Epiphany 2019: Offering our gifts.

It was the moment of truth. After working our way through the usual Christmas carols, we reached the one that always caused me to avoid eye contact with everyone gathered in my Great Uncle’s living room. It was time to sing We Three Kings, and I desperately wanted to avoid being selected to be a soloist. Even in my youth, I was a magnet for solos. (It wasn’t because I had a good voice. I just wasn’t good at saying “no.”) My gray flannels began to itch, and my necktie tightened. “Let’s see,” our host began as if he hadn’t already made up his mind. “Who should be one of the wise men this year?” My face gets red just writing about it.

It’s not that I disliked the carol. I liked it. I still do. I just didn’t want to sing by myself. I wanted to be part of the chorus. What if I hit the wrong note? What if my voice cracked? I can still hear my snickering relatives when our host looked directly at me and appointed me the last king.

My reluctance was understandable. Few of us want to be a wise man (or woman). After all, people might point as we climb up on our camels and look in the sky for a star. They might snicker because we believe we’re being led, even though we have no idea where our journey might take us. Then, if we survive all that, the time comes when we arrive and present our gifts. Is our gift good enough? How will it compare to what others give? Such thoughts are enough to make clothes itch and ties tighten.

And yet, today we celebrate the three kings, wise men, magi, or whatever you wish to call them. We celebrate their faithful journey, their persistent searching, and their arrival in Bethlehem. We also remember the gifts the offered. In our celebration, however, there is an echo: What journey are we on? Do we feel led, and will we stick with it to the end? And what gift will we offer? Do we have any gold, frankincense or myrrh to offer? If not, maybe we can give something more valuable, ourselves - our minds, heart, and, yes, maybe even our voices.

Spinning Tires

It had been an unusually big snowfall and even experienced drivers were struggling to make their way on the roads. I enjoy the challenge of driving in snow, but watching those less comfortable always reminds me how much I learned driving in New England as a young driver. Watching their tires spin as they gun their engines as the light turns green reminds me of one of the essential truths of driving in snow: start slowly. Tires need a chance to get traction so the car can build momentum. If the tires start to spin you should remove your foot from the gas petal, not push it closer to the floor.

As I sit at the dawn of a new year, waiting for the light to turn green, so to speak, I need to remember the same is true for new year’s resolutions and any efforts of self-improvement. So often, I make a long list of goals and then start the year by gunning my engines. I appreciate my desire to grow and live differently, but my tires always end up spinning and my car ends up in the ditch before February. If I want to read more, I need to set aside time to do so without expecting to read 100 pages on January 1st. If I want to get in shape, I need to slowly change my diet and exercise regularly rather than become a vegan overnight and take up residence at the gym.

Like driving in snow, I need to begin the new year slowly, gently putting my foot on the gas. I need to get some traction so I can move forward in a new way. If I begin to spin, I need to pull back my efforts so my tires can find something to hold onto rather than doubling down and flooring it. 2019 has 365 days in it. There’s time to make it to where I want to go, but it’s best to use all the days rather than the first three to get there. 

Advent IV: The Wild Rumpus

As Advent makes its final approach and Christmas comes into view, I feel like the main character in Maurice Sendack’s classic, Where the Wild things Are, who lifts his hand and declares, “And now,” cried Max, “Let the wild rumpus start!” The tree is up and decorated, presents bought, and the annual traditions of the final days are all scheduled and ready to go. It’s time to buckle up and enjoy the rumpus with all its twists and turns.

I loved Christmas as a child, but enjoying it as an adult has become a challenge. As I have thought about reasons why, I think that the fundamental reason it has become a struggle is the way I handle the twists and turns, or as Max would say, the rumpus. I always think the season will be magical, that everyone will be happy, say kind things, and celebrate their gifts. I think people will all come on time, add to the lively conversation, and sing the carols unreservedly. 

But the twists and turns always arrive. Uncle Billy drinks too much, Mrs. Stimpson can’t stop talking about her late husband’s tragic death at 94, and the children look for the next gift before the paper from the last one hits the floor. I cling to what I can in hopes of having a merry Christmas, but its hard to feel Christmas when you hands a clinched.

I have come to see my problem lies in thinking Christmas is something I create, I orchestrate, I control. I stand like a conductor expecting all the musicians to play their parts perfectly, and it never happens that way. Rather than bemoan that fact, I need to let Christmas come as it will. I need to open my clenched fists so I can receive the wild, uncontrollable gift it is. Better to let Christmas be whatever it will be, instead of trying to control it. I need to raise my hands and cry out with the hope and joy that lies deep within me: let the wild rumpus start.