Well, I'm certainly setting no records on posting frequency unless it is one on how long you can go before coming up with something new to say. But whatever. The point is, I have just written something and here it is...

It’s Christmas season again, and all the old carols are filling my world with an invasive nostalgia I’ve both both loved and hated most of my life. For me, they’ve represented so much longing and so much hope spread over an underlying pain. But this year, I think I finally understand why. 

Growing up for me was pretty much a semi-lethal mix of moments of intense connection and equally or even more intense loss of connection. Like the proverbial little girl with the curl, “...when it was good, it was very, very good, and when it was bad, it was horrid.” Christmas was one of the rare times when the good seemed to stabilize and prevail. We’d make all sorts of lists, treats, and shopping trips, eyes sparkling with excitement, and Mom was happy. That was really the key, though I didn’t recognize it then. 

And we went caroling. It was just what we did. She was the orchestrator, and when she created an event, it felt exciting and complete. In the back of our old farm truck loaded with clover-scented hay, we’d nestle down against the cold Montana night while snow like a blue-white blanket softened field and fence. And oh, the stars! They were like a thousand thousand twinkling Christmas lights on a vast black canvas stretched above as we laughed and sang our way down empty country roads, unloaded en masse, and tramped up neighbors’ walks to knock on doors.

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

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by…”

I loved to watch my mother’s joy as she sang with us, she who made this whole experience happen. Oh, and I adored whatever treat the neighbors shared afterwards--cocoa, fudge, or popcorn balls. I reveled in the cold of the wind on my cheeks as I cuddled next to my siblings and later on, next to my sweetheart in the back of that same old truck. Every moment breathed connection, shared wonder, and beauty of dear old songs and familiar harmonies blending as if this was how our everyday life really was.

“Yet in thy dark street shineth

The everlasting light…”

Our voices rang out, sweet sweet bells in the night, our laughter like honey and wine, and every year it was just as magical for me. Between the caroling, classic movies with their I’ll-be-home-for-Christmas vibe, and the excitement of planning and executing the “perfect” gifts for each person, the whole month seemed steeped in connectivity. My mother was at her creative best, and the annual Christmas Eve program we put on for each other was only one step less anticipated than Santa himself. I loved it all.

“The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in thee tonight.”

And when we went caroling, I poured all my longing into those songs at every neighbor’s back door. Joy of the moment. Fear of loss. Hopes for connection. All mingled with my voice and rose as prayers to that Savior whose birth we celebrated: prayers that the heart-healing connection woven into the warp and woof of Christmastime would transfer into the rest of the year with the same solid sustainability. That somehow the joy in my mother’s eyes would remain after Christmas, rather than draining away to the bare survival level of “okay-ness” she maintained for most of the rest of the year.

I don’t need to figure out why it was easier for her to be happy during the Christmas season. That’s her journey. But at last I understand my own why. Why the bittersweetness surrounding Christmas music, and why I was always hoping I could get my kids and hubby to go caroling with me or sit around singing those old sweet songs. Clearly it is not about the singing or the songs. It’s about the connection that always happened as we snuggled down in the sweet-smelling hay on those star-spangled, snowy Montana nights. 

“The morning stars together proclaim Your holy birth,

And praises sing to God our King, and Peace to men on earth.”

And here’s the thing I also now understand: I don't need us to go singing door to door to experience that connection. It is enough just to be with the ones I love and who love me. We are always connected, through the good and the bad. It’s all I ever really wanted all those years ago, but didn’t know how to experience. So no, this year, let’s not go caroling. Let’s just let those wonderful Christmas songs play as we experience being “with.”

Making a Difference

 I often wonder how to make a difference in this beautiful yet struggling world. I also wonder if the world needs one more blog entry or if my words just add to the onslaught of minutiae that hits the world wide web every day. But on the off chance that it's really true that the pen is mightier than the sword and that one raindrop, be it ever so small and ordinary, does indeed raise the sea, I write.

In the stillness of a cloudy morning while the trees and birds and croaking frogs wait for rain, I feel guilty. Guilty that my little universe is currently at peace. Yes, I have my dilemmas, my concerns, my disappointments. But then there's Mozambique, where entire villages are flooded to the treetops and thousands of people are unaccounted for. I can give money, and I will, but I wish I could do more. Give more tangibly. See into the eyes of the people there and tell them that we who are safe really do care and desperately want them to be safe as well.

In some ways it feels as detached as when our mothers used to tell us to eat everything on our plates because kids were starving in China. Now as then, I'd gladly share my liver and onions with all takers! But really, how? And perhaps the brooding question below that layer is whether one unknown person going about her routine activities as best she can could add a big enough contribution to the collective need that it is actually felt? Because that's what most of us are: unknown. Lacking a huge footprint. Though our hearts may be as big as Desmond Tutu's, our spheres of influence and our resources seem woefully inadequate to ease the pain around us.

And yet--if we were able to see with the eyes of another realm, perhaps we would see spots of beauty glowing gold around the edges, slowly expanding until they touch and mingle with each other. Maybe as we--you and I and all the others who long to make a difference--do all we can to release love in our unknown sphere, it will circumnavigate the globe like a grid of light. Together, we will cover the earth in kindness.

Will it make wars go away? I don't know. Will hurricanes and droughts and earthquakes still happen? I'm guessing yes. But if we can see with other eyes that greatest of gifts--love--and give it wherever we are in the world, people will know they are not unseen. Not dispensable or insignificant, but loved and longed over, and it can comfort their hearts in the midst of whatever disaster they may be facing.

Adages abound--"Bloom where you're planted." "Light your corner of the world." Either those who penned those words were also hoping that the way they live their life would make a difference, or they actually knew that it would. I'm banking on the latter, because that's what I feel, too, if I drill down below the surface doubts and the guilt that follows on its heels.

And one thing I do know--that small though my sphere may be and limited my reach--if I do not live and love and try with all my heart, the world is the poorer for it. I may be just one small light, but if all the small lights decide they make no difference anyway and decide not to shine, the whole is diminished.

John Donne's immortal poem comes to mind:

No man is an island, entire of itself;

Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were,

As well as if any manner of thy friends or of thine own were;

Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls:

It tolls for thee."

In the same way, if any man's death diminishes mankind--us--then one person's life enriches it. One small light reaching out and uniting with other small lights increases the shining. Tiny raindrops you and I may be. But let us cast ourselves wholeheartedly into that great ocean, confident that no matter how little we may be, one raindrop really does raise the sea.