The Clearest Night

Back with another song study; which is me delving into thoughts provoked by the lyrics of beloved- some known, some unknown- Christmas carols. A sharper look into the sounds of the season... or me babbling into open space. You decide. So, let's blow the dust off our songbooks and begin!

It came upon a midnight clear. This was first written as poem by pastor Edmund Spears in 1849. However, the words were adapted to music the following year and the tune concentrates on the imagery of the angels as they appear to the shepherds after Jesus' birth;

'Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying:
                'Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.''

~Luke 2:13-14~

The lyrics to 'Midnight Clear' mirror this sentiment, but that's not what tugs at me when I think about this song. I think about the atmosphere of that night. How did the air taste? Were people restless as the shadows grew longer, as though they knew everything was about to change? And the moon and stars... were they bright? How bright?

We have moons that are extra bright now and then. There's something other worldly about a clear night like that, with the world bathed in moonlight. A comfort that comes with it, and a curiosity to search the night and its mysteries. That must've been what it was like, the eve of Jesus' birth (in spite of the shepherds' initial terror). 

There's a surreal moon in October known as the Hunter's Moon. It's big, beautiful, and orange. People are opt to associate this with monsters, witches, or any other Halloween theme. But when I notice the clarity of a Hunter's Moon, a Beaver Moon, or a Strawberry Moon (Yes, those are real things!) I prefer to parallel it to the night that hope entered the world. Maybe that was God's intention, when He first crafted it.

And anyways, hope lasts long after the moonlight fades.

Bring Your Best Drum

October begins tomorrow... so... LET'S TALK CHRISTMAS!

It might not surprise people that I gauge a situation- or season- by the words that are used. I've constructed a whole poem based on the lines of Christmas carols! But as I was ringing out the good tidings, rocking out to Mandisa's Christmas album in the kitchen, a chord stuck out to me. It was the age-old favorite 'Little Drummer Boy'.

There's a lot of debate on who wrote or composed the song, but there's no denying the message of the lyrics. With everyone placing their finest gifts before the baby Jesus, the little drummer boy is unable to give anything... except a steady beat on his drum.

Mandisa's version of the carol plays over the usual words, but she has a few backup singers echoing off of them toward the end. They repeat, 'I'll play my best for you, I'll play my very best for you... on my drum!' Their words emphasize the fact of bringing our best gifts, best presentation, best selfs before the King. In essence, this is the message of 'The Little Drummer Boy'.

This isn't a new concept to realize, but then, neither is the reason for our Christmas cheer. The birth of  Jesus! But it's important to remember that 'best' doesn't mean 'biggest', 'shiniest', or 'greatest'. This drummer boy was presenting his gift of drumming next to the gifts of the Three Kings. We all know what they brought! How is a pa rum pum pum pum supposed to compare with that?

 That's the beauty of it. Our gifts before God aren't about comparison. God smiles for every single one of those gifts presented to Him. Whoever stringed the lyrics together of this beloved Christmas carol understood that pretty well. The size or the grandeur doesn't matter (evidenced in Mark 12:41-44). All that matters is that you gave your best. Because your best (along with your worst) is accepted by our Heavenly Father.

"There are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit distributes them. 

There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord."

~1 Corinthians 12:4-5~

Surrounded

“Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.” 

This' the eighth stanza of St. Patrick's Breastplate. It is a prayer that St. Patrick first spoke in the 5th century, while ministering to the nation of Ireland. The stanza, as well as the entire poem, describe the completeness of God's presence. A presence that comes out of His love for us, covering every direction and action we take.

What's important to realize is that His presence is not meant to intimidate you or cage you in. It is an encompassing meant to comfort and encourage you when you're lonely. It seeks to bolden you when you are afraid, and humble you when you get ahead of yourself. And why does this presence completely surround you? Because being beside you is the only place God wants to be (Revelation 21:3). And 'abiding in him' (1 John 4:16) is where we can find peace.

