Joy

Due to excitement my littlest boy, Daniel, had trouble sleeping tonight, this eve of Christmas Eve. I invited him to sit in the recliner with me, and I turned out all the lights save those on the Christmas tree. After a quite busy day, we sat there in silence watching the colored lights blink, and I recalled how I used to love it when my daddy would make the lights blink on our real tree from the woods in Tennessee.

My oldest boy came out shortly, too, and with both of them for company, I gave in to nostalgia, remembering when Berto, my oldest, used to sneak out to catch Santa Claus and how he tried more doggedly than any of our children to encounter the big guy. Then, of course, in typical mama fashion, I reflected upon how many years had passed since our teenage son woke us up at midnight one Christmas and fussed and fumed for the next two hours, because he was certain Santa had come and wanted to go out to the tree immediately.

How many more of those exhausting but cute and memorable moments do I have with my little Daniel? I wondered a little desperately.

The problem with children is that the bigger they get, the more time flies and the more we parents are trying to pull back the years, scared that our opportunities for witnessing that miraculous thing called the joy of childhood are fast disappearing. We are left clutching at fairy dust and puppy dog tails and chalk drawings.

But joyful memories are everything, and we keep them as well as we can, editing them ever so gently to make them even shinier like fragile Christmas balls.

I'll remember the kids' sticky faces after licking the fudge spoon. I'll recall how my oldest daughter Ana and I sang carols with all our off-key hearts as I played my guitar. Ella, my youngest daughter, has an obsession with Batman that will tickle my heart long after she has outgrown it and long after Santa no longer brings her things in black and blue. Berto's fascination with St Nick, from whom he got his middle name because of his great-grandfather who was born on Christmas Day, will stay with me and warm my heart when my ears are so dull I can no longer hear the bell myself. Daniel, my baby, is still generating little hand-print memories, and I can only pray and have faith that I'll appreciate them as I should.

After spending this Christmas season vacillating between Bah! Humbugs and Fa-la-la-la-las, I think I am now finally, just in time for the big day, firmly in the region of joy and expectation, looking forward to the new memories to be made this Christmas.

So to you, my family, friends and readers, I say:

Merry Christmas! 

And in the classic words of Tiny Tim,

May God bless us, everyone!

The Wise Men Found Him in a Manger; But He May be Found Anywhere - by Daniel Hylton

Over the centuries, there have been many discussions, questions, and even arguments about the Three Wise Men who attended the birth of Christ, such as; did they actually attend His birth, or did they arrive as many as two years after that event, when He was a child?  Who were they?  Whence did they come?  How did they know about the advent of Christ?  Were they Persian, Babylonian, or Zoroastrian astronomers, perhaps?  And if Zoroastrian - did Zoroaster himself learn of the prophecy of the coming of Christ from the Hebrew prophet Daniel, as some believe?  Or were the Three Wise Men Chinese, as the Chinese - and many others - claim?

And, in modern times, the arguments continue - did the Three Wise Men even exist, or is the whole tale just a Christian fable?

Well, I frankly don't care.  In fact, for the purpose of this post, I will not address any of the traditions, questions, or doubts that attend the tale of the Three Wise Men. For; I know in my heart that they lived and that they saw the Christ Child.  And that is what matters to me.

They came from somewhere to the east, in that vast landscape of Asia that stretches from the Middle East to the Pacific Ocean.  It had been understood by most of the eastern cultures for several, perhaps many, centuries that the King of the Universe would someday come down and be born upon earth, as a man, specifically, as a Jew.  They knew that a special never-before-seen star was to herald his birth. The Three, like generations of wise men before them, diligently watched the sky for the sign of the advent of the King, hoping against hope that they, in their generation, would be the ones fortunate enough to witness the marvelous event.

And one day - or night - there it was.

Unique, bright, like nothing else in the heavens, it hung low in the western sky.

They had no doubt of its significance.

Their hearts bursting, their minds alive with anticipation, the Three loaded up their camels, gathered their servants, accumulated supplies for a long journey, and set out toward the west, following the Star, seeking a King.  And, at the end of two years, they found Him.  Astounded and awed by their immense good fortune, they presented their gifts, worshiped Him, and then, being warned by an angel of God of Herod's deadly animus toward the new-born King, they avoided the Israelite usurper and "went home by another way."

But they took with them an amazing gift; they had seen the King of Kings, born upon earth as a man.

Now, Jesus Christ is variously described as the Son of God, the Son of Humanity, a prophet, a kind and gentle Teacher, a Healer, the Savior.  And He is, of course, all of those things and more.

But I see Him, first and foremost, as the Wise Men saw Him - the King of all.

