The Song of the Snapdragon

My Uncle Van was a farmer, my Aunt Freda a gardner. They lived in a large farmhouse in the middle of acres and acres of almond and avocado trees in the fertile mid-section of California. Before you could even enter Freda and Van’s house, you had to walk past Freda's large (well…it seemed large to 4 year old me) flower garden. I always had to linger, I was just all enough to peek over the low white picket fence surrounding the garden area. And how could you walk past without admiring the vivid red and yellow tulips and the bright purple iris? But my favorite flowers stood in tall stalks at the back of the garden. After asking permission, I would carefully walk past the rows of lower, lesser blooms to the tall, willowy stalks of Snapdragons. Their red and yellow mouths had begun calling to me as soon as we drove down the lane toward Freda and Van’s home. Perhaps it was because they were the only flowers that I was allowed to pick. Perhaps it was their tender smiling faces or perhaps it was their sweet songs of happiness, sung to me at dusk in Freda’s garden. Snapdragons became forevermore my favorite flower. Freda grew a wide variety…bearded ones with gaping, toothless smiles; taller stalks with faces that peered into mine, supported by strings of cotton twine; shorter multi-colored ones, I loved them all. 

All of that Snapdragon love has not given me green thumbs, that is certain. Every year, I faithfully plant them…every year they grow…but none of my cultivating skills have produced the fabulous display like Freda’s garden. 

My snapdragons have, however, produced some memorable moments. One spring I planted some shorter stalks in a pot just outside the sliding glass door. I thought they would provide sweet music to me as I adjusted to single life (this was before I met and married Robert). I came home from work one day to find that grandchildren had visited while I was away….the flower pot was empty and all of the snapdragons were strewn about the uneven brick patio and dried to perfection in the Arizona sun. I stopped short of being mad- reminding myself that my grandchildren who were a part of me loved the flowers I loved. A few weeks later, after several days of rain, I discovered tiny green snapdragon stalks growing up from between the bricks of the patio. A gentle reminder that even on hard days, God will send Snapdragons to sing to me. 

Now I am adjusting again to the new and singular life of widowhood. The new yard and garden are a work in progress. Mostly, they’re a work. Lots of it. "The snapdragons can wait until it’s complete", I think, "the crowning touch". There are oleanders and ruella to trim. And weeds to pull. Ugg. Lots of weeds. I did the front yard…HOA, you know. But the back yard I left for another day. Most days are too busy. Some too hard. And some days I just don’t like doing more hard things like pulling weeds. But weeds grow anyway (why, weeds, why?). And hard things have to be done. So on a Friday afternoon, driving home from work, I made myself a promise that I would do that hard thing and pull the back yard weeds. And pull them I did. Thorns poked my fingers through my leather gloves, one weed was so thick and tall I nearly fell over as I pulled it loose from the ground. I think the weeds nearly won…I weeded one section, turned around to survey my work and discovered that more had grown where I had just been (really! I think that happened!). But as I worked my way around to the fence, I heard a familiar song. There, in the sharp rock along the fence grew a fat Snapdragon plant, the deep pink blossoms (my favorite shade of pink, too!) calling my name and cheering me on. I know where they came from. There were planted by a Miracle…because He knew that amid all the hard things in life, Snapdragons would sing songs of happiness and make me smile. 

Leaving Nauvoo

It was sunny and foggy as I stood at the end of Parley Street, watching the Mississippi River move along. Two of my children stood beside me. We were leaving Nauvoo, after having spent two glorious, spiritually lifting weeks performing in the Nauvoo Pageant. We sang and danced and celebrated the story of the early Mormon settlers of Nauvoo, Illinois. To say it was a joyful experience would not say enough.

I cried as I thought about leaving this beautiful place. It was almost frightening to think about leaving the peace and love we had felt here and return to our lives at home. But we could no longer stay, and so we stood at the end of Parley street, like modern day pioneers, bidding goodbye to the beautiful place where our hearts had been changed, hoping we would still find peace and love as we journeyed forward. We were leaving Nauvoo.

I turned around to look back at the beautiful temple set on a knoll overlooking the river, and pondered how those Mornon settlers must have felt. 

Farewell, dearest city, farewell for a time,

We're now called to leave thee for a distant clime.

