A Lustre of Midday

With a forty-foot evergreen as its centerpiece, Ashland’s Corner Park has been transformed into a shimmering winter wonderland. Long a fan of Christmas light displays, I do enjoy the blow-up snowmen, Santas, and even Minions I’ve encountered this year, yet the display of white lights at Corner Park is breath-taking. Turning the corner from Main Street to Claremont Avenue, I sensed what Clement Moore was describing in his beloved poem: “The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave a lustre of midday to objects below.”

Sharing my appreciation for these new lights with a friend, I was surprised by his vehement response (paraphrased): “Who likes white lights? Christmas should be for kids, and kids like – and need – colored lights!” (While I won’t publicly name my friend, those in the know will be able to identify him easily enough). I grew up with the old-school colored bulbs clipped to our gutters and encircling our Christmas tree, yet strands of white lights currently illuminate our tree. Giving it some thought, I suppose I prefer the white lights to the colored ones. But it’s way beyond a preference for my friend – it’s a passion.

However, my friend’s penchant for colored lights is not shared by his wife. Take a look at the glittering Christmas trees inside the Kroc Center, and you’ll see whose preference prevailed! 

Isn’t this symbolic of how relationships, especially marriage, work – or don’t work? How do you put the toilet paper on? Hellman’s mayonnaise or Miracle Whip? Hard or soft mattress? Blanket or no blanket? Late, on-time, or early?

Of course, there are more serious conflicts in marriage. Should we have kids? “No, Rhythm is not a good name for our son.” To spank or not to spank? How can we afford . . .?

Even end-of-life decisions can bring conflict in family relationships. Should the experimental cancer treatment be extended? Is it time to call hospice? What about the DNR order? Cremation or burial? Open or closed?

No matter what kind of relationship we’re in – marriage, partnership, family, even the puppy love of kids – there will be conflict. And playing “rock, paper, scissors” isn’t the best determinant for making critical decisions. 

Writing in “Caring and Commitment,” Lewis Smedes suggests what he calls “permissive caring,” “giving each other permission to be the different sort of person each of them is. They care enough to leave each other alone, enough to celebrate the gifts each brings within his or her character.” In other words, they learn how to set each other free. Smedes understands: “Committed love is a power to surrender our right to get what we desire so that the person we love can get what he or she needs. When my desire conflicts with your need, I will opt for your needs – if my love is committed love.” 

Mike Mason takes a further step: “Marriage at its best is . . . a backwards tug-of-war between two wills each equally determined not to win.” As in, “No, dear, please keep the toilet seat up. I don’t mind at all!”

Whether in marriage or family, work or neighborhood relationships, we are often called to compromise, not in the sense of a dishonorable or shameful concession, as one dictionary definition suggests, but instead, by negotiating a way forward, even if it means giving something up. By articulating each position, we can talk through the aesthetic of white lights in a public space versus the joy of children when surrounded by multi-colored lights. It may end by making space for multicolor Christmas trees in the family room. It helps to remember the assumption of the word itself – “com” (together) and promise. There is a promise inherent in the willingness to find a way forward within our committed love, acknowledging the value of the relationship over the color of the lights.

I do have a potential community compromise that could ease my friend’s angst over the white lights at Corner Park. Wouldn’t it be beautiful to thread the night sky with red lights for Valentine’s Day, green for St. Patrick’s Day, and red, white and blue for July 4^th? What do you think, Mr. Mayor? I know somebody who might help!

A Thing Most Wonderful

Listening to 24/7 Christmas music on the radio, I heard an advertisement for the all-new Paper Wonder cards by Hallmark, which promise to bring the holidays to life in a whole new way, offering the gift of holiday magic to friends and family. They appear to be a new and improved model of the pop-up books that seldom survived to the third child in our family. 

 

Merriam Webster defines the noun wonder as “the quality of exciting amazed admiration, or rapt attention of astonishment at something awesomely mysterious or new to one’s experience.” I doubt the new Hallmark cards totally fulfill that definition of wonder, but “the holiday season,” seemingly stretching on forever through the often dark and dreary days of December, does invite us to an exciting amazement within the awesome mystery of faith.

 

Think of the commemoration of Hanukkah, when the one-day supply of oil lasted for eight days, bringing light to the Hebrew people. Or of Kwanzaa, the December celebration honoring African heritage, and lifting up the principles of unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith. With its Mishumaa Saba (seven candles), wonder is reflected on the faces of the children of the family, much the same as in the light of the Hanukkah candles or the Advent candles of the Christian tradition.

