Discovering Yourself at the Manger of Jesus

Today, this Christmas, 

who are you (Mary? the little boy? someone in a room off in the distance?)

or 

what are you 
(the dog? a sheep? a barn dove? the hay?)

in this manger scene? 

What is the significance of your choice?

What do you sense God saying to you 

as you ponder 

where you'd be 

and who you would be 

in Jesus' birth scene?

The Baby Jesus Brings Comfort . . .

He is a refuge.


And He did say come to me 
all of you who are weary 
and I'll give you rest.


I worship Jesus Christ, 
the Son of God, 
the Lover of us all . . . 
And Lover of sleeping German Shepherds.

Zach the Cat Stops to Rest 
                      On a Sunny Afternoon



There are two means of refuge from the misery of life - music and cats. 
~Albert Schweitzer





Cats are rather delicate creatures and they are subject to a good many ailments, but I never heard of one who suffered from insomnia. 
~Joseph Wood Krutch



If there is one spot of sun spilling onto the floor, a cat will find it 
and soak it up.  ~J.A. McIntosh



There's no need for a piece of sculpture in a home that has a cat.  
~Wesley Bates

"Are you tired? Worn out?

Burned out on religion?

Come to me.

Get away with me and you'll recover your life.

I'll show you how to take a real rest."

(Matthew 11:28, The Message)

October 24, 2008 . . .

               Remembering Mommie

My brother, Brad Hardin, and I bought this tree--a Pin Oak-- and had the Maryville (Tennessee) historic park (behind Brad's house) plant it in memory of our mother,

Shirley Temple Armistead (Hardin) Neville.

This is the plaque at the base of the tree. Brad and his girlfriend, Marcia, decorated the plaque. Mommie would have liked that. (By the way, I spell our mom's name "Mommie."  Brad spells our mom's name "Mommy." 
Neat huh?)

Our mom died suddenly of an ascending aortic aneurysm on the morning of November 24, 2008.

Basically her heart broke. So did ours.

Brad and I dearly loved her. My friends dearly loved her. And she dearly loved me, Brad, and all my friends.

One of the ways she loved us best was through cooking. Here's one of her bazillion  recipes -- "Cornbread Salad." (There's probably more on the back.) The best thing about this recipe is that it's written in her swirly-Shirley handwriting.

This Thanksgiving Day, November 24,

Brad, Marcia, Dow (Mommie's husband of 17 years), and I will go to the cemetery and say hi

and let her know we miss her

and be thankful for all she meant

and still means

and will always mean

in our lives

and in our hearts.

And so this Thanksgiving I will declare with the Psalmist . . .

"Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever!

Let Israel say, 'His steadfast love endures forever.'

Let the house of Aaron say, 'His steadfast love endures forever.'

Let the house of Hardin say, 'His steadfast love endures forever.'

Let those who fear the Lord say, 'His steadfast love endures forever.'

Out of my distress I called on the Lord; 
the Lord answered me and set me free....

(Psalm 118:1-5 with a Kay-tweakism)

Zach, the Undecided Cat

"It's hard to make up your bed while you're still sleeping in it. 
It's hard to make up your mind for the same reason." 
~Robert Brault

Snow Roses

Today at lunch one of my friends showed the group of us a picture of snow decorating her sister's rose bushes in Nebraska when it snowed on November 1. After we all moaned about snow already arriving in Nebraska so soon, we then began to joke about "snow roses" because the Nebraska roses
were still blooming
when the snow came.

I don't have lots of nice, hardy rose bushes, but for the last several weeks, in my back and front yard I've planted what could be considered
a symbolic

type of "snow rose"--the pansy.

Google says of the pansy: "Pansies are winter hardy in zones 4-8. They can survive light freezes and short periods of snow cover." I've seen pansies pressed to the ground after a hard frost or a deep snow. It looked like the little things were flatter than a flitter (flitter defined as "fine metallic fragments, especially as used for ornamentation"--Dictionary.com).  It looked like they were done for. 

 But "ta-daaaa" they arose and showed off their beautiful colors again.