Fair city of Joseph, we bid you adieu,

Farewell for a season, our own loved Nauvoo

How did they feel, these settlers who built Nauvoo, the City Beautiful, from a swamp. Who toiled to make their homes a place of peace and beauty, and who, in their poverty, had built the beautiful temple where they could worship and serve God. Who were then driven from their homes by angry men who murdered their leaders, burned their homes and threatened to murder those who remained. With heavy hearts, these faithful pioneers packed only the most necessary items in handcarts and wagons and, walking to the end of Parley street, crossed the mighty Mississippi River, headed to an unknown place, hoping, believing they would once again find peace and love and the ability to worship unmolested. 

Lucretia Hupper was one of those faithful ones who left Nauvoo. She penned several verses describing the feelings of many as they left their beautiful to city and journeyed west. 

Farewell to the temple, where oft we have heard

The precept of life and salvation declared.

Dear House of our God, we thy memory will love;

Although in a far distant country we move.

(Lucretia Hupper, “Farewell Nauvoo”)

The pioneers had a difficult journey, many did not survive the trek west. Many more did. They pushed handcarts, pulled wagons and walked. They dealt with hunger, sickness and heartache as they crossed the treacherous, snow covered Wasatch mountains and descended to the Salt Lake Valley where they began again to build lives filled with peace and love.

I reflected on the root of their strength as they undertook such a challenging journey. What gave them the ability to leave their homes and all they had known, to travel the rocky path over the mountains to someplace strange and unknown, and start anew? And of course, I knew the answer; Faith.

 

Pure faith in God. Faith in His purposes, in His designs and in His love for each of us.

Though deep'ning trials throng your way,

Press on, press on, ye Saints of God!

Ere long the resurrection day

Will spread its life and truth abroad,

Will spread its life and truth abroad.

We have all had similar experiences. Most of us have left a Nauvoo at least once in our lives. We have left home and family for new jobs, new adventures. Some of us have been forced to leave, through death or divorce or life changes. Others of us choose to leave for the thrill of adventure. Sometimes we plan our changes, as we plan for retirement. Sometimes the change is made behind our backs and we are left to either adapt or start over. In all of these journeys, faith is what carries us. 

As I stood at the end of Parley street that day, I took courage from the sweet peace I had felt in Nauvoo, knowing God was at work in my life, just as He worked in the lives of those pioneers. I couldn’t see ahead enough to know exactly what would happen, but I knew I would find peace and strength in God, and that was enough.

Though outward ills await us here,

The time, at longest, is not long

Ere Jesus Christ will reappear,

Surrounded by a glorious throng,

Surrounded by a glorious throng.

As it turns out, I've 'left Nauvoo' again and again, leaving the scenes and places of peace and safety to try new paths. Always, always I have felt God's guiding hand and known of His love for me. His love has carried me over mountains, through heartache and has buoyed my spirits when I stand at the edge of a swift moving river wondering what lies on the other side. In all things, I have found the peace of God is present, even after I've left Nauvoo.

Lift up your hearts in praise to God;

Let your rejoicings never cease.

Though tribulations rage abroad,

Christ says, "In me ye shall have peace."

Christ says, "In me ye shall have peace.”

~Eliza R. Snow, “Though Deepening Trials"

That's Entertainment?

I have reached a terrible conclusion…I have become my grandmother.

As a young woman, my grandmother worked as a script girl at MGM studios. This was in the 1930s and 40s, when the likes of Lionel Barrymore and Shirley Temple were in their prime. I once told Grandma that I had thought it would be a fun and exciting job, but she quickly burst my bubble. She recalled an experience where a famous male star called for her and when she entered the room where he was, he exposed himself to her. To be fair, my grandmother was probably the MOST proper and, um, private person you’ll ever know. And she was deeply offended. She had seen the seemy underbelly of Hollywood. She said that said she could never respect an industry so full of filthy people. 

As a teenager, the magnificence of the epic masterpiece The Ten Commandments was ruined for me when Grandma proceeded to explain sets and trick photography. Of course I knew it wasn’t real, but…she really spoiled the magic! I promised myself I would never let such things get in the way of enjoying good entertainment.

Fast forward to just a couple of years ago, when we were in the hospital (wow, I say that like I was there, which I was…but it was Robert who was IN the hospital, not me, although I was right by his side nearly 24/7), we sort of got out of the habit of watching TV. I know…it sounds crazy, right?  I mean, what is there to do when you sit in a hospital room for 43 days in a row? Well, we just didn’t watch TV much. It was probably a combination of a desire to spend our last moments on earth together differently and the fact that high levels of pain meds made it difficult for Robert to concentrate for very long. Then again, we both had a different attitude about the meaning of life and most TV shows we could find on the hospital network didn’t really contribute to feeling peace and comfort. At any rate, we didn’t watch TV much at all during that time.