After living in this world for a while, we get used to things changing, or ending all together; often abruptly and leaving us unfulfilled. This pattern is familiar and it becomes what we expect, maybe even fear. This is not to be confused with human development, maturity, or growth, as these are all things God encourages. Yet, He also encourages us to trust that He will never change and certainly never leave us alone. Cold rejection or heartless abandonment, betrayal or lying... it's not going to happen with God. He's honest, and He's always there.

"You make known to me the path of life; 

you fill me with joy in your presence, 

with eternal pleasures at you right hand."

~Psalm 16:11~ 

One Man's Land

'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.'

~Matthew 5:5~

             It was hard to tell which was hotter, the August afternoon or Georgette's temperature. The window was needlessly open, mixing the house's stuffy oxygen with the stiff outside air. It had her sweating like the hogs out back and huffing worse then the cows. But none of that mattered just now... the good Lord had given her business that she needed to finish. Georgette pushed her damp sheets back and drew her legs over the side of the bed. She hadn't done so for near two weeks and her knees quivered the second she put weight on them. But Georgette gritted her teeth, gripping the nightstand with her clammy hands.

          Lord, Georgette swallowed desperately. Give me the strength, be You willin'.

          There were moments in life that truly meant life or death, be it physical or metaphorical. This was the moment for Georgette. And no way or no how did the good Lord intend for her to lay flat on her back while it up and passed. With such purpose looming before her, the quivering lessened and Georgette straightened herself to a standing position. Her bedroom swirled, the cloth of her nightgown drooping against her sticky skin. A new rank of perspiration broke along the line of her rusty-gray hair. Georgette closed her eyes and counted to ten, opening them to find almost all the objects and their dainty colors back in their places. With that, she slowly but surely took the few steps out into the hallway.

         With no lights along the narrow passage, it was somewhat cooler. It did Georgette more good then she could say; yet the awful churning in her stomach persisted. It lunged threatening every time she moved. She fought it off though, shooting whimsical eyes over the hall table. On the lace dolly her husband, Ira, smiled at her from their wedding picture and again, from among the silly grins of their four children. 

         Their sweet images, kept sharp and protected within their frames, gave Georgette the next fire of gumption to force down the ill bile in her throat. She reached above the table and clamped her weary hands around Ira's hunting rifle. Plenty old, but sturdy and polished. And loaded. Had been since the day Ira had brought it home, just before the depression hit. Georgette remembered him saying how its decorative outlook would only be a decoy, should the occasion ever arise. Not that he'd lived to put his trap to the test. But Ira had kept it clean and Georgette had carried on the tradition after he had passed. She took care of it the way they had taken care of each other for fifty years; with patience, passion, and a tender touch. However, that tender touch was about to show its ruthless side!

         Harsh sounds from out front of the house aroused Georgette's ears and she stumbled into the foyer. She forced her fogged focus on her front screen, pausing only to wipe the nasty sweat from her eyes. This valley's naggin' hard on me Lord... jus' a few minutes if You please.

        Still half-blinded with sweat and fever, Georgette used the barrel of the rifle to swing open the screen, cocking it at the same time. The sight that met her wasn't unexpected. A spit-n-shined '51 Bentley cluttered the throat of her driveway. Its owner, Mr. Arnold, leaned against the gleaming hood with his elbows. His three-piece suit resembled a strait-jacket in the heat, a limp cigarette hanging between his thin lips. And his eyes- cold, green-gray, like a garter snake's- followed in sick amusement the scuffle that was tearing on between them. A muscled man rained down on the leaner, yet smaller build of her youngest son, Harlan. An equal mass of a man held fast to her daughter-in-law Rose, who kicked and screamed for the fight to stop.

         It was at the man's overgrown feet that Georgette let off the rifle's first round. The scurvy ape jumped about a mile plus an inch, releasing Rose. Harlan and his brute froze. Georgette's arms shook with her legs now at the long forgotten kick-back of her weapon, but she only cocked the gun again, raising it back to her shoulder.