 

Our sweet granddaughter, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, has perfected the expression of three-year-old wonder at the delights of the Christmas season. The lights, the decorations and the carols all bring her joy, and she has approached the opening of early presents with great gusto. A visit to a personable Santa at the mall left her starry-eyed, and she chuckles with deep laughter when we drive past our neighbor’s house, as the Grinch attempts to pull down their Christmas light display. 

 

Margaret Philbrick suggests that children own wonder. “It’s engrained in the purity of their hearts and expressed through their senses.” She further notes, “They do not rush to get up and get on to the next thing. They gaze.”

I remember when I too was captivated by wonder. I stood on my bed for what seemed like hours to scour the night sky for the appearance of the “right jolly old elf,” but finally succumbed to the pull of my dreams. A few years later, I kept my Christmas Eve candle alight into the midnight darkness, protecting its flickering flame during the drive home. I longed to sustain the holy awe of worship, unwilling for the wonder of my young heart to be extinguished. 

In the years since, I’ve developed a complicated relationship with Christmas. Some changes came naturally, as they do for many adults. The 24/7 Christmas music, the cha-ching of the cash/credit register, and the “I want, I want” call of constant advertising threaten to make these December weeks a burden to bear rather than an awe to embrace. My experience was complicated by my exhausting Salvation Army work, as the demands of fund-raising and people-serving colluded to hijack any sense of wonder I had in the holiday. In my attempt to fulfill a calling to ministry that intersected where my deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger met (Frederick Buechner), it’s ironic that a sense of wonder at the mystery of the incarnation flickered dangerously, just like my childhood Christmas Eve candle. 

And yet, the words of E.B. White continue to speak: “Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder,” the wonder that shines from the eyes of children and has no patience for the scrooges among us. We claim it on a midnight clear, in the little town of Bethlehem, and in the echo of the angels: “Gloria in excelsis Deo.” 

In the next days, a holy book will be opened and the ancient words read aloud once again: “And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.” Indeed, it is a thing most wonderful. A blessed Christmas of wonder to you. 

Lost

On Tuesday morning, I rose before the sun for a Nana day with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. My tasks were simple: get both girls ready for school, make sure Madelyn caught the bus on time, and deliver Lizzie to the welcoming arms of Tiny Tots Nursery School. I tend to run at least five minutes late in the morning, so I was excited to head out with ten minutes to spare. Maybe I could even stop for a muffin at Dunkin Donuts. Reaching into my purse for my car and house keys, my hands came up empty. 

Did I leave them on the counter, the table, in my coat pocket? No, no, and no. After a frantic search, I grabbed the spare set of car keys and ran out the door. Where could those keys be? The night before, I had pulled into our attached garage, carried a couple of bags of groceries into the house, and settled down to watch an hour or so of television. Logic tells me the wayward keys have to be within the confines of our home.

Two days post-loss, they are still missing. I’ve dug through garbage, searched and vacuumed my car, checked the refrigerator and freezer, and nada! I’ve also received well-intentioned advice, such as these sincere words from Madelyn: “When you lose something, you need to retrace your steps.” Since I can get from the garage to the end of my house in less than one hundred steps, that journey didn’t take too long.

Of course, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’m no novice when it comes to searching for missing objects. I’ve lost an entire set of facility keys, lost my cell phone at Disneyworld, and drove off from our new house last Christmastime with my phone on the roof of the car. And while I hate to mention it, Larry and our two older boys became separated from Dan and I at Cedar Point in the days before cell phones, and we spent many miserable hours trying to find each other. It happens.

We’ve all lost things, well, except for those people who live perfect lives, who have it all together. And then there’s us, the people with the refrigerator magnet that says, “I finally got it all together but I can’t remember where I put it.” Busy lives, forgetful moments, and inattention can lead to an unexpected search that turns up empty. Sometimes we get lucky and find the errant object, but not always.

About twenty years ago, volunteers were assisting in the clean-up from our Salvation Army Christmas toy distribution. We’d provided toys, clothing, coats and food for two thousand families over a two-day span, so the level of exhaustion was high that night as we sorted through mismatched mittens and packed away the remaining toys for the following year. In between counting the Christmas kettles, we worked in the gym, sealing a dozen boxes for the storage unit. 

Suddenly, one of the volunteers cried out, “My ring!” Her antique ring, in the family for generations, was missing from her finger. We unpacked every box that night, but the ring wasn’t to be found. Heartbroken, we finally gave up, reluctantly admitting defeat. 

Life can be like that. We lose hope, we lose control, we lose courage, and we may even lose faith for a time. We look in all the familiar places, we retrace our steps, we search diligently, and we even call on our companions for help, but our hands and hearts are empty. 

