breath which The One had breathed into Adam oh so many centuries before, would become the Breath of Heaven?  The Breath of Life? That same breath which would utter “It. Is. Finished.” And then breathe His last breath.

What if she knew that the blood which coursed through his tiny veins, the blood which brought color to his little cheeks and removed the purple hue from his fingertips as the blood coursed strong… would one day spill….onto a parched ground for the final forgiveness of wrongs done?

Did she realize that his sweet, lily-white and unblemished baby skin would be scarred under a crown of relentless thorns, rent under the sharp angles of iron piercing flesh?  Torn as a cross was dropped into a pit, and a sword pierced his side.

Could she understand the horrors that awaited her sweet baby Jesus…Emmanuel?  That His actual Heavenly Father, none other than God Himself, would eventually turn His back as this baby-now-man took on the sins of the world for the Ultimate Forgiveness of Sin, covered with a black too much for the Father to even take in, having to turn His back and force darkness upon the earth. 

And yet.

This child born today…God With Us…would provide us the privilege of Us With God at the ultimate conclusion of life.  God With Us…Us With God.  How is it possible?

Was the baby so innocent from Heaven aware of the sacrifice He had already made?

As Mary held him, and His little eyes peeped open, squinting as the Light Of Life filtered into his tiny baby eyes, did she grasp the horrors that awaited her child?  Did she even comprehend the unconditional love her son would offer once grown and feeding throngs of hungry people?  When He freed people of their sickness or the demons that haunted, could Mary comprehend His unfailing, unending love?

Can I?

Isn’t it too much to take in that God Incarnate would take on flesh, blood, and the form of a mere, helpless baby to be for me God With Me.

For you, God With You.

For the world, God With Us.

Emmanuel.

It’s too much.  Just TOO much.

Cat Person

I’m not really a Cat Person.

Please don’t take offense.  You should know this:  I currently have three cats.  Three.  And my primary reason for not being a Cat Person is because I am allergic to them.  Yes.  And I have three. 

The collection of cats began years ago when the kids were little and we lived in a small townhouse.  Having grown up around pets my whole life (my dad was raised on a farm, for goodness sake), I really wanted our kids to love and appreciate the Animal Kingdom, and learn the responsibilities that went along with pet ownership.

And so, once married, we were open to the idea of animals, but didn’t really act upon it until my little mother-in-law headed to New Zealand on an extended trip asked if we would take in her Siamese, named (please don’t miss this irony) “Asthma”. 

Of course we took in the cat, Asthma.  The kids loved her.  For being an old cat, she was surprisingly patient, and would just flop around when the kids carried her about.

And then she developed kidney failure.

The vet “gave us a moment” to say goodbye, and I told him it wasn’t necessary, that she wasn’t our cat.  He smiled, knowingly.  As he shut the door behind him, both they and I began wailing like Italian Mamas.  Unstoppable.  Inconsolable.  Unashamed.  And we said good bye.

The following Christmas, we decided a kitty would make a good present.  Kittens, as you may know, are not really in season at Christmas.  Well, being the hunter/gatherer that he is, my husband wouldn’t come home until he found a kitten: a scrawny, rescued tabby from an alley litter which had been turned over to a local vet. 

In the following years, Tessie begat CeeCee (who eventually became a HUGE, 13lb. Orange), who begat Sophie (a ‘fraidy-cat Calico) and Izzy, who bore the tabby marks of her grandmother, and has the lungs of her Human Mother (me).  Yep, she’s a total Loud Mouth. 

Some Unfortunate Events occurred:  exit Tessie, and eventually CeeCee.  Four became two. 

Slinkie, Slinks, Slinkers, Binks, Bink-bink

My husband, with his soft heart, adopted a grey and white cat while he was traveling for work.  (They would rent corporate apartments for him while he did his work, then he’d move on to the next location.)  And when he was finally relocated back to our town, Slinkie came with him.  That was in 1999.  Two became three, and remain so today.  We’ve determined they are all somewhere around the age of 16 or so.

The other reason I’m not a Cat Person is because of their stinkin’ Independent Spirit.

Now, hold on, because this is where it all begins to make sense.  Being how Independent they are, it dawned on me that when they actually show affection, it’s because they want to:

Slinkie can hardly wait for the moment I sit on the couch at day’s end.  She comes and spreads out on me, and literally has to be scraped off my lap if I need to get up.  She longs to sit in my lap.  She thrives there.  It’s where she is happiest.

