He Showed Up

 

 

And there you have it … the significance and meaning behind Christmas. Wrapped up nice and tidy! He showed up.

 

Several years ago, one of my favorite pastors preached a sermon with this title. It was one of his finest. The simple message resonated very deeply within me. 

 

God, in his infinite mercy and boundless love for mankind, showed up.

 

He made it possible for me, for you, for anyone else who so chooses, to have an avenue directly into His kingdom.

 

God didn’t have to do this, you know. He did it because He truly does love you beyond all reason and good sense. He cares about you – every single hair on your little head – in ways that you’ll never comprehend. Cares about your spouse, your kids, your parents, the mean old lady in your neighborhood … everybody.

 

So, He sent his Son, our Savior, Jesus. Emmanuel. Hope. Light in a dark world. However you wish to describe Him.

 

God put Him (Jesus) on Earth to literally create a “bridge,” if you will, across the great chasm between us, down here, and God, up there.

 

You see, we are imperfect, all of us. Flawed. Goofed up. Messed up. Broken. Sinners. Scum. Unclean. Unacceptable. Downright filth.

 

Only perfect, sinless, spotless, pure things can ever get close enough to reside with God, our creator. And in our natural states, none of us qualifies. We’re all losers in that regard.

 

But … there is hope. A way. A promise. An outstretched hand.

 

That way is Jesus.

 

God put Him here, to “bridge” the chasm of sin between us and Himself. Jesus – and only Jesus – can make you and me acceptable unto God. Cleanse us. Rid us of our sins. And make us worthy to enter God’s Kingdom. If you ask Him, Jesus will gladly bear the burden of your personal sins, take them on Himself, and vanquish them forever, so that you – unworthy, undeserving you – can be presentable unto God.

 

Pretty cool, huh?

 

So yes, that’s what Christmas is all about. For real. No kidding.

 

He showed up.

 

And through Him, you may now have eternal life. Period. End of offer. No strings attached. He only wants you to believe, admit you’re a sinner, and commit.

 

Sure, I love Christmas fudge (you may read about that elsewhere on these pages), Christmas trees, decorations, lights, music especially, giving gifts, my wife’s famous Christmas cookies, etc., etc., etc. That’s all wonderful and good stuff. And God wants us to enjoy it. We’re supposed to have fun – He wants you to be happy, believe it or not!

 

But underneath it all? Behind it all? Whichever way you wish to look at it, lies the simple, pure, often-unspoken nugget of truth to his overblown holiday:

 

He showed up.

 

Merry Christmas, y'all. 

_____

 

(If you have questions about this simple notion, please, let me know, or ask someone nearby to explain it to you – a pastor, a priest, a counselor, etc. Or contact me. Seriously. I mean it.)



A Little Tap on the Shoulder

 

“Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are continually before me.”

Isaiah 49:16

 

Monday got off to a pretty lousy start. Hrumph. My 7:30 doctor’s appointment didn’t actually happen ‘til more like 8:00 (how can he be that far behind so early in the morning?!). I didn’t like what he discovered, so I was irritated by the time I left his office, and by the time I arrived at Sam’s Club, way later than I had hoped, the morning was looking more dismal by the minute.

I managed to snare a handicapped parking space, unlike the previous Friday morning. (By 9:00 on Friday, every single “blue” space was already occupied; I eventually just left and went home because without being able to park relatively close to the door, it’s just too far for me to walk on these lousy old legs.)

I made it inside the entryway Monday morning only to see the final two remaining riding carts being driven inside by other shoppers.

“Swell,” I muttered. Grumpily.

Sam’s Club is a HUGE store. Gi-normous. And without being able to ride around in an electric cart, I just can’t shop there. The distances are too great for me to cover. I need a cart.

To speed things up a bit so I can get to my point in writing this, let’s just say that after about 15 minutes of waiting painfully I did finally manage to get into a riding cart. The trip was salvaged, and I was able to pick up the Christmas gifts I needed along with a few things for my wife.

I was still irritated and annoyed by the time I rode the cart out to the parking lot and pulled up next to my truck. “I pay a membership fee every year to shop here,” I grumbled. “I should be able to get an electric cart whenever I need one.” (Why I think I’m so special, I have no idea. My father sure didn’t ever instill that notion inside of me.)

I arose from my weary steed and started fishing in my pocket for my truck key.

“May I help you?” a nearby voice said.

I turned around and saw what I would call an elderly gentleman (age is relative, I know … there are people who call ME “elderly” I’m sure). He smiled widely and looked at the purchases piled up in the basket of my cart.

“Oh, I asked, do you need to take the cart inside and use it?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” he answered. “You just looked like you could use some help this morning.”

Wow.

I think I actually did a double-take.