Yet there comes another chapter. Setting up for the next year’s toy shop, we had unloaded more than a hundred boxes when a volunteer came to me with a ring in her hand. “Look what I found in one of the boxes. Isn’t this pretty? I wonder if someone lost this?” 

There it was, Mary’s ring.

Thousands of years ago, the Hebrew psalmist understood. “Weeping,” David wrote, “may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” I write tonight with gratitude for recovered rings, compassion for discouraged hearts, and my fingers crossed that morning will shine its light on my keys!

P.S.  After searching for three days, the errant keys were discovered cushioned between the blanket and bedspread in the middle of our king sized bed.  

I'm Missing . . .

My sister recently asked me, “Do you ever have the desire to stand kettles anymore?” I was sixteen when I did my first shift at the Salvation Army kettle, ringing a bell enthusiastically in the frigid Western New York air, raising money for the work of The Salvation Army. My response to Janet was immediate: “No.” I gladly drop a few bills in the kettle when I pass, and highly respect the service done in this country and around the world through those donations. But do I miss the chilled toes and fingers, the aching back? No, I don’t miss that.

Yet her question prompted a train of thought into what I do miss, not just from Salvation Army ministry, but from the various places I’ve lived, the people I’ve been privileged to meet. 

O, how I miss the Sahlens hot dogs from Buffalo, and suckers and waffles from Crystal Beach. The pasties from Rockie’s in Wharton, NJ. The genuine Philly cheesesteaks and the cold, doughy pretzels sold on the street corner in the City of Brotherly Love. And now, I’m missing the A&W in Ashland, as well as donuts from Miller’s (Hawkins). While my life is not defined by what I eat, (really, it isn’t), I laughed at myself when I realized my first “what I miss” reaction revolved around food.

But I also miss early morning walks along the Niagara River with a trusted friend, and playing the bassoon. I miss the stimulation of college and seminary days. I miss the hustle and bustle of the big cities, even though most of my time in Cleveland and Philadelphia was spent in contained neighborhoods. 

Posts on Facebook this week reminded me of how much I miss the Ashland Christmas parade. My memories include walking with a group of bell-ringing kiddos, just minutes after finding out the Kroc project was in jeopardy, and perfecting the Miss America wave from the back of a convertible while nursing a sprained ankle. Heading to the parade along deserted streets on a sub-zero night, only to see the curbs lined with people who appeared out of thin air. Playing with the Kroc New Adventure band on a flatbed, while our mascot, RJ (our son), stood treacherously near the edge of the truck. And now, videos of my first absentee parade were highlighted by holiday fireworks. What a glorious night. I’m putting the parade on my calendar for next year. 

I also miss the connections of a smaller community, of knowing others and being known by them. I recently attended a Christmas luncheon, changing into pajama pants when I got home. That evening, I needed to run to the store. “I’m in Canton – I should be safe, as I never see anyone I know when I go out.” But my better self took control, urging me to put on something more presentable. Why? Family lore tells of cousin Judi, who took her husband to work and decided to run the car through the car wash – in her pajamas and curlers. The details are fuzzy, but either the car wash or her car broke down, and I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. 

Of course, that night I met someone I knew from Ashland at Big Lots. Go figure. Yet that’s also what I miss about Ashland, recognizing each other, stopping to chat in the aisles of Gerwig’s White Barn or at a booth in the Lyn-Way. 

Ringing a bell in front of Tonawanda’s Twin Fair almost fifty years ago, I had no clue how Dr. Seuss’s words would evolve: “O, the places you’ll go,” or in contrast, “O, the places – and people – you’ll miss.” Relocation, separation, death – all leave us with a longing for what we knew, for those we loved – and still love. 

From time to time, my mouth still waters for Rocky’s pasties and authentic Philly cheesesteak. I long for friends who’ve moved, for a generation that has passed away, and I cherish the memories those longings evoke. But I also claim Dr. Seuss’ words: “Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting.” New tastes, new places, new faces, and even fireworks at the parade. Can’t get any better than that!

We Are the Children

A few days before Thanksgiving, my husband reached for the radio dial and put on a station playing Christmas music. As a Thanksgiving purist, I refuse to listen to Jingle Bells before the turkey’s been put away, so I made him change the station. Not yet!

But now, we’re less than four weeks from Christmas, so I’ll be cranking up the volume to rock around the Christmas tree, soaking in the classic carols as well as those that fall into the “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” genre. I love the instrumental version of “Christmastime is Here” by the Vince Guaraldi Trio, but if I hear “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” one more time, I’m gonna scream! Enough already!