         "It's sighted rite 'tween yer eyes, Mr. Arnold!" Georgette announced. "An it'll stay there til ya an' yer hounds git off my land!"

         Mr. Arnold's face, white in surprise and shock, relaxed, lowering his cigarette from his mouth carefully. "Ms. Westmore..." He looked her up and down, the amused expression returning. "Ma'am, I heard you'd taken ill. If I may, you're looking awful poorly..."

         "Doc Mills don't know my body better then me." Georgette spat out. "Takes lot more then food poisonin' to rest my head."

         "Food poisoning?" Mr. Arnold's eyebrows rose dramatically. "Why Ms. Westmore..."

         "I don't wanna hear none of yer excuses or denials." Georgette shook her head, hoping to chase some of the cloudiness away. "Greedy hogs always leave their stench when's they've been in the kitchen."

         Mr. Arnold's face lost all of its innocence then. The cigarette hit the ground, disappearing under the heel of his shoe. "It's only fair to remind you, Ms. Westmore that I've been more then generous in my offers on this place. To you and your son. Why either of you should stand in the way of human progress..."

         "Don't go tryin' ta spin more lies 'round my head, Mr. Arnold." Georgette stopped him, gripping Ira's rifle tighter. "I've had 'bout all I can take of yer grubby hands tryin' ta steal my land. My husband's father built this house from the dirt up, passin' the wood, the paint, an' the pride down to Ira, when it was time.'

         "Now Mr. Arnold I've tried ta be Christian with ya in the spirit of my husband an' his father. But ya taken it too far. An' I swear by Soddom and Gomorrah, I'll blast yer head clean o'er the hooda yer car if ya don't git off my property!"

         Georgette's breathing was far beyond labored by the end of her threat and she could feel the worry in Rose's eyes, staring at her. Well, it wasn't her that the girl need to worry about. Mr. Arnold's 'employees' had already started for the Bentley, putting distance between themselves and the crazy, gun-wielding country widow. Except she was only half-crazy; the other half of her knew how to shoot.

         Mr. Arnold glared at her from under the shadow of his fedora. "Negotiations remain open, Ms. Westmore."

          Not anymore then don't." Harlan stepped in, much to Georgette's thanks. "Ya heard my mother. Y'all can leave with the reassurance... " His jaw set the same way Ira's had. "That ya won't need to come back."

         Mr. Arnold's eyes flickered a moment back to Georgette, but she hadn't removed the rifle from him. Not even an inch. Then, as a rattler would recoil into its hole, he retreated around his car and got in. The engine coughed alive, a final pluck to the tension-tied strings of the blazing afternoon. But Georgette didn't ease Ira's rifle from her shoulder until the Bentley had hit the main road and became nothing more then a speck on the wavering horizon. With it, all her strength, all feeling left her hearty soul. Rose just managed to catch her before she collapsed onto the porch.

         "Easy Mama..." Harlan rushed up the steps to help ease her down. Georgette took notice of his cut lip. "Need to be puttin' some salve on that."

         Harlan shook his head, wiping Georgette's forehead with his sleeve. "Jus' sit an' rest a minute."

         "I'll git her some water." Rose said, sprinting into the house. Georgette stared off past her son, up the driveway. A thought came to her and she giggled.

         "Mama?" Harlan's brow furrowed as she continued to giggle. "Take a breath... Mama, what's wrong?"

         "Wrong?" Georgette about snorted. "Nothin' It's jus' funny is all."

         "What is?"

      "Twenty-four years," Georgette covered her mouth to compose herself."Twentyfour years... an' first time that rifle had one shell in it!"

THE END

Blue

The shades

the tints

the hues,

All held in crystal

Borrowed

at the tide

Taken

breathlessly

Sharp eyes

absorb

rays of

reflection

Captured

from the sun

Blinding the whites

Hinting with power

From palm

to pocket

Another

claimed

Hesitate and Hope

'I will stand at my watch

and station myself on the ramparts;

I will look to see what he will say to me, 

and what answer I am to give to this complaint.'