I was raised by Godly parents, good Christian people who taught me to live by His teachings.  I read the Bible completely through as a young man, many parts of it I read more than once and studied much of it diligently.  I even memorized at one time or another several passages of scripture.  Even so, I never had that deeper experience to which so many spiritual folk bear witness.

For me, for much of my life, belief was based not so much upon spiritual experience as it was upon intellectual reasoning.  It was faith founded upon the pragmatic underpinnings of knowledge and of all that I had learned about the various belief systems of humanity.

In the year 1986 I found myself living in an extremely rural part of Tennessee with a wife and four young children, and I experienced a startling, and rather abrupt comprehension that being a parent was not just about providing food, shelter, and clothing.  I needed to understand the meaning of human existence if I was to impart anything meaningful to my three daughters and my son.

So I set to work, educating myself on the subject of the Great Question; Why Are We Here? Learning what I could of every theory about the existence of life on earth - and I mean every theory - I eventually dismissed all of them except the Bible.  But all my dismissals, at the time, were based solely on rational thought, and upon those things which I had discovered of each theory or religion, not on any particular spiritual experience.

Understand: I am not touting myself as an authority on anything, especially religion.  I do not care what anyone else chooses to believe, and I long ago passed the point where any human can claim influence with me as it concerns the most basic questions of existence.

By late summer of 1987, I had decided in a rather cold intellectual sense that Jesus Christ was the answer, and that His teachings were the way to understanding.  So, I read the New Testament once again, this time as if I was reading it for the first time, without any preconceived notion of what any of it meant.  And I found that it satisfied, in a purely logical sense, all my questions.

But I wanted more.  I wanted empirical evidence of my Maker.

Then I happened upon a very old book called Deeper Experiences of Famous Christians.  Admittedly I was skeptical of many of the things expounded inside that book; nonetheless, after reading it, I craved an experience of my own - a personal meeting with God.

To that end, I made my way one day out across the field behind the house, down through the hollow and into the forest beyond.  Searching through the woods, I found a small clearing with a large rock jutting from the ground near its center like an altar.  I knelt and prayed.  After praying for some time, it occurred to me that, rather than yammering in God's ear; it would benefit me more to listen.

So, I listened.  And I heard - nothing.

After that day, and for every single day thereafter, in all kinds of weather, every evening after work, I went faithfully into the woods to that little clearing, knelt down, and told God simply; I am here.

Nothing.  Ever.  Nothing.  I never heard His voice.  There was never any kind of sign.

Through all those days, while awaiting a sign from the heavens, I read the New Testament again.  And yet again.  I spent an hour every day alone in the forest, listening.  Days turned into weeks, weeks became months.  After eight months of this, summer had cooled into autumn, autumn became winter, winter turned into yet another spring.  And I had had no experience.

I grew discouraged.  Discouragement eventually devolved into a sort of rebellious anger.  But, in fact, something had happened to me over this time period which had nothing to do with my earlier studies.  Nor was it related to any experience.  It was, in a very real way, miraculous.  The words of Jesus had passed through my eyes, worked their way through my brain, and had settled in my heart.

I knew now, without any doubt, that I was a created being.  I knew that God created me.  And I knew that Jesus Christ was His Son.  I knew now the reason I - or any of us - exist.

So, then - I wondered rather petulantly - why didn't He speak to me?

One fine spring evening in 1988, I had finished my supper and was about to make my way, once again, into the woods behind the house.  But as I went out the front door and onto the porch, the rebellious anger erupted.  

I am done with this, I thought.  It is pointless.  He will never speak to me.

Turning the other way, I abandoned any thought of going to my "altar" and I tromped down the lane toward the bridge over the creek.  As I walked on, and on, through the dappled sunlight that cast long shadows across the lane, my dark mood gradually lifted and after a while I began to quietly laugh at myself.  Who did I think I was, anyway?  In the great scheme of things, I would barely qualify as a worm; likely something even less.  Why then would The Almighty feel compelled to speak to me?  He would not, of course.  For in a vast universe of humble servants, I suddenly realized, I was among the humblest; perhaps the humblest of all.

I stopped on the bridge, gazed down into the sparkling stream, and smiled to myself.  The dark mood, its attendant anger, and the weight of needing to hear the Voice of God were gone.  As was the need for an experience.

I was abruptly and rather acutely aware of the warm spring evening and all the life it contained within it, all of it a testimony to the Creator of life.  Birds chirped in the thickets, wildflowers burst through the ground along the creek, the heady scent of honeysuckle filled the air.  The earth itself was bearing witness to its Maker.

Never again would I need to go into the forest, find an altar, seek a sign.  Every day of being alive was in and of itself an experience, a sign.  Nothing else was - or would ever be - necessary.  At last content, I turned toward the house.

