The Knowing of Christmas

Truly incomprehensible.

May all of you be especially blessed on this Christmas Day of 2008.

Cole, The Candymaker

“A candymaker.”

“A candymaker? That’s what you want to be when you grow up, Cole?”

“Yes, Granny. I want to be a candymaker.”

Six-year-old Cole looked at me in a solemn, serious manner during our Thanksgiving days together as he sat at the kitchen bar, and I had inquired of his long-term ambition.

How many times I’ve asked that question to how many numbers of children I cannot say, but, despite their universal love for the sugary treats,  I have never heard another child voice the plan for such occupation. Usually its truck driver, fireman, policeman, preacher, nurse,  mommy or…I don’t know. Never before a candymaker.

Last week I called. “Cole, when we all get to Crestline next week, I’m going to teach you how to make peanut brittle. Since you’re going to be the candyman of the family, you and I will be making some candy.”

He was quiet, then softly answered me, “Okay, Granny.”

Yesterday was the day. He was so excited as I walked him through each step, even to pointing out a large pan, stored in the recesses of the deep cupboard where I keep pans and utensils I don’t use frequently. His little body nearly disappeared as he reached way back and pulled out the heavy pan, which actually is an old pressure cooker, the best to cook up a pot of peanut brittle.

He scooped up the 3 cups of sugar, then held out the cup while I poured in the white syrup. “Now we need a half cup of water,” and as I watched he turned on the faucet and measured in the water. Once during the mixing process, he spoke, unsmiling, to his mother.

“Write it down, Mom. Write it down…Maybe I can’t remember when we get home.”

“Okay, Cole,” Shawnna replied, as she reached for pen and paper.

I carred the heavy pot to the stove, he dragged over his climbing stool, grabbed the large wooden spoon and began stirring.

After a bit of stirring, he moved back to the counter, measured out the peanuts, cut a stick of butter into correct portions, and with my help measured the salt and soda. I had told him from the beginning there was a part of the peanut brittle making that he would have to just watch, so when I judged the concoction ready, he tipped in the soda, salt and butter, while I stirred vigorously. His parents were close by to watch him as I poured the hot mass into the pans which earlier he had buttered.

Cole, the candyman had cooked his first batch of perfect peanut brittle. Later this morning if the predicted storm holds off, I’m bundling up all the youngsters, and any adults who want to join us, and we’re walking to the neighbors. We’re handing out bags of candy.

On The First Night of Christmas

“Jerry, I’ll probably talk myself out of it, but I’m considering making cinnamon rolls.”

“You what?”

“I’m thinking of making cinnamon rolls.”

It was around 6:00 Sunday evening. Jerry and I sat before a blazing fire in our home in Crestline.

The day had started early, and with a fast pace we had moved; through loading all the wrapped presents and other paraphernalia from the motor home into the car, the Sunday morning church service, good-byes and Merry Christmases to all there, then another stop at Walmart for the final stash of milk and meat that we would need in Crestline. The roads were a mess, neighbors had told us, so I wasn’t counting on making any quick trips down to the store once we got home.

We probably weren’t 50 miles out of Havasu when we started seeing snow. First it was visible on the distant mountain peaks, then shortly there were patches beside the road, and by the time we were 50 miles east of Barstow on Highway 40, there was massive snow everywhere, finally coming right up to the freeway edge. I have never seen such wide-spread snow in that high desert area.

No one could have a better neighbor than we do in Ken McDaniel, who lives directly across from us. After the second recent snow, he cleared our driveway, knowing we would be arriving.

“Shirley, it is so thick, and its been so cold, that the bottom layer is ice, and I wasn’t able to get it completely cleared,” he warned a few days ago as we spoke on the phone.

A couple of runs at it were required, but about 3:00 in the afternoon as Jerry adroitly managed the spinning tires, our trusty four-wheel drive Jeep responded properly, and in a few minutes we were inside our garage.