~ Habakkuk 2:1~

The book of Habakkuk is best known for the different pronunciations of its name I myself referred to it as 'hairy back' in middle school. (My youth pastor set me straight after he picked himself up from laughing.)

For those who have read through the Bible at least once, you discovered that Habakkuk was a prophet. One who was angry and frustrated with God, for His 'lack' of doing something about the wickedness sweeping the world. 

Show of hands, who has felt the same? And who, like Habakkuk, has taken their frustrations to God, demanding answers to His seeming absence? What do we sound like, what are we feeling when that desperation is spilling out, be it in tears or fists? I ask for this picture so you have something to compare when I ask you to consider Habakkuk's frustrations.

He gets them out alright; 'How long Lord, must I call for help, but you do not listen?' (1:2) and he continues on, naming the wrongdoings of the world- like God doesn't already have the big picture. But take note of the beginning of the second chapter... where Habakkuk plants his feet and says he will be waiting for God's answer. He expected an answer, an understanding, even with all of his anger and boiling frustration.

Bottom line, when we pray, is it with the conviction that God will answer us? Or do we just use our prayers as an outlet to complain, release some of the pressure our frustration weighs down on us? We sit through sermons reminding us that God's answer might not always be the one we're expecting and we're taught to accept that. Yet, do you accept the fact that God WILL answer? Every single time, every single request, every longing and fear? All of it, He answers. That is part of His care for us, providing solutions to our problems and questions. 

I'm not saying that everything is clear to us all the time. Even to our deaths, things won't always be clear. What does remain clear is God's provision and ultimate control over our circumstances... 

'He who did not spare His own son, but gave Him 

up for us all- how will he not also, along with Him, 

graciously give us all things?' 

- Romans 8:32 

The Cutting Floor ~ Final Scene

+++8 Years Later+++

         “Mom!” Andrew demanded, leaping and bounding in place. “I can’t see.”

         Roxy bent down as far as her dress would allow her, bringing her mouth to the 7-year-old’s ear. “You won’t be feeling anything in your bottom if you don’t settle down. We’re in church and you’re being very rude.”

         Andrew huffed, brown eyes flashing up at her. “But. I. Can’t. See.”

         “Everyone’ll sit down in a minute.” Roxy reassured him. “Now, quiet. Last time I’m telling you.”

         She straightened and redirected her eyes to the center aisle of the sanctuary. The bridal march was wrapping up triumphantly as Glennette’s father presented her in a flowing mermaid gown with lace sleeves. Their delicate pattern was elegant against her skin, the veil a fragile cloud over her curled hair, interwoven with faux pearls. Roxy’s eyes flitted to catch the nervous grin of the groom at the alter. The march ended, Glennette’s dad handed her over, and everyone sat. The noisy clicks of cameras from the back regained their volume, but Roxy swallowed her annoyance.

         “Is he going to talk long?” Andrew whispered to Jeff about the pastor. Jeff glimpsed Roxy to share in the exasperation. “He’s going to walk them through their marriage vows. That’s important.”

         “Why?”

         “Listen.” Jeff answered him, an arm around Andrew’s shoulders. “We talked about it last night.”

         His words stirred Roxy’s memory, her palm passing over her own wedding band. She’d gained a tan line around it, the California sun never sleeping. I started getting it the day he put it on… at that same alter. 

         But she wasn’t going to channel that right now. She and Jeff had married when Andrew was one. They now raised him along with their four-year-old daughter Marion near South Pasadena. End of story. Today, Blake and Glennette were starting theirs. Even after everything, and their now separate careers, they were starting anew… together. It made the ceremony all the sweeter, then one knew the history that the couple would be laying at the alter today.

         “Blake and Glennette have chosen a different approach to the writing of their vows.” Reverend Yants rose his voice for the gathering to hear. “In which, they wrote them together. I had the liberty of listening to them argue over it.”