Sophie, Big Sophs, Sopherelli, Sophers, Sophitty

Sophie will follow me from room to room but hasn’t the courage to actually sit with me:  you never know what might lurch out of the shadows to attack.  (Trust me, she has reason to be afraid…from flying can-openers, to double-teaming dogs, to locked garage doors…she’s been through her nine lives and has borrowed some from the other cats.)  But, despite her rocky past, she enjoys just being in my presence. It is there where she purrs like a motorboat.

Oh, but Izzy.  The Big Mouth who speaks for the entire Cat Clowder.  When they’re hungry in the wee hours, she comes up onto the bed, sits six inches from my face, and yowls right at me, that demons-from-the-bowels yowl.  Usually before six a.m., bless her little kitty heart. 

She also has kidney issues, and is always, always thirsty, and simply must have running water.  So whatever room I’m in, she yowls, begging me to follow her to the closest sink to turn on the spigot.  (I recently invested the best money ever in a cat fountain…they all, plus the dog, love it!!!) 

Izzy, Iz, Izzers, Izzy-please! Shh!

But some mornings, it’s not food or water that she wants.  Izzy just wants some love.  I’ll snake a hand out from under the covers in my half-sleep and begin petting her slowly, and if I don’t really put my heart into it…she BITES me! Hard! Or other times, she may oh-so-daintily stick one little claw right into the fleshy end of my nose.  (I can assure you, she seems to respond to both positive AND negative attention!)

And if she doesn’t receive the attention she craves, she’ll follow me wherever I go, yowling, full volume.  She follows HARD after me.

When that thought first sprang into my head, the following hard after me part, I physically ducked my head into my shoulders and sucked in a little, short breath. 

I  should be that intentional about spending time in the presence of the Holy One.  I should follow hard after Him. 

I should, at the end of the day, barely be able to contain myself until that moment when I can fall asleep in His lap. 

I should bask in His presence, whether near or far.  

I lack Izzy’s persistence.  I need Slinkie’s contentedness.   I don’t make the time to bask in anything or anyone, not like Sophie does.  Especially not in the Father’s presence.  I am Martha, Sophie is Mary.  

 

Luke 10:38-42

³⁸ As Jesus and the disciples continued on their way to Jerusalem, they came to a certain village where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. ³⁹ Her sister, Mary, sat at the Lord’s feet, listening to what he taught. ⁴⁰ But Martha was distracted by the big dinner she was preparing. She came to Jesus and said, “Lord, doesn’t it seem unfair to you that my sister just sits here while I do all the work? Tell her to come and help me.”

⁴¹ But the Lord said to her, “My dear Martha, you are worried and upset over all these details! ⁴² There is only one thing worth being concerned about. Mary has discovered it, and it will not be taken away from her.”

In my heart I have been singing this chorus, over and over:

My soul follows hard after Thee
Early in the morning will I rise up and seek Thee
And because Thou hast been my help
Under the shadow of Thy wing I will rejoice

That last line right there, the one about the shadow of His wing?  That’s my Life Verse.  It’s from Psalm 63:7.

Because you are my help,

I sing in the shadow of your wings.

Not cowering in the shadow, crying my eyes out, or trembling like a leaf.  I’m safe there and, oh yes, I’m SINGING!  Singing my lungs out, as you know I do.  (Maybe Izzy is not yowling, merely singing?)

My kiddos no longer live at home.  My original impetus for having pets was so that THEY could learn a thing or two about pet ownership.  Instead, I’m the one learning a thing or two… 

The Green Plate

I broke a plate tonight in my haste to get the dishwasher emptied so I could wake up to a clean kitchen.  And as I gazed at the shattered pieces which shot out in a ten foot radius, I found myself sad.  Unspeakably so.  I brushed it off.  It’s just a plate, for goodness’ sake!  And yet, I remained sad.  My perfect set of ten was now a mere nine. 

It wasn’t a high end plate.  A nice, just-the-perfect-shade-of-green stone-ware plate that I got at Pier One about 15 years ago with a Christmas gift certificate.  I really like these plates.  They’re durable.  Very.  On more than many occasion I have rapped them hard on the edge of my counter top in my hurry to load them INTO the dishwasher, and voila!  No damage!  Not like the sunny yellow earthenware plates I got at Ross about five years ago.  THAT set of ten quickly dwindled to eight, with at least four of the existing ones with ugly, white chips on their edges.  You can LOOK sternly at them and they wilt, little chips bursting off their edges just from a withering glance.