Up the garage stairs all that stuff must be carried: we considered leaving it because we knew some strong youngsters were scheduled to make an appearance in a few hours, but we flexed our muscles, called up resolve, and managed the whole thing ourselves. Finally, our kitchen was mounded with grocery bags, the inside stairs were covered with the wrapped packages, the laundry was propped beside the washer, and Jerry and I wilted into chairs. I brewed a strong pot of coffee, and before I tackled storing all those groceries, and starting the laundry, I sat before one of our glass doors and admired the “winter wonderland” in which we would spend a few days. I believe this is the most snow I’ve seen since we’ve lived here. The last storm alone dropped 18 inches, and atop what had fallen only days before, we have between 3 1/2 and 4 feet of snow. The berms are massive.

Anyway, here it was about 6:00, the groceries were stored, our personal things had been put away, I had started the laundry, and I had this wild idea to make cinnamon rolls.

“Why do you want to make cinnamon rolls now, Shirley? You’re going to wear yourself out.”

“Oh, I was just thinking of Andrew and his family driving up from San Diego and how neat it would be if when they get here around 9:00 or 9:30, hot cinnamon rolls would be waiting for them.”

I didn’t talk myself out of it, and about 9:15 when they roared up the driveway having to make a couple of runs at it as we had, I was just putting the cinnamon rolls in the oven.

Pappy already had on his robe when up the garage stairs Andrew’s five bounded. Chloe was the first to get a hug.

Christmas has begun!

Can We Have Christmas Without Tinsel?

When after Thanksgiving we left Crestline, I had the intention of returning there for a few days before our children and grandchildren arrive for Christmas, so as to decorate, restock the cupboards, and in general set things in order for this next avalanche of holiday celebration. Didn’t happen, and here we are ready to drive over tomorrow after church, with Andrew and his bunch arriving the same night, and the rest piling in during the next few days. Nothing is ready!

No lights are strung on the bushes and the trees outside, nor on the front deck railing; no electric candles are in the windows, no baby Jesus is in His manger, no beautiful ornaments are scattered about, and not even a Santa is dancing. (Actually, I can’t guarantee that statement about Santa, for given his nature, he may be kicking around trying to push from his flimsy box at this very moment.)

A couple of nods to Christmas decorating have been noted: At Thanksgiving, Andrew and Jerry took down the fountain from the stair wall, and replaced it with a huge green wreath, strung with tiny white lights. With the flick of a switch, I will set it to blazing Sunday evening. On Thanksgiving day after the big meal, I stored my “fall” set of dishes, and brought out the 20 or so solid red plates I own, and the fine set of gaily decorated desert dishes and cups that I bought years ago when Buffums went out of business.

Sunday evening, I may (or may not) tear into the closet that holds most of the Christmas decorations, and, here and there, string up a few things–glittery garland laid atop the dining room bookshelves, lighted star-globes in the game room window upstairs, gold-foiled candles in the bathrooms, a snowman or two set about, and if I’m into all this, I’ll no doubt take Santa from his box, stick in the batteries, turn the switch and let him get on with his music. (Jerry gets so sick of the grandkids doing this that sometimes he takes Santa from their reach and gives him (and him) a rest!)

Then again, I may do none of this, for I’m of the thought that at the Buxton house in Crestline we are quite capable of having a joyous Christmas with little of the usual trappings. For one thing I know that whether or not I scrounge up a plastic manger with a baby in it, Jesus will be there. The real Jesus. The Saviour of the world. My Redeemer.

The spirit of Christmas will be there. My family will be there, and we’ll yelp and quarrel and pray and maybe sing a little and play music and pound the piano and give cooking lessons and eat and play Balderdash, and give and receive modest presents, and go again to the store for more cereal and more bread and more milk. The house will be a wreck, the washer and dryer will run practically non-stop, and of a certainty, about the time we finish up dishes from the last meal, a hungry mouth or two will appear in the kitchen.

There is snow outside, so we will pull out all the gloves, hats and mittens we own. From the basement (if we can get the door open) we’ll carry up boots that range from tiny to large, and the youngsters will scurry about trying to find a pair that fits. We’ll discuss the jackets, remarking that the one Brady now wears used to belong to Nathaniel, who at this point wears size 11 shoes and men’s large as far as shirts are concerned.

So, don’t worry about us if you chance by and observe a lack of Christmas decorations. I think we’ll do just fine.

