What I Want This Christmas...

This Christmas Eve as we gather together, upholding years of family tradition, I find, amid the searching for the perfect gifts at the cheapest prices, my heart is searching for something greater.

And sure, we all say we’re celebrating Jesus’ birthday at this time of year. We read the Christmas story again even though we’ve said the words so many times I wonder if we ever stop to actually hear them. 

And yeah, we can try and find a new way to tell it, try to force life into a two thousand year old story that people listen to with glazed eyes… but I don’t think that’s what Christmas is about. 

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we should stop reading the story just because we’ve heard it a million times already, that story is OUR story, of God coming down to save us, so that we can be with Him.

It’s just that I think we’re missing something fundamental about this season. 

And I don’t think this holiday time is about reminding ourselves that He’s coming back again, this time not as a baby but as a victorious king. 

 

Don’t think that I’m saying we’re wrong on dwelling on this; it is the Christian’s hope, something to be remembered every day, not just two or three days. 

It’s just that I think if we make the focus of Christmas time about a long ago dusty past, or a distant vague future… we end up on missing out on the most important thing about Christmas. 

We’re missing out – I’m missing out – on… Immanuel. 

God with us. 

Right now. 

His presence in our hearts. In all the shopping for presents I find my heart wilting to simply be present. And when over used words – or some brand new words that try to retell the story for my entertainment – fall on ears that are hard of truly hearing, what I really long for is to hear the story that’s being told right now. 

The one that’s completely new come every Christmas. 

 

The story of God with us… God with me. And me with God. 

Through the breathtaking Christmases, the numbing Christmases and the heartbreaking Christmases.

In the crazy busy malls, Immanuel. 

In the nostalgic Christmas songs – both the ones about angels in the sky as well as the ones about kissing under the mistletoe – God with me. 

In the story that you could quote in your sleep and the Christmas services; God with us, and us with God.

 

So let’s not forget the thing we all really need this Christmas… Immanuel, God in this present moment… with us. 

That’s what the Christmas story’s all about.

From My Sketchbook: Portrait 13

How Photography Connects Us, Moves Us, and All that Jazz

Photography.

It does so much more than show a pretty picture. It communicates, it stirs the fires of change, it inspires the soul to a greater theme.

I’m sorry, I’m standing here at my computer, trying to write something epic, but honestly? I barely got any sleep last night, I just watched an amazing comedy movie, and I’m ready for bed.

Who says being your own teacher doesn’t have its advantages? (Like being able to write a completely informal, off topic paper and still get good grades!)

I’m just gonna write it as it is!

Yeah, I like photography. I’ve spent the last 15 weeks studying it, and I’m still not sick of it, so that’s got to tell you something!

Why do I like photography?

No big, grand concepts. No mashing together sage sounding words that I’ve picked up by reading what others have said…

Why is it that I like to pick up a camera and shoot pictures?

One, I’m lazy. What would take a Ton of words and hours of polishing to communicate through writing, with a bit of thought put into the camera controls, I can say the same thing and more with less effort.

Two, the right medium for the right job. With an image I can capture that emotion, that moment that would’ve been too elusive for words. Even when poetry fails to capture something, a photograph sometimes can.

Three, I’ve got letting go issues. I journal a lot, and I collect a lot of things just because I connect a memory to it. My greatest fear is forgetting, so why not love a medium that forever captures a moment in time? That way, if I ever start to forget, if my mind begins to change things around, all I need to do is look at the picture again. A picture is something solid, evidence that this amazing event happened, or that these people were in my life.

Four, it helps me see the awesomeness of God. With photography I have the ability to share a bit of my vision of His goodness, beauty, and power, with other people. I love the fact that I can give glory to His name through images of His world. 

Five, I like images. I like emotion displayed through visuals. I like movies, and how they can stir your soul like a really good book can (and in half the time too!) For me, an image is like a movie; a story, a feeling, an abstract concept all boiled down to a single snapshot frame. It leaves your imagination wondering what happened before the shot was taken and what is going to happen to the scene after this moment that we’re viewing has past.

I guess it comes down to stories once again. No matter what medium I use; a pencil, a keyboard, or a camera, I’m just trying to tell a story. I’m a storyteller. And the stories that pictures can communicate are endless.

The journey of a dancing, joyful brook captured in one moment of its endless travels.

A wounded soldier being flown to the nearest hospital, his face bloody and deformed.

A homeless girl on the streets, holding a kitten as if it is the only thing she has left in this world.

The explosive vividness of fireworks bursting with color in the night sky.

Stories speak to us deeper than logic often can. They touch our hearts, cut like knives, heal wounds too deep to speak of. And photography does that too. It tells stories.

That’s why I like photography.

Sunday Stealing: Are You...

1) Are you psychic in any way?

I don't know. A lot of times I feel like I can sense things about people, how they're feeling and stuff like that. Also, I've had several dreams that came true... I wouldn't say psychic, maybe just sensitive spirit.

2) Are you a good dancer?

No, I don't really do dancing.

3) Are you a good singer?

Most of the time yes, I think so.

4) Are you a good cook?

Yes and no. I follow recipes terribly, I toss all the ingredients into a bowl before I remember to read the directions. What I'm good at is experimental cooking, making things up as I go along.

5) Are you a good artist?

Yes

6) Are you a good listener?