And after he was gone, I didn’t have much time or desire to watch TV either. So many other things to do, and I wanted things to keep my mind and heart at peace. Activities with family and friends seemed to be much more exciting, so the TV stayed off (we’ve not had cable or satellite for years). Mostly off, that is, until about two weeks ago. 

I wanted to watch a fun show that Robert and I had enjoyed before, The Sing Off. The singing, the talent…that was incredible. I LOVE good music! But I couldn’t watch…. I wondered if the suggestive dancing and lyrics full of innuendo were present when we watched it before? Because the way some of the beautiful young people moved their bodies was certainly suggestive. Then one of the judges opened her mouth….and…well, I was a bit surprised to hear a talented and beautiful woman speak so coarsely and use words that made me glad there were no tender ears nearby to hear. I turned it off….I was sad. I wondered what had happened.

A few days later I tried again…this time a program that I had enjoyed watching on the iPad while Robert slept, a popular period drama from Britain on PBS. PBS is good, right? I was disappointed in the way the storyline had moved away from showing the class struggles with real problems to a program so full of (oh my, what word works here?) salacious plot twists it became a completely unbelievable. As in, unreal. I don’t know, maybe my life has been so full of drama that I can call a fake plot twist from a mile away. Or maybe the show was just unreal. I recalled an evening when Robert had awakened by my side while I was watching that show years before and said, in a weakened voice, “Turn it off, it’s nothing more than a soap opera”, and now I realized he was right. 

I flipped channels…dark dramas, evil supernatural creatures, murder, rape, crime, cheating spouses, random violence, you name it, it seemed like every show had it. I almost wondered if the news and the TV shows had gotten confused. Oh wait, it had. I mean..what passes for news? Someone’s barely adult son got a DUI and it was news because he has a CD (or two) out? It’s sad is what it is, it’s not news. A bunch of impressionable young women think he’s cool, but if he were to date your daughter, would YOU think it was cool? When did we become so confused? When did we start thinking that watching TV shows about a woman who has been cheated on by her politically motivated husband but then becomes unfaithful to him herself with co-workers is a valuable way to spend our time? What is right or good or even glamorous about that? Why are we sickened and saddened at news stories about bombings and  school shootings but then hail as artistic or entertaining the TV shows depicting the same things?

The Apostle Paul counseled the people of his day, but I believe it applies to us here and now, "whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” Phillipians 4:8 

I love good entertainment. I love good music. Beautiful music and art bring me peace and fill my senses with joy. But there is no joy for me in watching people portray wickedness as acceptable or normal.  I cannot feel peace or happiness either. I choose not to seek after these things. Somoene I knew said, "TV is the medium by which we invite characters into our homes with whom we would never associate in real life."

Grandmother was right. There is nothing to respect about an industry that glorifies evil.

And that is why my TV remains dark most nights. Sometimes on a Friday evening my kids bring grandkids and we watch a movie, but they are movies about goodness, families and learning to make good choices. They are movies where wrong is wrong and right always wins. There is so much good in the world, we choose to seek after those things and to feel peace. 

The Age of Discontent

In the story Fiddler on the Roof, Tevye, the main character, a poor village milk man, sings of having material wealth. Tevye has already told us that he is a man of faith and has a desire also to be learned. But in this moment of dreaming of the things material wealth could buy for his family (and yes, maybe a moment of jealousy), he asks, 

“Lord, who made the lion and the lamb, 

You decreed I should be what I am, 

Would it spoil some vast eternal plan 

If I were a wealthy man?”

I have felt discontent. We all have at one time or another. My discontent has not been with things, mind you, but with situations. It has been disappointing to have my life plan change unalterably before my eyes more than once. I have felt stymied in my hopes and dreams on occasion. The grand plans of serving the Lord with my sweetheart by my side, traveling the world, of happy family gatherings with him….all of those plans have been disrupted. I have wondered, ‘what good is it to have hopes and dreams when they get interrupted so rudely?’ I have watched friends who are similarly stymied with life situations that are less than they ever hoped or dreamed. They may have had college plans that were sidelined by illness or finances, children who go fall into extreme addiction, children with severe illnesses that ravage their bodies and tax their families, spouses who suddenly and rudely decide not to be a spouse, careers that do not play out as hoped, or yes, spouses taken away in the prime of life. All of these and a host of other monkey wrenches can appear to ruin our well laid plans for life. 