         Gentle laughs and twice as many camera clicks erupted from the crowd. Reverend Yants unfolded a piece of notebook paper. “It is also my privilege to read it aloud.” He cleared his throat. “Dear Blake and Glennette… We can’t believe that we fell in the old cliché of things and now find ourselves here. We’ve been in love for awhile and friends for longer then that. People have said that it would be weird if we did marry, or awkward if either of us married someone else. But, that’s not why we’re here.”

         “We’re here today,” Reverend Yants continued in the space between Glennette and Blake’s joined hands. “Because we’ve seen each other change. From bad to worse, and from good to better. Everyone has told us that part of keeping a marriage together means loving your spouse through those changes. And we both agree, on this day, our wedding day, that we don’t want to risk changing with anyone else.”

         Reverend Yants creased the paper back into his Bible with a heartfelt smile. “Blake...”

         Roxy’s fingers grabbed Jeff’s lacing them in her own. To love and to cherish… for richer or poorer… in sickness and in health. She remembered Jeff repeating those words; his voice had kept falling into a whisper. Blake’s cracked a few times. Glennette’s giddy smile never left as she repeated her vows. Both rings slid onto their fingers with ease, the cameras flashing like a wild heartbeat.

         “Knock it off!” Andrew’s voice broke the revered moment. 

         Roxy’s face flushed as the sanctuary muffled their giggles. Jeff pulled Andrew close, whispering harshly in his ear. Roxy glanced at the alter, catching the eyes of the happy couple. They looked amused. Well then, they could punish him when their ceremony was over.

+++++

          Roxy savored another bite of the marble cake, served beneath graceful teal and purple buttercream flowers. She could hear the drool dripping from Andrew’s bottom lip. “Moommeee…”

         His soft plea wasn’t going to work. Roxy eyed him as she swallowed. “Uh huh. You know better then to interrupt during church. Especially when Dad and I both asked you not to.”

         “But it’s not Sunday.” Andrew argued. 

         Always ready with a defense. Roxy forked another moist bite. He gets it from his father, no question. 

         “Hey,” Jeff put his arm on the back of Andrew’s chair. “The day doesn’t matter. Mom and I have taught you how to behave when we go out. We teach you this so you can learn, what?”

         Andrew rolled his head back. “Respect.”

         “And what is respect?” Roxy prompted him, lowering her fork.

         “Showing others that what they say and do matter.” Andrew recited the definition, tugging at a loose thread of the tablecloth. He peeked up, forehead scrunching. “Do I have to apologize to somebody?”

         Jeff raised a brow at his shrunken posture. “Do you think you should?”

         Just then there was a swhoosh of white and Glennette was above Andrew, giving his forehead a kiss. “Share a dance with me and I’ll forgive you, little man.”

         “Who you callin’ little!” Andrew cried with a laugh. He looked between Jeff and Roxy; they both gave him a nod and Andrew scurried away, his hand taking Glennette’s. Jeff breathed out, delving back into his own cake. “Wise decision not to bring Marion. She feeds off his energy like a tick.”

         “Mrs. Weaver.”

         Roxy turned at her married name, only to be blinded by a white stroke of light. It faded into lazy blue dots as a woman with dyed blonde hair and a green dress two sizes too small slid like a snake in the chair beside Roxy. “Tea Jameson. One of the lucky few to make it to this colossal ceremony. Plus, this is America and you wouldn’t want to infringe on my first amendment rights would you?”

         That was a bit over the top, but that was what the tabloids were for. All the ham and cheese thrown into one category.

         “I'm hoping for a few words.” Tea announced over the music with a flip of her hair. Her other hand pressed ‘record’ on her silver handheld that caught the glimmers off the disco ball. “While everyone’s busy covering the happy couple, I’d like to get a glance beneath the rose gold surface they’re holding up.”

         Roxy swallowed. Hard.