I've been getting better. My thoughts sometimes buzz so noisily I have a hard time focusing on what people are saying.

7) Are you a good public speaker?

I don't think so, haven't done much of it. But since I have terrible stage fright, I'm sure I'm not.

8) Are you a good babysitter?

No. I don't like being in charge of kids. I like playing with them, being a little kid along with them, but I'm not the one to be in charge.

9) Are you a good mechanic?

I don't know, haven't tried much. I like messing around with things, can absorb that kind of information quickly and feel like I understand things (even though I don't!)

10) Are you a good diplomat?

Whaaaaaat!? Since when would I have a chance to find that out!?

11) Are you a good employee?

Yes, I work hard and don't complain and try hard to complete the task I'm given to the best of my ability.

12) Are you a good dresser?

Sure. I like the way I dress, and so I am a good dresser!

13) Are you a good swimmer?

Not at all. I can barely swim, I hate having water on my face, so I've never tried to learn how

14) Are you a good skier?

I've never tried

15) Are you a good gift giver?

Some of the times yes, some of the times no.

16) Are you a good musician?

No, I play around with a piano and flute, but nothing serious. I don't have the patience.

17) Are you a good comedian?

In my family, yes. But other people don't always get my humor.

18) Are you a good cleaner?

Yes and no. I like cleaning when I'm in my cleaning mood, but I also equally have a messy mood.

19) Are you a good actor?

Yes, I think so

20) Are you a good writer?

Uh... yes! At least, everyone tells me so...

What Young People do at Nursing Homes

"Stop frying yourself!" I pull Little Sister off our makeshift griddle. We both look at each other and giggle. "We're frying frog skin, not human flesh!"

I set a stone bowl full of river water onto the hot surface and put the frog legs into it. Little Sister checks the frog skin sizzling on the griddle and decides that it's done. Taking the crispy piece of skin I rip it in half and give half to her, chewing on the leathery hide myself while we wait for the rest of our dinner to cook. A nurse walks by, pushing an old person in a wheel chair and I look up in time to see her watching us with an amused smile on her face. I smile back, feeling a little silly but happy. Sure I'm eighteen. Sure we're cooking an imaginary jungle dinner on a park bench. Sure we're probably getting a little too loud for a nursing home setting... but I'm having fun.

Walking into the nursing home earlier that morning, following our parents, Little Sister and I were instantly drawn to the two fish tanks and a miniature scene set up in the waiting room. Again on the move down long hallways, following a nurse's directions, passing wheel chaired old ladies and scrub clad young ladies, I anticipated a long morning of sitting in a small, cramped hospital-like room with the feeling of slowing suffocating under long and boring adult talk. So when the hallways opened up into a spacious jungle complete with fake cactus, fake palm trees, fake flowers, and a real waterfall and stream, Little Sister and I could only gasp, taking surprisingly fresh air into our lungs. I spoke for both of us when I said to Mom in an awed, suppressed excitement voice "Can we stay here the whole time!?" With Mom's approval, we both scampered off to explore this wondrous indoor rainforest. We discovered miniature golf holes and played a few rounds with imaginary clubs and balls, both deciding where the other's ball ended up rolling (which as you can imagine, lead to some heated - but still toned down - debates over each other's motives in only having a ball roll a short ways.) Snickering, I pointed out to Little Sister a sign that read "Do Not Climb on Walls," which I had to point out to her that the humor lay in the fact that it was in a nursing home where every single person we'd seen so far was in wheel chairs. Then she laughed. Eventually, tired of imaginary golf (and very real arguments with the referees), walking around and looking at things, and sitting and talking, our imaginations suddenly caught the same spark of inspiration.

We were stranded in a jungle when our airplane went down. Everyone else had died, including our parents, so, much like Robinson Crusoe, we had no desire to leave our island of paradise. 

Quickly mapping out our living quarters, beds and kitchen (placed by the fresh water stream), we part ways to hunt. It would be my turn to kill animals; she would be the one gathering veggies and fruit, we decide. Looking up into a towering palm tree that has become to me a moss covered, vine entangled rainforest tree, I freeze, staring straight into the eyes of a native monkey. My thoughts? It might be illegal, but this is our island and we need food to survive. Funny my thoughts turned to the politics of the situation. Slowly, barely breathing, I reach for my hunting blade strapped to my belt. "What are you doing?" Little Sister walks up and startles me and the monkey. It vanishes

"Great! You scared the monkey off!" I sigh disappointedly. 

"Oh well, monkey meat tastes terrible." I walk with her a bit through the mossy jungle.

“No it doesn't, I love it! And that would've been enough meat to last us a week." We part ways again, since she has a distaste for killing things and her chatter keeps scaring away my prey. On my own I manage to stab a large frog and pin a squirrel right to a tree trunk with my knife throwing skills. Still, I decide that it's probably about time I figure out how to make myself a bow. Little Sister joins me at our place, dragging a bag of strawberries behind her. Instructing her to start the fire for our oven, I set to the work of skinning and gutting the squirrel. Food eventually cooked to perfection (in an unscientifically fast amount of time) we eat our squirrel drumsticks while contemplating how difficult it would be to figure out a jungle's substitute for ranch.

Yup, this is how Little Sister and I spent our morning in the middle of a nursing home. 

TheIntuitiveLife