So.  What IS the big deal?

These plates have been through a lot with me.  Young kids who really only wanted to eat pizza, spaghetti and Chinese take-out off these plates.  Then, as they got older, they AND their friends would eat things like chicken piccata (sans capers, of COURSE!) and shrimp Alfredo, or maybe lamb osso bucco or a nice curry, and there were always enough plates to go around.  These plates endured two moves, unscathed.  You could stick ‘em in the freezer without ill affect, and then could put them in the over (not over 350 degrees!) if needed, too.  They’ve been my every-day plates, my go-to plates.  Sure, sometimes they sit back and take a break when I upgrade to my fussy white and gold porcelain plates, but I always return to my trusty green plates.

So, again.  What’s the big DEAL?

It occurred to me:  these plates, my green, tough and tumble plates, they are like friends.  Good Friends.  Friends that can be accidently knocked….hard, sometimes… and they’ll just carry on, being my friend.  Sometimes these Good Friends will take a back seat for more glamorous acquaintances, but they really don’t care.  They know that there’s nothing quite like a Good Friend that has been there for the long haul.  And you can bring them ‘round to dinner parties and you know they’ll be just exactly what you need them to be:  Good.  Sound.  Reliable.

Friends that have been with me through all the years passed.  Have been involved in the comings and goings of my life.  The ones who know what things have hurt me the most, deep, down, in the heart where it physically hurts, where pain shoots to the tips of my toes and fingers.  The Good Friends who know what my highest points have been as well, where joy has seeped out the corners of my eyes and slipped down my cheeks, leaving pale trails in my blush...and they’ve shared those tears of joy along with me.

And then there are my Good Friends who are new.  The shiny ones. The ones who don’t know my whole life story, which I find so refreshing at times, don’t you.  But they’ve seen glimpses into my torments and ecstasies.  They’ve seen shadows of past guilt that has driven me into dark corners, and traces of fear that have caused me to clamp my mouth shut hard, and suddenly silent.  They have seen.  And they have begun to journey it with me.  Because I have started to share those things with them.  Begun to open up, to explore the beauty of new journeys with new friends.

And then, suddenly, a Good Friends seems to be absolutely. ripped. away.  Maybe through death.  Maybe by moving away.  Maybe a careless word, or series of careless conversations that were too one-sided, or too self-centered, or just too-too much.  And then, that trusty friend, the one you always could count on, the one who knew it all, and felt it too, is suddenly gone.  Scattered. 

So now what?

It’s a cycle, really.  At some point, I’ll probably have no fabulous green plates left.  Over the next twenty years, as I continue to age, and my fingers become less reliable, I’ll probably drop a few more.  Carelessly.  Yet accidentally.

And so it is with friends.  But is that the trend I’m happy to accept?  Is it not important to continue to make new Good Friends?  Not that I want to collect 300.  But a strong set of, say, ten good friends? Five?  or even just two? To share my joys with?  My fears?  My triumphs?  My heart?  And to shares theirs too…

Yep.  It takes work.  It requires vulnerability.  Absolute mercy and grace.  On both parts!  And yep, it’s totally worth it.

I just did a quick Google search for Proverbs about friends.  Some really tickled me.  Some, not so much.

Proverbs 18:24

Some friends may ruin you, but a real friend will be more loyal than a brother.

Ack!  I mean, yes to the closer than a brother/sister, but ruin?!?

Proverbs 17:17

A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity.

I never had a brother, but my big sister fought many “battles” in my stead.  She’s a keeper.

Proverbs 27:6

Faithful are the wounds of a friend; profuse are the kisses of an enemy.

I LOVE this one!  A friend will speak the truth to me in love, even when it hurts.  

Proverbs 27:9

Oil and perfume make the heart glad, and the sweetness of a friend comes from his earnest counsel.

Isn’t that the perfect chick verse?  We all love a little oil and perfume, right?  And the best thing ever is the sweetness of a Good Friend who offers “earnest counsel”.

Lord, please, let me be that.  Let me pour earnest counsel, sweetness, and perfume into the hearts of my friends.  Let ME be a Good Friend.

So, to sum it all up, here’s my paraphrase:

A good friend is like a green plate:  steady, durable, and enjoys a good meal with me.