“Well, sure thank you very much,” I finally said. I was embarrassed that even to a casual observer my sour mood was so obvious.

I opened up the passenger door, and this kindly man started plucking things out of my cart, one by one, and passing them over to me. I took each and in turn, stacked them up in the front seat. He smiled the entire time.

It was a small kindness on his part, and even though I could have easily moved everything from the cart’s basket into the truck, he wanted to help. It was obvious to a passer-by that I wasn’t having the best of mornings. And he wanted to do what he could to be a day-brightener.

We finished, he smiled again, said “Have a wonderful day, and Merry Christmas!” and turned to head on his way. I thanked him as he walked to his car.

“Please, God, make me more like him,” I thought, “and less like me.”

The elderly fellow strolled over to a modest vehicle and entered. I noticed the “disabled veteran” license plate. “He understands,” I realized. “He gets it.”

I got in my truck and just sat there a minute. I took off my cap and smacked my forehead. I thought about the gentleman who eased my load and then looked at all the stuff I was able to buy and pay for in cash. What exactly was I complaining about?

Duh!

I am abundantly blessed in ways I can’t even understand. Yet this day, I was grumpy. God provides for me so beautifully and perfectly that I don’t have to worry about a single thing – I just sometimes choose to. And I mumble under my breath about how things aren’t fair. I lack for nothing in my life – seriously – and yet I complain when things don’t go “my” way. Even though in His own time and in His own way, my Lord and Creator takes care of every little thing. Perfectly.

What the heck is wrong with me?

God sent me a kindly, sweet man, just when I needed a firm little tap on the shoulder. Maybe he was an angel, I don’t know. But he snapped me right out of my self-imposed funk and brought me back to a beautiful reality.

“As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

Joshua 1:5

God means it. And every now and then, when you’re feeling like nobody gives a toot about your lousy day and your petty little problems, He might just send somebody to tap you on the shoulder and say, “Hey, you’re not alone. We’ll handle this.”

Meanwhile, I pray that God makes my heart much more like that of the nice guy who pitched in and helped me realize that things really weren’t going too badly after all.

 

Yup. More of that, less of “this,” for sure.

Lesson learned. Again.

Singing "The Messiah"

 

 



(Click ‘n’ play to hear one of THE most awesome performances ever of Handel’s masterpiece! This is the coolest “flash mob” I’ve ever seen, performed by more than 650 vocalists, all accompanied by the “Wanamaker Organ,” the world’s largest operational pipe organ. Crank this video wide open and let ‘er rip while you read below!)
 

Random ramblings about Messiah …

Many years ago I had the pleasure and privilege of taking part in a community choir presentation of Handel’s Messiah in its entirety.

The original full score is something like 259 pages in length; the oratorio is massive in size by any standard. It is exhausting to rehearse, to learn, and especially to memorize, which is what we did. We each bought the full Messiah book, practiced and studied for months, then put the books away the one night we performed Handel’s masterwork for a large crowd.

As I recall, we started rehearsing in the summer with a target date of performing one night in December. Yes, it took that long for us amateurs to conquer this musical beast!

In my fading recollection we turned in a magnificent performance, all of us. We brought the crowd to its feet for a standing ovation. But the real “winners,” I still believe, were those of us who “mastered” the Messiah and learned it inside and out.

Even though it’s been more than 30 years since I took part in the hours-long performance, I still to this day remember my lines. I quietly hum along whenever I’m fortunate enough to hear parts of the music played. Once you get inside of Messiah and truly give yourself over to the richness of the composition, it gets inside of you. Believe me, if you memorize and perform it as Handel intended, you’ll never forget it, nor get over it.

(Handel – probably, through Divine Intervention – composed the entire Messiah score in a period of 24 days. There is apocryphal story that claims Handel believed, as he wrote the "Hallelujah" chorus, "he saw all heaven before him." It’s an amazing work, and it can do amazing things to the singers who perform it.)

 

The final page of Handel's "Hallelujah" Chorus, written in his own hand.
Can you imagine writing 259 pages of music like this in only 24 days?!

 

Singing it is incredibly uplifting and inspiring. You verbalize, over and over and over, key scriptural passages about our Savior. And they soak in. They take root. They really, really start to mean something, deep in your soul and heart.

I’ve gotten misty-eyed almost every single time I’ve performed the “Hallelujah” Chorus. Once or twice I’ve even been moved to tears (performing it, mind you, not singing along in the congregation or audience). It is incredibly moving, and powerful beyond belief. This chorus taxes you. It’s a difficult piece of music to sing (depending on your part [bass, tenor, whatever], you’re constantly coming in and out vocally, singing and then stopping, starting again and stopping again) and it’s physically very tiring. You’re singing while those in front or behind are pausing, then you stop and they start, etc., etc. It’s blinding at times! But oh my, what a glorious experience. The chorus builds to an incredible climax, and ends in a furious explosion of noise and sound, extolling God’s perfect gift to mankind. Awesome!

