Fuel for Celebration

He wouldn't tell us a thing, but he set out with purpose in the kitchen, creating a picnic feast.  He even made sweet tea just the way I like it.  We packed the van out.  I thought I knew what he was up to.  I was wrong.

We chatted along the way about dolphins in the bay.  The kids continued to probe and guess our destination.  It was the fourth, after all.  Maybe we were getting an early seat for fireworks.

After a quick stop at a convenience store for ice and a Twix, the revelation began as we made our way down a quiet, country street far from the beach and prime firework territory.

"Kids, what do we do on the fourth?  Other than shoot off fireworks?"

Silence from the backseat.

"OK. What should we do?"

My own thoughts breathed their voice silently, "Remember."  Now,  I know. 

"We remember those who fought for our freedom.  Who died.  Who sacrificed for us."  Yes.  That's it.  I know this road now.  Seven years back we drove this back way to his graduation from EOD school. 

As I floated back in time, he pressed on, weaving the connection.  Sacrifice.  Death.  Christ.  Freedom.  LIFE.

He leans over as we made our way down a remarkably empty road to the memorial, "I want all holidays to be like this.  Pointers to Christ." 

And we ate and drank under the shade of a tree.  In the quiet of solitude, our son bowed low and fingered their names, those who ran into the danger and took the blasts for others.

Later that evening, we would join the celebration.  We would lift our heads to the skies and be awed by shower of light against the darkness.  And I wondered: is this it?  Is remembering meant to fuel the celebration.  Deepen it.  Our celebration of freedom, our joy begins with bowing the head and fingers tracing along the deep lines of sacrifice in Word made flesh. Then, and only then, can our heads be lifted to see the light of His glory.   And perhaps it is the seeing that leads to living everyday lives of a celebration that flames and burst with His glory across the darkness.

Avoiding a Hard Crash

It was inevitable, I'm told, that the crash would come.  Hard.  Every year before the sun even began its descent on Christmas Day, she hit a wall, a meltdown.

The sugar from the two-foot-long-stocking candy would lose its sweetness.  The presents lay in a bed of wrapping paper.  The tree's skirt hidden for days made a reappearance all crumpled and sparkly.  Family had come and gone, bellies full.   Hearts fuller from laughter and tales and time together.  The whistle and cheers from a distant football game serve as a sort of lulling background music for the end of the day.  

Anticipation had given birth to delight and now the crash.  A fury of emotion. Crying.  Fatigue.  Maybe a small tantrum here or there.  All ending in sleep coming on her without warning, at least to her.  My parents knew though. 

It wasn't that she didn't get what she wanted.  It was that what she wanted didn't bring the satisfaction she expected.  All the hopes had come to an end.

I felt my own crash coming on last night.   The rare gift of snow at Christmas here in the south began to drip away and a slow meltdown seeped into my heart with the giving thanks.  I practice indirection and realize His arrival means hopes without end and what I want meets its satisfaction to the full.  His white in my heart transforming the ordinary into cause for joy.

This Monday after Christmas I echo Robert Herrick's lines, whisper them softly into the sweet remains of a white blanketed gift:

Lord,'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land
And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one

All these, and better, Thou dost send
Me, to this end,
That I should render for my part
A thankful heart;
Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly Thine;
But the acceptance, that must be,
My Christ, by Thee.
"A Thanksgiving to God for His House"