The Real of Christmas

It happened in the past, but I was there, and the memory of the faces and more of the atmosphere remain clear in my mind. It is a Christmas story, not only because there was a Christmas tree in the room, and because it was mere days before the 25th of December, but because the happening was of love, of human pathos and need, of giving…and receiving.

We knew something was wrong when the new people missed two Sundays in a row and then they didn’t show for another mid-week function. We called and learned the story; a story of almost no work, utilities being shut off, prized possessions pawned, dark depression, embarrassment…and Christmas was in a few days and a small child was involved, as was an elderly parent.

The pastor made a phone call. “Don’t you think we should assist them? Shouldn’t we take money from the church to help them out of this jam?”

The pastor and the person listening both knew there was no abundance in the church accounts, and that in the near future there were obligations for every penny that had been banked, but is this not Christmas…is this not what the church teaches…is this not a challenge to our faith…is this not opportunity to reveal Jesus to hurting people?

From a file cabinet, we took the small checkbook, and the pastor wrote a check for $500.00. We drove to their house, and when they opened the door, it was obvious they were surprised, and after they asked us in, she scurried about, speaking thoughts of an unkempt home (which it really was not). “Sit down, here. Please sit,” they spoke.

The man was standing now, and after a time of small talk, the pastor walked over, drew from his shirt pocket the check, and said, “Here, we’ve brought a little money to help you out.”

Stock-still, the man stared. There was no speech in him. He gazed long into the pastor’s face. “No, no, I can’t do that.”

He continued to look at the pastor, his sight locked into his face, as he persisted in his refusal of help: the pastor pressed him to take the money.

“No, I can’t do that,” the simple modest man protested.

Trembling and crying, the wife spoke. “I didn’t tell you our problems so you would give to us,” she said to the pastor’s wife. “We didn’t have this in mind…not at all.” Her eyes were red-rimmed with purple shadows beneath. Her face was pale.

“We know…we understand. We know you weren’t asking for money.”

The man now threw his arms around the man with the check. “Oh, Pastor, Pastor.” He still had not brought himself to take the check, but pulled himself back and, again, stared long into the eyes of his pastor.

I wept, as I watched.

“Here, you must take it,” the pastor insisted, and at last the check had been transferred.

That precious man again wrapped the pastor in his long arms, exclaiming, “Pastor, oh Pastor.”

Soon we left.

As lights twinkled on the Christmas tree in a simple living room one afternoon in the past, as people wept together and loved each other, as they gave and received, I think I heard a faint rustle–as of angel wing.

Yes! A Muddy Boot

Merely a few days before Christmas, here I am in the desert, craving winter weather, for, in my opinion, cold and rain and snow should be connected with winter–especially with the Christmas holidays. Not appropriate are balmy weather reports, frosty pitchers of pink lemonade on a front porch, or red slabs of watermelon served under a shade tree. No, it’s time for hot cocoa, roaring fireplaces, mittens, boots and heavy coats.

But as I say, here I am in the desert–not a high desert, where one might rightly expect some inclement weather–but a low level desert, where a few days ago, people were out jogging in shorts and skimpy tops. Guess what, though. We’re having winter! My boots prove it.

A couple of nights ago in a drizzling rain, I drove the two miles to our local Dillard’s store to finish up my shopping, and when the next morning, I looked at my boots, I saw they were muddy. I was happy.

Occasionally–maybe once every ten years or so–it actually snows in Lake Havasu, and when at the church last night, we were shrieking about the cold and the rain that had softly fallen throughout the day, Mike said, “It might snow tonight.” I grinned. This morning, I peered out a window, looking for the white stuff, but saw none; instead I viewed lowering clouds that hid the distant mountains.

We will be having a white Christmas, anyway, for Sunday after church we’re driving to our home in Crestline, where at the moment it is 29 degrees and where our place is covered with snow. Our neighbors who live across the street sent a picture to Jerry’s phone yesterday–it’s a winter wonderland! Can’t wait!

Breaking news: In Las Vegas–of all places–the city is practically shut down because of a rare snowstorm, which, so far, has delivered 3 inches.