I learned a lot about myself during that autumn of rehearsal, about commitment, about being an adult, about my faith, about God’s provision for His earthly world, lots of stuff. It changed me. Profoundly inspiring things can do that.

I still love to hear all parts of Messiah performed, especially the “Hallelujah” Chorus.

 

Anyway ... I just wanted to share these tidbits with you, and provide you with a link to the awesome performance in Philidalphia in October, 2010. What a thrill it would have been to have joined in and sung along! Wow!

Mom’s Christmas Fudge

Bless her heart! Every year since I've had memories, my mother has made THE most delicious chocolate fudge (and peanut butter, too) at Christmastime.

It remains the standard by which I judge all fudge, worldwide. :) Honestly, you just cannot image how good this stuff is! I truly cherish each piece, each bite. And of course, the dear lady who makes it.

Given Mom's declining health and the amount of work it evidently takes to make fudge, I never really "expect" it any more. But oh my, what a glorious surprise when Mom delivers a "tower o' fudge" just in time for the holidays! This year she even adorned it with beautiful Christmas ribbon, all tied up so professionally!

I know that creating candy requires stirring – sometimes, lots of stirring – and given that Mom has sadly broken both of her arms in recent years (she’s really, really prone to breakage), having to stir up this stuff truly is a labor of love for her. It hurts her.

Mom holds herself to a very high standard of quality; one year, the entire batch didn’t suit her (“too grainy,” she said) and she threw it all out!! The horror! She dispatched poor Dad to the Winn-Dixie store for more ingredients, and she created a new and better product. That’s Mom. “Good enough” is never good enough.

The ingredients are simple, but there’s no substitute for plain old expertise … she’s made this stuff at least since the 1950s. And of course, the “extra” ingredient is always love. She stirs in a healthy amount, I assure you. Mom and I don’t always agree, both of us being strong-willed people. But so far fudge has healed wounds and mended broken fences during the holiday season. (Maybe it has magic powers!)

My wife and I aren’t the only recipients of Mom’s largesse; others in her life have qualified for a small tin of chocolaty goodness from time to time. But me, being her only offspring, I always get the lion’s share. :)

I ration out the fudge, piece by piece, stretching it to cover the holidays through New Year’s. And I usually save a few pieces and pack them carefully in the freezer. I nibble on them throughout the year. And of course, I always think, “Hey, this could be the last batch of Mom’s famous fudge she ever makes….”

Some year soon, there will be no more fudge. Not decent fudge, anyway. Not from Mom. It’ll just be too much for her. We’ll have to settle for some sort of product from a candy counter somewhere. I shan’t complain, though, because believe me, I have eaten pounds of this stuff so far in my life. I’ve been blessed with fudgy abundance.

But for at least one more joyous holiday season, we have fudge aplenty; our family has three tins of confectionery magic to savor and enjoy. Life is good.

 

Thanks, Mom. Yours is absolutely the very, very, very best ever. Love you. 

The Fudge-maker-in-Chief and her assistant (otherwise known as "Dad")

 

A Charlie Brown Christmas

 

Christmastime is here … almost!

In just a couple of nights, it’ll be time once again for one of the most important Christmas traditions in our family: the annual live viewing of Charles Shultz’s A Charlie Brown Christmas.

Notice I specified “live” viewing. Therein lies the tradition.

Ever since CBS premiered this program in 1965, every single year – without exception – I’ve been blessed to see at least a portion of the broadcast live.

By my calculations, this will be my 48^th consecutive year. I've watched it "live," every single year it's ever been broadcast. How’s that for a “tradition”?!

I’ve watched this program over the decades in numerous states, in all sorts of places, under all sorts of conditions. But so far, God has been good to me and permitted me to see some of it live, every single year.

One year, in the 1970s, I almost didn’t make it. The community choir in Enterprise, Ala., had been rehearing the full Handel’s Messiah (all three parts) for months, with the goal of presenting it one time and one time only to the entire city at the local community college. We’d even contracted with a symphony orchestra to come from Florida to accompany us!

As luck would have it, CBS decided to air A Charlie Brown Christmas the exact night of our performance – and at the exact same time! Arrgh! What to do?! I wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to sing the entire Messiah, but I couldn’t miss the Peanuts gang!

Fortunately, the community choir was directed by my friend and director of our local church choir, John Leland. I had spotted a television in the lounge of the student union where we singers were donning our robes. I tuned the TV to CBS (WTVY out of Dothan, Ala.), and with John's cooperation, I “suggested” to a couple of the ladies in the choir that a hairdo or two might need a bit of adjustment before we went to the auditorium.