         “It’s only natural that you’d be invited, Mrs. Weaver.” Tea nodded at her. “You are, after all, Blake and Glennette’s savior. Taking in their son after they… well, jumped the gun, let’s say.” She laughed at her own pun. Jeff’s hand wrapped around Roxy’s. “Thanks to you, they’re able to have careers, have lives. Do you feel that some free cake is a cheap apology for all that you’ve done for them?”

         THAT was her question? Roxy imagined the lively explosion of frosting with Jameson’s smiling, expectant face. No matter what I say, she’ll print something to that effect. 

         Not necessarily, Daughter. 

         Oh, c’mon! Roxy removed her fingers from the edge of her plate. “Actually, I would very much like to thank them. I never pictured marriage or motherhood for my life; I thought it wasn't meant for me. Nor did I find myself a good example for anyone to follow. But then, Blake and Glennette came along and needed help. I was scared, but God wasn’t and pulled me in before I could think. Since He did, I’ve learned how different God sees me from how I see myself. Blake and Glennette brought that lesson about… and I really should thank them for that.”

         Tea looked stupefied. “Thank? Them? I’m sorry, but… they’re teenage parents who dumped their illegitimate offspring on you.”

         "Maybe they did." Roxy shrugged, piercing Tea Jameson with her gaze. “But then, I’m a devout Christian who’s cussing you six ways in my head right now.”

         Jeff face-palmed, peeking at her between two fingers. Years of marriage, even more years of working under the white-shed sign of Hollywood, and Roxy's bedside manner with the press was something they would never agree on. 

         “So, you’re like all the rest,” Tea snorted. “Hypocritical, on top of cynical.”

         “I am human.” Roxy admitted with another shrug. “Forgiven for my hypocrisy and doing my best to live that forgiveness out."
          "By..." Tea looked out at Glennette spinning Andrew around the fanned circumference of her skirt. "Taking other people's responsibilities for them?"
          "By showing them the same forgiveness God does." Roxy clarified, about down with her tone. "And I’m quite tired of people gawking over what I did. Is it that far-fetched to help someone when they need it?”

         Tea stared at her a moment, then rose with a laugh and a shake of her head. “You are a funny one.”

         Happy to entertain you. Roxy waved at her fast-retreating back. She pushed the rest of her cake away and caught Jeff’s eyes. He lingered on her, cheek cupped in hand. “I was going to speak on your behalf. Something along the lines of ‘No Comment’.”

         “What are we, lawyers?” Roxy joked as she often did. Jeff shook his head. “No, crusaders, Roxy. Crusaders to draw attention to the Godhead in the most distracted city in the U.S.”

         Roxy laughed, losing crumbs from her mouth. “Don’t kid yourself, Jeff. Every U.S. town is equally distracted. It was cemented when Eve ate the apple, reinforced at the Tower of Babel-”
         "Okay, Reverend Roxy." Jeff caught her fingers, laid a kiss on her knuckles. "Don't let one reporter ruin this day."
           Roxy raised an eyebrow at her husband. "Do I have a choice?"
            Jeff used his grip to pull her closer. Close enough for her to get lost in the forest of his green eyes. "Between finishing that cake and dancing with me, I'd say plenty."
           Those eyes worked on her every time. Roxy smiled through their kiss. "You pick."
            The song changed and slowed right as they stepped onto the polished dance floor. Roxy laid her cheek on Jeff's shoulder while he cradled the small of her back. From there she again saw Glennette, holding hands with Blake and Andrew in a swaying circle.
            This all started because I walked in the bathroom at the wrong time. Roxy marveled back to the day she'd discovered Glennette's pregnancy. I walked in... and hurried back out... 
            Roxy gripped Jeff's arm a little tighter. You told me to go back in, God. What if I hadn't listened? 

[END SCENE] 

'With my lips I recount
    all the laws that come from your mouth. I rejoice in following your statutes
    as one rejoices in great riches.
I meditate on your precepts
    and consider your ways.
 I delight in your decrees;
    I will not neglect your word.'

~Psalm 119:13-16~