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Of Manger and Drywall, and of Cement

To our eyes it was a temple, and when any little improvement was accomplished we stood about admiringly. We voiced plans for the remaining cement block walls to be covered with drywall and paint, and of a finer rear entry with classy double doors, so that when our growth had caused us to utilize the other parking lot, a tiny foyer will be part of that entrance.

We dreamed, smiled often, made phone calls to brag on our new place, as at the same time we thanked God and gave Him credit for the progress. Tell the truth, we’ve lived the past few weeks in a jeweled, rosy haze.

Then one late afternoon, I stood alone in the budding sanctuary, and for a minute–just a minute, mind you–saw our new church project as it actually is–humble, and quite unremarkable, paltry and negligible. How could we have thought it worthy of a King?

For stripped of dream and imagination, the sight was dismal, the gleaming illusion barely visible. The construction grade plywood platform, the two small steps, whose height had been carefully calculated, the lean line of keyboard stand, and the spare pulpit, cast its own vision–one definitely lacking in grandeur. The sight spoke instead of reality; of struggle, and of less than infinite resources.

I was struck by the vision–a vision so at odds with those of recent hours and days–that I went for my camera so that I could fairly capture the moment.

During the intervening days, I have thought often of that fading afternoon, and have stared at the picture. Although I knew the lesson at first sight, during the passing time since the event, I have examined thoroughly its elements, and have come to understand.

It is the Christmas Story again. It is a manger filled with hay. It is a stable.

Incredibly, she is led to the outbuilding, a young girl racked with pains that cannot be ignored: “Yes!” a stable will do. So, soft-eyed cattle stand and continue their chew, and sheep nuzzle and gaze unknowingly at the most momentous birth in history–that of Jesus Christ, our Saviour.

“Where will we place Him, Joseph?” the young mother asked.

“Here, Mary. Here in the cattle manger. I’ve fashioned Him a snug place.”

They wrapped Him in swaddling clothes and laid Him in the manger.

The stable was now a temple; directly overhead a pointing star suspended itself in the black night spangling the barn roof with light. In the nearby hills, angels shouted from the sky. Shepherds cowered, and listened, and sped to where lay the Christ-Child.

We don’t know how long the young family remained in the stable, but when they bundled up baby Jesus and left, I’m quite sure the hay was still hay, the

manger was still recognizable as a feeding trough, and the floor was still dirt. Hinges creaked, and wind and sun beat down on the structure…as before.

For of little consequence is the building. It was not the stable that struck still the overhead star, nor was it the manger that drew the shepherds; neither did the humble town of Bethlehem cause angels to swarm its night skies. No, it was That Baby. Baby Jesus. The Messiah. God, made flesh.

So, seen in context, our new building and our pitiful improvements reek as inconsequential: perhaps they may be seen as stable and as manger. But though it is little, is that not enough? For we have fashioned Him a house, and though His favored abode is the heart of man, it is here–in our humble place in Lake Havasu–that we hope to attract those who don’t know about that yet. We who do know will congregate, think on Him, dream our dreams, and fashion our visions. During these last days before Christmas we will again marvel at that night, when, incomprehensibly, God became a man.

The Flag on the 5th

Every year after Christmas in newspapers around the globe are pictures of deserted Christmas tree lots,  and residential shots of trees stripped of their glitter and dragged to curbside, where, forlornly, they await pickup by the local garbage truck. Oh, there may remain a whisper of glory–a flutter of tinsel or a hint of angel hair–but the precious ornaments have been boxed, the sparkling lights are disconnected, and the music boxes have been silenced. The Christmas tree is spent.

“Nothing more useless than a Christmas tree the day after Christmas,”  someone has said.

Not so with the flag. Not so with the Red, White and Blue. Not so with the Stars and Stripes–the banner, the ensign–of the United States of America. Not so with that cherished piece of cloth that in itself has negligible value, but that becomes a storied tale of honor when pristine strength and gallant endurance  is woven betwixt its threads.

Today, the 5th of July, within our enduring banner reposes all honor that reflected there at yesterday’s dawn and at dusk of evening. For our prized flag, today, the 5th of July,  there is no place in the mud of gutter or in the decay of trash heap.