I have wondered how to reconcile the wrenched life with the life I am in. I have poured out my tears in prayer. These disrupted plans are not wicked schemes, they are wholesome and righteous plans. Why can’t the Lord just give me what I want and plan? I have felt to ask, as Tevye, ‘would it spoil some vast eternal plan’ if my life just played out like I planned it?

Alma, a prophet of old, also had grand desires in his heart. 

“O, that I were an angel and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth and speak with the trump of God, with a voice to shake the earth, and cry repentance unto every people!”

What could be more noble and righteous than that? He desired to serve the Lord in a glorious way.

But Alma’s next words are also instructive; “…I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me.”

Boy, does that thought dash grand plans! But as I have pondered this statement, I have found comfort. 

THIS life, the one I am in, is the life that my loving Father in Heaven planned for me. It is the one He knows will teach me the most and allow me the greatest path to learning. Through God’s grace and continual tender mercies, of which I have received many, I know that I am loved and all of these situations are for my personal benefit and growth. 

In this age of discontent, I am happy now to keep walking forward in the direction I am headed, knowing that Christ has overcome the world and that through His Atoning Grace, I can continue to learn and grow. I have not given up dreams of earthly happiness, I have come to see that a desire for eternal happiness with my sweetheart is something that I build here and now. That even though Robert is not physically present, we are working together on THAT vast eternal plan, and that there is much to be content with. There is much to do here and now. I am learning to trust that God’s plan, His Grace, is sufficient for me, and that gives me not only contentment, but Joy.

The answer to Tevye’s query is, “Yes! If I give you all that you want, YOU will be spoiled. You will not learn to trust me as you need to. This path you are on is where I know you can BE good, become better and also DO good!”

How much more can we be joyful

When there’s really something

To be joyful for!  

Merry Christmas and Silent Night

I have a confession to make. And it’s not an easy one for someone who freely confesses a love of the Christmas season and Christmas music in particular. So this is difficult to admit, but…...Silent Night has never been one of my favorite Christmas Carols. There I said it. You probably think of me as shallow. Or worse, heartless. I still remember my watching my grandmother, her eyes moist with tears while we were watching the Andy Williams sing Silent Night on TV. After a long, reverent pause, she said, “That is just the most beautiful Christmas song ever”. But not me. I wondered what was wrong with me, that I didn’t feel Grandma’s emotion… the words were sweet, but not particularly moving. It was just a nice little lullaby.

“Silent Night! Holy Night!

All is calm, all is bright

Round yon virgin mother and Child,

Holy Infant, so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace;

Sleep in heavenly peace."

Now please understand, I love Christmas. I have a deep, but tender testimony of the Reason for the Season. And, I don’t hate the song, it’s just never been very meaningful for me. I know and love the sweet story of how this beautiful hymn came into existence. Some would call it a tender mercy indeed- and I love stories that testify of God's tender mercies. I have sung this beloved hymn many, many times. There are many Christmas songs and carols that move me to tears. Just not Silent Night.

Until….

(you knew that was coming, didn’t you?)

Until the day my life changed so terribly and so drastically that I feared I would never sleep again. My sweetheart passed from this life on a bright summer day. After an afternoon and evening of grief filled emotion, the day finally ended leaving me in a dark, empty house. My heart hurt, and sleep was not to be. In my sorrow, I turned in prayer to the hymns that I knew would calm my heart and bring me peace. Wrapped in Robert’s robe for comfort, I curled up in my bed and cried as the music played. Finally, in an answer to desperate prayer for peace, a familiar, if out of place, hymn began to play. As it did, the words from the third verse filled my mind: 

“Silent Night! Holy Night!

Son of God, love’s pure light

Radiant beams from thy holy face,

With the dawn of redeeming grace,

Jesus, Lord, at thy birth;

Jesus, Lord at thy birth."

Redeeming Grace- what sweet peace those words brought to my soul! Jesus is Lord! His Grace is sufficient to redeem me. His resurrection ensured that Robert and I, too, will live again and be reunited. At last, I could sleep in the heavenly peace that is made possible only by the Son of God. The sweet tender mercy of that Christmas Carol, Silent Night, had finally become a tender mercy for me. I cried.