I have precious Christmas memories rooted in music. As a white-robed child, I processed from corner to corner in a darkened sanctuary, carrying a battery-lit candle and singing words from “The Quempas Carol:” “God’s own son is born a child, is born a child. God the Father is reconciled, is reconciled.” I also remember listening to our church kids singing about dashing through the mashed potatoes, as well as a lullaby “to the tiny Son of God,” as their mice and cat characters sang their hearts out in “Not a Creature Was Stirring.” How did we ever find the time and energy to do a full-fledged Christmas musical? 

One of the highlights of Christmas in Ashland has been the Jingle Bell Ball at the Salvation Army Kroc Center, as the KC Big Band turns the gym into a veritable winter wonderland. This year it’s scheduled for December 8 at 7 p.m., a time to dance the night away to the strains of Irving Berlin and Michael Bublé, or for those of us with two left feet, to soak in the music around the candlelit tables. 

Over the years, Christmas music has warmed our hearts and strengthened our faith, yet it can also challenge our thinking and behavior. Consider the reaction to the song of the angels on a Bethlehem hill, or to the poignant plea of Bing Crosby singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” to generations of servicemen and women around the world.  

In 1984, in response to a terrible famine occurring in Ethiopia, Bob Geldof and Midge Ure collaborated on a song for Christmas, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” It was recorded on November 25 by BandAid, a group of UK musicians coming together for Geldof and Ure’s project. Hoping to raise 70,000 pounds for famine relief, it became the fastest selling single in British history, raising eight million pounds within its first year. On this side of the pond, a similar project was soon undertaken under the banner of “We Are the World,” raising $63 million for humanitarian aid in Africa. 

The natural causes of the Ethiopian famine of 1984-5 were exacerbated by civil war and inhumane political decisions. Yet now, in 2018, a similar humanitarian crisis is brewing in Yemen. David Beasley, managing director of the World Food Program, said, ‘What I have seen in Yemen this week is the stuff of nightmares, of horror, of deprivation, of misery.” According to the United Nations, in Yemen, a child under the age of five dies every ten minutes from preventable causes, including hunger, disease and violence.

Just as we did in 1984-85, it’s time to pay attention, to be reminded again of the suffering of so many. BandAid’s vocalists understood, “There’s a world outside your window and it’s a world of dread and fear where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears.” 

The needs of the world outside our window are overwhelming. As a friend recently lamented: “Find what breaks your heart and you will find your purpose. What do you do when almost everything breaks your heart?”

What to do? We begin. We listen. We educate ourselves. We pray. We speak out. We give. And we sing. “And in our world of plenty we can spread a smile of joy . . .,” for “we are the world, we are the children . . . it’s true we’ll make a brighter day, just you and me.” For the children of Yemen, the children of Ashland. 

A Wistful Affection

My daughter-in-law Becky has been planning and prepping for her high school reunion for months. It’s been ten years since the strains of Pomp and Circumstance filled the air in Jerome, Pennsylvania, as the relieved graduates claimed their hard-earned diplomas. Many have relocated in search of opportunities not available in their coal belt town, but they’ve returned this weekend with spouses and new babies in tow, for turkey at the family table and reconnection with their classmates at Saturday’s reunion. At ten years, they’ll still recognize each other, and they’ll share the old stories of their high school escapades and the new stories of their post-high school lives.

Nostalgia is defined as a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations. We all feel it from time to time, particularly at reunions or the Thanksgiving table, even when those memories carry with them a mix of happy and unhappy associations. I’ve had a week of nostalgia myself, beginning last weekend with a reunion at the Canton Salvation Army corps we pastored for nine years prior to coming to Ashland. Oh, how those old stories rolled off our tongues. How good to be together again.

Thanksgiving brought its own gift of nostalgia. Because of the demands of the Christmas kettle work of The Salvation Army, we seldom spent Thanksgiving with our extended family, opting instead to gather our own children around our table. We’d call home to talk with the grandparents – and now we’re the grandparents! This year, as our daughter-in-law’s family joined us, four generations bowed in a prayer of thanksgiving, and then proceeded to devour the turkey, mashed potatoes, and a dozen side dishes – and pie! And this year, it was our son’s turn to call home from Pennsylvania.

The news that a deeply-loved friend is seriously ill also came this week. We spent time together nearly every week in the early 80s, and although we’ve been separated by hundreds of miles for more than thirty years, our hearts are with them today. 

A final reminder came in a message from Juanita Evege Stanford, an Ashland native now serving with The Salvation Army at the Kroc Center in Philadelphia. She visited a young woman in her congregation, and as they chatted, our names came into the conversation. The woman reached for a well-used Bible, showing Juanita the inscription from 1989: presented to Gwynette by Captain and Mrs. Lawrence Shade. As I remember, our house was somewhat of a chaotic mess in those days, but she spoke of being welcomed into our home and hearts in a way that has stayed with her all these years.  

