The Big Little Church

I'm not much on reflecting simply for the sake of reflecting. It sort of comes on me when I least expect it. Walking past the bare Christmas Tree, driving past an old familiar sign, or sitting in church at a Christmas play.

The Texas Hill Country is full of beautiful sites. To me, the most beautiful thing about it is the people. They are, for the most part, so genuine. I think it comes from, and this is just my opinion based on nothing but my observations, the hard work required just to live here. Christmas Eve found me right in the middle of one of the most beautiful sites I have seen yet.

A small country church really. It seats maybe 150 folks, if you include the balcony and choir loft. Those seats are generally filled by faithful congregants whose average age is probably around 50. Hugs are always given in abundance. This Christmas Eve it was full of passionate friends, ready to see the Christmas story unfold before them.

They had built a small stage, incorporated a working curtain, rented a spot light, and had some of the best biblical costumes I've seen. It started with a real trumpeter playing a real trumpet announcing the upcoming birth of Christ. Nothing digital here. Right in the middle of the event down the center aisle and sitting on a wooden donkey that would have made any director proud, Joseph pulled a very pregnant Mary. Shepherds sat on a wooden stump in front of a working fire. Musicians sang, actors gave lines flawlessly, and the technical crew did not miss a cue.

25 minutes from start to finish. I laughed, and I cried. Most importantly, I felt that warm feeling that comes when the true reason for Christmas starts to live in my heart again. I'm not sure where it goes throughout the year. But this year, I am happy to mark the occasion at the big little church my family calls home.

Thinking in Pictures

I've recently been thinking about how life changes. Fast. A friend showed me a video of someone who took still shots of their child from birth to age 10. The whole video was only 80 seconds. I couldn't blink. I might miss 6 months or some large part of this young life! From no hair to long hair. From no teeth to lots of teeth to holes from those lost. Those 80 seconds said much about the 10 years of life.

I love words. Always have. Always will. I obsess over learning new ones and cry when I lose old ones. Those moments when it takes 60 seconds or more to remember the exact word that defines the thought I am trying to communicate. Yesterday it was "momentum." How did I forget such a great word?

Lately, I find myself thinking more and more in visual aspects rather than audio aspects. I hear words more than see them. The words are fading and the pictures are drowning out their sound. I see the beautiful Texas Hill Country and know its beauty from what I see around me. I don't hear the words describing it. I just see the picture.

My daughter explores her world through the lens of a camera. She finds the people, the moments, the world around her to be more alive when she is looking on with this machine in her hands. She looks at the shot and finds ways to enhance her focus by editing the final product, molding it, until the story it tells is the story she sees. She is changing my focus.

Lola

The Unfamiliar Holiday

Our recent move back to my home state of Texas has been a God-send in more ways than I can count. I have said throughout this process of uprooting my family back to my roots (sort of ironic) that I have made contingency plans, and God continues to make better ones. It wasn’t until the beginning of the holidays that I started to feel the struggle of everyday life again. I wondered how that could be. Wasn’t it great to be spending the days with my aging parents and wonderful siblings? Wasn’t it amazing to be back in the beautiful Texas Hill Country? Wasn’t my youngest finally at peace with herself? Wasn't it fantastic seeing my nephews make tackles and music and my niece shoot the hoops?

When sharing with a coworker about my struggles, I talked it through until it finally came to light – this holiday had nothing familiar about it. Decorating someone else’s house that we are just renting, spending time with unfamiliar family members, driving down the streets of a new town with their own Christmas traditions, learning new office holiday expectations, buying gifts for people I don't really know, and the crazy warm Texas weather. There is no big bay window to put the tree in front of, no big family gathering at our home filling its rooms with warmth and laughter, and no cutting of the Christmas tree on Thanksgiving Day for the first time in 15 years. As I sat in our living room crying last weekend, my poor husband was at a loss. “I brought you home and you are still not happy?” Oh, I wasn’t unhappy, I was just lost.

I began to think about this in the light of Christ’s birth. I cannot imagine giving birth to a child in totally unfamiliar surroundings – not to mention smelly and unsanitary. Mary, in her uncomfortable state of pregnancy, wasn’t just in an unfamiliar place geographically; she was in an unfamiliar place physically, mentally, and emotionally. She had no mom or Aunt to hold her hand and talk her through the process, no familiar weather pattern, no traditions to hold on to. She did have Joseph, but he too must have been overwhelmed by this new experience. Jesus came into this world through parents who must have felt a little lost themselves.

So as I go about the final few weeks of this first Texas Christmas, I will try to make memories of my blessed new beginning. The smiles of a happy girl, the rosy cheeks of a precious husband spreading good cheer, the giddiness of a mother happy to have her daughter back home after so long away, and most of all, the familiar love of God the Father.