We live in a time when there is much unrest. There is not a corner of the world untouched by dissension. And there is not a corner of the world that is not in desperate need of a Merry Christmas and a Silent Night. We need Christ. Christ, the Savior, who was born on that Silent Night. There is nothing that His Grace cannot overcome, no sorrow his love cannot heal.. Christ, who loved each of us so much that He died and came forth on the third day for the Salvation of all. Nothing is more important and nothing gives us more lasting peace than our faith in Him. And all of this message is embodied in a simple but uplifting Christmas carol:

“Silent Night! Holy Night!

Shepherds quake at the sight!

Glories stream from heaven afar;

Heav’nly hosts sing Allelujiah!

Christ, the Savior, is born!

Chris, the Savior, is born!”

I cannot hear or sing this sacred hymn without tears filling my eyes in gratitude for this gift! For that reason, I want to share it with you. 

  Merry Christmas and Silent Night! 

Of Oatmeal and Fractions

I'm sure my mother didn't mean it. She was frustrated. I was six years old and stubborn. The oatmeal was cold. And slimy. I wasn't interested. I dawdled and dabbled, but I didn't eat it. "Eat," Mom nagged. It was gross, it got stuck in my throat. Mom's frustration bubbled out. She picked the bowl up, I thought to take it away, but instead the slimy, cold oatmeal wound up on my head...the gooey mess of oatmeal paste running into my ears. I'm sure mom didn't mean to be cruel, but my stubborn, fragile six-year-old spirit rebelled. At that moment, I vowed I would never again eat a bowl of oatmeal.

And I didn't. Oh, I bought oatmeal and served it to my kids on chilly winter mornings. Over 30 years later, many of them do like oatmeal. But I was careful to make sure it was warm and sugary, so they would never have cause to sit in front of a cold mass of melted oats in a bowl. And I ensured that I never touched the stuff. Some times I would remember the trauma and wish that I could overcome it. But mostly, I just refused to eat it (did I mention stubborn already?). My spirit never reached the place where I felt safe enough to try again, to overcome the hurt.

We all have them. Some traumas are silly, I mean, oatmeal is not evil. Some traumas are far, far from silly. They are hideous. I'm not minimizing by any means. But I believe that healing is possible. And I have experienced it. Yes, with oatmeal. But with many other things as well. 

One morning as Robert sat with of his bowl of warm, creamy, brown sugar dusted oatmeal and I sat with my tiny tub of yogurt, he gently said, "Tell me why you don't like oatmeal." No judgement, just a gentle question. Then I realized it was a silly reason to hate oatmeal, and as I explained the hurt that had splintered in my soul all these years, I laughed. And then I cried. Robert gently took my hand and kissed it, kissing the childhood hurt away. I understood for the first time how it felt to trust and not fear judgement for my childishness. 

My 4th grade math teacher probably knew better than to traumatize a classroom full of eager students, but I try to give him the benefit of the doubt. His spit-wad shooting, book throwing, angry outbursts and desk kicking put a permanent halt to my desire to ask questions in class. I have carried a lifelong paralyzing fear of math and being laughed at or scorned for wrong answers. It was rudely reinforced year after year, teacher after teacher, until it ended my freshman year of high school, where my fear found me frozen in front of a roomful of my peers, chalk in hand, attempting to publicly work a problem I did not understand. I heard laughter as the teacher cried derisively, "What's wrong with you? Everyone else in this room gets it! You can stand there until you do too." I never did. 

Mental block firmly in place, I have learned to cope. Calculators and spreadsheets have solved most of my problems (oh, and I married an accountant). That is, until this semester, when I was confronted with a personal finance class, a required course. I entered the course determined to work my way past the block. I pleaded with the Lord to open my mind, hoping I could understand the things that had escaped me before. I felt safe and I wanted to overcome the hurt.

I did relatively well until the unit on fractions.The fractured thought processes ingrained all those years ago began to creep around my homework space at home. They rattled my brain as I began an online math quiz. I sat frozen, my shoulders stiffened against the laughter that was sure to happen as I struggled to work the problems. Except this time there is no laughter. Quietly, gently, the impression enters my mind and I know that I will never be laughed at again. I am surrounded by peace. I can relax, and as I do, the problems untangle in my mind. I understand that I will have to continue to put in the work, but the derisive laughter, the fear are gone. I can learn.