This sense of nostalgia has been accompanied by a wistfulness, a sorrow for the empty chairs, the loss of those claimed by death, and a longing for those separated by disconnection.Yetit has also come with a deepening sense of appreciation for the life I’ve been privileged to live, and for the people I’ve been blessed to know and love, who have known me and loved me in return. Parker Palmer puts it this way: “When I think back on the many people who have been so generous toward me, I never think of money or ‘things.’ Instead, I think of the way they gave me their presence, their confidence, their affirmation, support and blessing – all gifts of ‘self’ that any of us can give.” Even if the house is messy!

In 1906, William Booth, the General of The Salvation Army, wrote a letter to those serving in ministry. It began: “My Dear Comrades. You are the joy of my life today.” It goes without saying (although I must say it) that the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday are at the top of the “joy of my life” list, but there are so many others, in Ashland, Canton, Cleveland, Philadelphia, Dover, Binghamton, Tonawanda, and literally scattered around the world. You, my dear ones, and you, my faithful readers, are the joy of my life. In response, I’m embracing Wendell Berry’s challenge: “Every day you have less reason not to give yourself away.” Grateful for the memories.

Remembering What Cannot Be Forgotten

I sat in front of a young veteran at church this past Sunday. As he and his children prepared to leave, they had quite the discussion about where they should go for dinner, as many local restaurants offered free meals on Veteran’s Day for those who served our country. 

Who are these men and women who spent time in the military, voluntarily or conscripted into service? Their images flooded my Facebook feed throughout the weekend, as family members posted photos of Great-great-uncle Otto, a fresh-faced lad in World War I, and Grandma June, one of the 11,000 women who served during the Vietnam era, 90% of them as nurses. How did their days in the military mold and mark them? 

I’ve been working with my friend Cindy to publish a shoebox full of letters her father sent home from his days in the Army, 1944-46. When she initially asked me, I was quick to agree, unaware of how close to home the letters would come. My own father left the Buffalo area when drafted at nineteen in 1943, a year before my friend’s dad took his first bus ride as a member of the military. Unlike her treasured pages, Frank Streeter’s letters home were lost or discarded at some point over the last seventy years. I’m envious of Cindy’s preserved shoebox, as I saw no letters and hesitated to ask questions, leaving me with little knowledge of my dad’s service. 

I’m grateful for this glimpse of wartime life as described by the young boy from Kenmore, who grew up a few miles from my dad’s boyhood home. Themes running through his correspondence likely echoed in letters home from more than sixteen million military members who served in that terrible time, including my dad.

While I knew that many young men enlisted or were drafted during wartime, I was staggered at how young Duncan Tutton and his fellow soldiers were. When Duncan signed up for military service, he was seventeen. At nineteen, my dad was elderly in comparison, but still an adolescent. Duncan’s early letters were filled with a blend of a teen’s naiveté and bravado, which, as time went on, transitioned into boredom, uncertainty, and a longing for home not fully satisfied by a tin of his mom’s cookies. Neither Duncan nor my dad saw duty on the battlefield, but experienced the remnants of war in occupied Japan and the Philippines .

It’s tempting to glamorize the experiences of veterans, honoring them with a steak dinner or a whispered “thanks for your service,” but the stark reality is two-fold: many never return from war-time, and others are irreversibly changed by what they’ve seen, heard, and felt. The numbers alone are mind-numbing. During World War II, sixteen million men and women served in the military, 291,557 were killed in combat, with 113,842 non-theater deaths. In what remains the most tragic war of my lifetime, more than eight million people served during the Vietnam conflict, with 3,403,000 “in theater,” the rice paddies of Vietnam, not the Riviera or the Palace. The names lost to that war are inscribed on a wall in Washington; the names of those we’ve since lost to trauma and its attendant challenges are inscribed on the hearts of families across the country.

Writing home from Osaka, Japan on Christmas Eve 1945, PFC Tutton expressed wisdom beyond his years: “It sure feels funny writing ‘Christmas Eve’ on a letter home and I hope I never have to do it again. I’m about the only one here in dayroom tonight writing a letter. I guess the rest are out someplace; some getting drunk, maybe to try and forget . . . Somehow this is all I want to do tonight, that and go to church at eleven o’clock. I don’t want to forget this night, strange as it may sound. I want to remember it a long time, at least long enough to make sure it never happens again if I can help it.”

I’m grateful to those who served and to those who serve today. Yet I too resolve with young Duncan Tutton, and I believe my dad as well, to remember what cannot be forgotten.