I have planted pansies in whiskey barrels, in ceramic pots, in strawberry pots, and in beds circling my Bradford Pare tree because I want color throughout this winter. When all is steel gray or dead-grass brown, I want to see a little splash of color when I come home after work or when I look out into my yard while pouring my

first morning cup of coffee.

Working in the yard, in the dirt, is therapy for me. But it's also spiritual. Around this time of year, grief seems to have it's way with me. The precious holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas are now like terrorist holidays. They threaten my emotional, mental, and spiritual safety all because of acute loss and grief during this time. My heart, mind, and soul go on Red Alert during this time.
And often, when such high alert is activated 
be it in the world, in a nation,
or in a single woman's soul,
it is very hard to
quietly,
peacefully
sit down and pray.
Lately I've not done well at praying.

But when I dig, plant, and pat the dirt 
with my hands,

when I get on my knees
and lower myself to ground level,

when I mix potting soil and garden dirt
in my wheel barrow

like I'm folding egg whites into sugar,

when I design the flower pots and beds--

"this yellow one here and this purple one here and this blue one here and this white one here" --

in so many ways it's a physical mode of prayer
and praise and peace
offered to God

during my season of loss, pain, and grief.



Maybe that's why I've gone crazy

planting pansies everywhere

during the last several weeks.

Maybe it's a way of prayer for me during these holiday months when my normal path of prayer is

  stymied, blocked, and darkened. 

Maybe God hears my prayer through garden tools, dirt, and little snow roses.

When most people are putting up the tools

and winterizing their yards,

I'm out here planting up a storm

in the midst of my own personal storm.

Hear my prayers O Lord.

The Last Week Before DST Disappears

I love my light.

I love my warmth.

I love my green and color.

I just mentioned things of spring, summer, and early autumn.

The countdown to November 6, this Sunday, has begun. This coming Sunday, Nov. 6, marks the official closing date that Daylight Savings Time is over for 2011. It won’t be until Sunday, March 11, 2012 when DST fires back up.

And so the light will drastically be different in the late afternoons.  Zach the Cat will be waiting in the dark on my/his deck for me to arrive from work and feed him supper. Lights in neighbors’ windows will switch on as I drive home at the end of my day. The night chill will have a head start with its advanced hour come November 6.

All this week I will have anticipatory grief about the impending loss of DST. But I will also embrace and celebrate the hours of light available all this week.

When younger I used to be such a winter-wonder nut. I loved the cold and the snow and all that the coldness brought with it—hot coco, hot cider, popping electric wall heaters, layers of coats and gloves and scarves, sledding, snowman making, decorations for the holidays, presents around the Christmas tree, and family snuggled up together under the same roof as the winds blew and the snow swirled.

But now I prefer the spring and summer seasons. I want all the light and warmth and color I can possibly have. I have switched my allegiance and am now more in love with all the things of spring and summer--things which winter traditionally does not offer.

A couple of fun things about winter is that Zach the Cat opts to crawl under the bed covers and scooch up close to me. Then he goes into a big roaring purr that makes me smile right there in the cold dark of my room. Another thing I enjoy is watching Zach sleep on top of one of my floor vents throughout the winter. I never understand why he doesn’t go around looking like a steak just off the grill. One other thing I enjoy about the winter is the delight of hot tea drinking. I love my Jasmine, Raspberry, English Breakfast, and Sassafras teas especially. And it’s a double delight to share a pot of hot tea with a friend in the deep of winter. We sit in my big over-stuffed chairs and have tea talks. ( I have no fireplace, hence no fireside chats.)

This week I hope to finish some outside projects like planting tulip bulbs and pansies as well as raking up tons of pine needles. This week I hope to get my winter clothes moved over to my bedroom closet. This week I hope to take a walk in my historic Park Hill neighborhood once a day. This week I hope to capture the leaf colors in my mind’s eye as I really look at God’s autumn masterpiece. This week I’ll say goodbye to the extra hour, tell it I’ll miss it, and let it know I’ll be eagerly watching for it to arrive back here next March 11.