Today, the 5th of July, that amazing signal beats in the wind–an agent of hope and equity and freedom. Today, the 5th of July, with absolute assurance, flies the symbol of the greatest country on the planet. No stripping of agency, no negating of authority, no cowardice, no subjugation. 

Today, the 5th of July, the day after our birthday celebration, where, across the land, we pull out all stops; where we march parades and mount long and loud speeches and grill our finest meats and launch our hottest firecrackers–today, the 5th of July, there is no cessation of flag waving, no poverty of spirit, no paucity of patriotism. The flag lives, the flag waves. There is none like it.

There is no place on earth like the United States of America, just no place. On this, the 5th of July, there are yet people who love this country and who willingly offer their lives for its hallowed truths.

Navy Seal Mikey Monsoor was one such gallant young man.

The flag is safe. The flag endures.

The voice of President Bush breaks with emotion as he awards posthumously the Medal of Honor to Mr. Mikey Monsoor.

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My devotional blog is here.

Christmas 2007 in Review Part 3

Seth and Aunt Becky, originally uploaded by Shirley Buxton.

Some of Steve’s out-of-town friends were in on the secret and had arranged a motorcycle ride that would end at the Harley-Davidson store in National City–a San Diego suburb. As I understand it, the store routinely serves hamburgers to its clients on the open air roof-top veranda. Dearrah had the brilliant idea of utilizing this area, and arranged Steve’s 50th birthday party there. Caterers cooked hambugers, prepared other food and drinks, and decorated the tables. Not sure who supplied the cute birthday cake.

The tall heaters helped knock off the chill as we stood about visiting with friends and relatives and awaiting the arrival of the birthday boy. After a bit we heard loud motors and the riders roared onto the parking lot. Cameras in hand we gathered about the elevator, but in a minute someone screeched, “There he is,” and sure enough he had arrived on the opposite side from where we were.

It was great fun, the hamburgers were delicious, the coffee was smooth and robust, but we weren’t able to taste the cake. We had a drive back to Lake Havasu of more than five hours, so after saying many good-byes, we went to our car, took Andrew home, said good-bye to our little people there, and headed for Arizona. (We had given Steve his birthday gift while he was at our home for Christmas, but Jerry had a special gift he gave Steve privately at the party. I’ll write about that later.)

At 10:30 on Saturday night, we pulled into our parking space at DJs RV in Lake Havasu.  Tired, we fell into bed. Church would start at 9:00 on Sunday morning. Christmas was finished. (But then again, Christmas is never finished…it lives and breathes…because He does!)

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My devotional blog is here.

 

Christmas 2007 in Review Part 2

Christmas had passed, friends and family had come and gone, but we were forced to linger in California, for on Sunday, Steve, our eldest, would turn 50 and a surprise party was planned for Saturday. Anyway, we hadn’t visited and exchanged gifts with Andrew and his crew yet, so it was down to San Diego for us. We couldn’t let Steve know we were still around, and Andrew’s house is tiny, so we had to find a hotel. I found the best deal at the Harbor Island Sheraton, and it turned out that we had a beautiful room at a very reasonable price.

View Shirley Buxton’s map

Taken in (See more photos here)

We did a lot of running around those couple of days in San Diego, as we exchanged more gifts with our family, but when we were in our room, we quite enjoyed the stunning view–both during the day and at night. San Diego is a magnificent city.

Shawnna’s sister Tena and her family were still in San Diego and they joined us for some activities in the city. One of the famous restaurants at the downtown San Diego harbor is Anthony’s, which actually consists of three venues–a moderately priced family indoor restaurant with huge windows looking out to sea, a fine dining facility next door, and another place where situated are picnic tables and a walk-up window where great fish and chips are served. We opted for the outdoor place…scrumptious. It was chilly though, and we searched for tables near the tall heaters, and wrapped our jackets tightly.

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Taken in (See more photos here)

After we had eaten, we walked Harbor Drive toward Seaport village  where between the cruise ship terminal and Seaport Village is the famed ship, the Midway. In a later post I will write of that magnificent and honored vessel.

View Shirley Buxton’s map

Taken in (See more photos here)

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My devotional blog is here.