Sometimes a gentle kiss heals our hearts. Sometimes it takes more; it takes faith and prayer and work. But always, the healing can come. Sometimes gradually. I suspect I will always struggle a bit with math, but I can see the growth, the layers of learning, and I am thankful for that much. Sometimes the healing takes us by surprise. Recently, as part of a 'get to know you' activity, I was asked, "What's your favorite breakfast food?" I answered almost without thinking: Brown sugar dusted oatmeal with raisins.

Tell me I'm a fool, 
Tell me that You love me for the fool I am, 

Comfort me like only You can, 

And tell me there's a place 

Where I can feel Your breath 

Like sweet caresses on my face again. 

Take me back to You, 

The place that I once knew as a little child; 

Constantly the eyes of God watched over me. 

Oh, I want to be 

In the place that I once knew as a little child, 

Fall into the bed of faith prepared for me. 

I will rest in You, 

I will rest in You, 

I will rest in You. 

(~ Michelle Tumes, Brent Bourgeois)

What's on Your Playlist?

(Or why it's ok to play Christmas music year 'round)

A 10 year old boy was sitting in my office waiting for his mother. He suddenly looked at me and said, "Hey! This song is from Prince of Egypt!" I listened for a moment as Brian Stokes Mitchell's voice nobly questioned, "If a man lose ev'rything he owns Has he truly lost his worth? Or is it the beginning of a new and brighter birth?".

"Why are you playing that here?" he asked. (It's a little bit funny what some people think is appropriate music for my office waiting area. Like the guy who questioned William Joseph's piano only version of Led Zepplin's Kashmir.) I'm not sure what this boy thought, but I'm sure it surprised him to hear something he recognized and obviously knew well. I like the message of the song and thought it was very appropriate for a counseling office: 

So how can you see what your life is worth

Or where your value lies?

You can never see through the eyes of man

You must look at your life, 

Look at your life through Heaven's Eyes.

Later that day, a friend said she was looking for new 'workout' music and asked what I listened to when I walked. And that got me thinking about playlists. 

We all have them, lists of music that we like to listen to for different occasions. I love Spanish Guitar, especially on Saturday afternoons, with the windows open and a breeze gently rustling. I love good jazz, especially on Friday nights, when I need to unwind after a long week at work. Christmas music, though, inspires me in ways that are difficult to explain. 

And then I thought, "What would happen to people if we did listen to Christmas music all year long?"

The haunting melodic voice of Mindy Gledhill singing "In the Bleak Mid-winter" can soothe a dark windy day and reminds me to warm my heart with service:

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,

Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air,

But His mother only in her maiden bliss, 

Worshipped the Beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, Poor as I am? 

If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb, 

If I were a wise man I would do my part, 

Yet what I can I give Him, Give my heart.

And the jovial melody of Carol of the Bells (ok, my favorite version is by the California Guitar Trio) seems to free my feet, and I can dance through almost anything. More importantly, it frees my heart:

        Hark how the bells, sweet silver bells,

All seem to say throw cares away....

Gaily they ring, while people sing

          Songs of good cheer....

(who doesn't needs some good cheer?)

Then there is the gentle lullaby we sing to sleeping grandchildren, that entreats us to receive the Savior:

          O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie,

          Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by"...

          How silently, how silently the wondrous Gift is giv'n!

          So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heav'n.

          No ear may hear His coming; but in this world of sin,

          Where meek souls will receive him, still The dear Christ enters in.

Not too long ago, on an incredibly warm (that's an understatement) summer day, I found myself in a mood that did not match the happy laughter of the children playing nearby. Those moods don't strike me often, but they do come. On this day, it seemed as if every little comment, as tender and kind as it might have been, made me cry. Some days are like that. 

I said a prayer; I needed to feel some joy, to lift my mood. The day was full of places to go and people to see, so when I got in the car to travel to another destination, I quickly flipped through my playlists, looking for something peaceful. I landed on a Vocal Point album, Lead Thou Me On, which is mainly an album of hymns. But the first song that played that tearful summer day was, you guessed it, a Christmas song. Just the perfect one: 

           Infant holy, Infant lowly, for His bed a cattle stall;

           Oxen lowing, little knowing, Christ the Babe is Lord of all....

As the song continued, I remembered anew the reason for it all...the reason for all that we do on this earth, why we are here and Who is most important to our existence. Peace overpowered my dark mood, I felt strength to go on, given from One who gives us both. 

           Thus rejoicing, free from sorrow, praises voicing, greet the morrow:

            Christ the Babe was born for you, Christ the Babe was born for you!

It's a thought that needs to be heard- and felt- more often than just the month of December, wouldn't you agree?