It worked! Several of the females in the choir insisted on one last look-see at the mirror, and I was able to catch the few opening minutes of the show. Success – and an unbroken streak!

Why is this special such an important part of our holiday around here? It’s virtually the only thing you’ll see on secular television every year that touches on the crass commercialization and secularism of Christmas -- and serves as a beautiful reminder of the TRUE meaning of Christmas, the birth of Jesus Christ.

In its purity and simplicity, the program is touching, heartwarming, and truthful. What more could you ask?

Yes, the show has been butchered and vandalized and hacked up over the years, but its soul and heart somehow remain intact. It hasn’t been shown in its original form since 1967, yet it still tugs at the heartstrings of most all who watch it. It is truly amazing.

So, if you watch this year (and I truly hope you do), think of me, sitting in front of my TV set with a Coca-Cola in hand (the original sponsor of the program), reciting my favorite lines, and still getting emotional when little Linus reads us the Christmas story in the auditorium.

Be blessed, and to you and yours, a very Merry Christmas.

 

 

(Updated, 28 Nov., 2012: made it for that 48th consecutive year! Huzzah! And we enjoyed it as much as always!)

Broccoli-Cheese Casserole ... Or the Lack Thereof

There are long-favored “goodies” that our family typically enjoys only on certain holidays. Recipes we only pull out once a year. If you’ve ever created a family feast, you probably are familiar with the genre.

One of my all-time favorites has been (for decades, mind you) my Mom’s broccoli-cheese casserole. (Ever wonder how many “favorite” recipes begin with the word, “Mom’s…” ?!?) She turned it over to me eons ago; she says Tanya and I have improved it to the point where it’s better than hers. (She can’t recall the original source of the recipe, sadly!)

We make it only for Thanksgiving dinner. Never for any other occasion. Well, until a couple of years ago. And there lies the problem.

As Mom and Dad have moved graciously into their 80s, we can’t permit Mom to cook much anymore, especially a big holiday meal. Tanya and I have more or less taken over Thanksgiving dinner, but with her typically working most years right up until 6:00pm the evening before Thanksgiving, time to prepare a full meal is practically non-existant.

Soooo (and yes, I’m getting to the point), we’ve started to dine out as a family on Thanksgiving.

So far, our restaurant choices have been superb; none of us has been disappointed with the food we’ve been served, and none of us have ever gone home hungry!

However … there are those casseroles that we (used to) make only once per revolution around the sun: broccoli-cheese, scalloped tomatoes, sweet potato, etc.

Oh gosh, how I miss those. I long for them.

But, things change. Times change. People change. Nothing really remains the same, no matter how hard we wish and pray it to always be as it was before. Such is the rhythm of life, correct?

A time or two, we’ve made a “holiday dinner” somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas; Mom and Dad typically purchase a cooked turkey, and Mom will make dressing and pies. Mmmm! Tanya and I will crank out three or four casseroles, and perhaps a fancy fruit salad. When we’ve done this, for a glorious late-autumn weekend we feast and dine on a meal that still feels like Thanksgiving in many ways. And there are leftovers! Yes, yes, wonderful leftovers! (I personally think casseroles get better with each re-heating, don’t you?)

I truly miss the broccoli-cheese casserole the years that we don’t make it. Honestly, I do. Yes, we could prepare it for Resurrection Sunday. Or for someone’s birthday. But to me? It just wouldn’t be the same. This recipe needs to be devoured on Thanksgiving, trust me!

For any of you who would like to give this a try sometime, I present to you the definitive, all-time champion of broccoli-cheese casseroles, courtesy of Mom:



30 ounces frozen chopped broccoli*
2 rolls Ritz crackers
1 medium onion, chopped
ground black pepper
16 ounces cheese**
½ lb butter
1 teaspoon rubbed sage


Cook frozen broccoli according to package directions and drain.

Melt cheese in saucepan with half of the butter. Toss and mix broccoli and chopped onion with cheese.

Melt the remaining butter, mix in the crumbled crackers, put on top of casserole. Top with pepper & sage. (No salt required -- there's plenty in the cheese!)

Bake 20-30 minutes at 350F degrees or until bubbly.
_____


*When this recipe was written it was fairly simple to find 10-ounce boxes of frozen chopped broccoli in your grocer’s freezer case. Poof: those days are gone! We now end up buying plastic bags of chopped broccoli and trying to get as close to 30 ounces as we can.

**The original recipe called for American cheese, but a half-and-half mixture of American and cheddar works well...even Swiss will work, and adds an interesting flavor.