And then, right then; when I expected - and needed - it least, He was there.

Right there.

With me, on the bridge.

Did I see Him?  No.  Did I hear an audible Voice?  No.

Yet He was there.  And He was there for me.

I have never related the details of that moment to anyone; nor will I ever do so.  It is meaningful only to me, is highly personal, and it can have no bearing whatsoever on anyone else in their striving after God.

Over the years, I have referred to it privately as my Three Wise Men Moment.  For in that moment, upon that bridge, I, far less wise than they, far less clever, far less deserving, was given a great gift that has sustained me throughout my life.

I often find myself distracted by the cares of this life: the need to make money, the frustration with the contemporary state of politics, the anger over man's inhumanity to his fellow man that is daily seen, the worry over this or that or some other thing. And I more often than not forget that which matters most - that which, in fact, alone truly matters; living a life that pleases the King.

I lose my way.

So then, every so often, I must push the world aside and go back in time to that moment on the bridge, to touch that moment, to remember it and its meaning.  To remember what really matters.

Then, my priorities properly restored, my mind and my heart lifted, my feet back upon the right path, then, and only then, can I get on with my life "by another way."

Merry Christmas.



Daniel Hylton is the author of the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series.

Parents, share with your children

I was studying Scripture readings for Sunday and watching CNN while waiting for the oil to be changed in my minivan last week.

There was an elderly man and woman in the service lounge with me. Slowly a conversation grew around the terrible events that were being covered in San Bernadino, California by a multitude of experts on terrorism, Middle Eastern affairs, firearms and homegrown extremists.

The elderly lady said that this news of mass shootings now hits about once every two weeks.

"They're breeding each other, inspiring each other," I opined.

The skinny, auburn-haired woman and the older, rotund man with half moon eyes that disappeared in his smile began to talk about how the world has changed. They spoke of where and how they were raised, she on a farm in the Midwest and he on a farm in Appalachia without running water or electricity for a good portion of his childhood. He mentioned how he told his grandchildren that as a boy his family didn't have television, and they asked him, "What did you do, Grandpa?" He began to shrug...

"We chased each other on our bicycles," said the woman with conviction, finishing his story, adding that her family also didn't have television for a lot of the time.

"Kids need those stories," I acknowledged. "It's great that you share them with your grandchildren."

I told them how I grew up in the boonies of Tennessee and how my children don't know anything similar to what I experienced as a child. They both nodded.

"We ate meals together every night," said the gentleman then. "That's when we talked about things like, 'Do we buy new carpet for the house or take a vacation?' And it was almost always the vacation," he added, laughing.

The gentlewoman nodded her head. "We came home every night to a hot supper. Kids nowadays are always rushing."

They talked about their children's families. The gentleman said that if his son's family sits down to a meal together once a week, it's a miracle. When he visits his son, he almost has to make an appointment to see the whole of his son's family at one time.

The gentlewoman nodded. It was similar in her own children's lives.

I - probably a little overzealous - shared my view that kids need that interaction time within the family in order to learn how to be people. They can't learn that well from YouTube, their phones or any other screen (except for Sesame Street, perhaps).

After that they began to talk about prayer in schools and the Pledge of Allegiance and solid moral instruction and etiquette in the workplace, and I just listened intently to two people who probably had more than a quarter of a century on me.

Yes, the topics were similar to what every older generation bemoans in the new, but they were right about family. Humans need family. They need familial love and attention, dinner table conversations, and chasing friends on bicycles. We were not made for our phones or any other alluring screen. That interaction will only ever go so far, and it does very little, I believe, to develop our emotional quotient. We need the human touch, so to speak.

Listening to my elders talk was a pleasure. I enjoyed their tales. It helped me forget the big, scary, inhuman world for a bit.

Stories can do that.

Just recently at a Thanksgiving after Thanksgiving dinner at my friend Geraldine's house, our friend Kim shared scenes from her childhood in Colorado, tales I had never heard of times that she still considers some of the most fun in her life: growing up under the mountains in a small apartment, sledding often, going without some things but not missing them one bit because of the adventures she relished as a youngster in that beautiful part of the country.

I joked at my friend's Thanksgiving dinner that my kids know all my stories, that I tell them over and over. If I start to talk about our dog Reuben and his good but annoying friend Mandy, they respond easily with, "Oh, yeah! Mandy was always bugging Reuben!", and they even know the color of their fur.

For my part I still remember many of my dad's stories from his dangerous, exhausting days of working on the power lines in the West, and the laughter and gasps they produced in us children. I can tell you the names of his powerline buddies. And I cherish the memories shared of how, when and where Mom and Dad courted as teenagers.

And this is part of what I think those two lovely people were saying in that service lounge while we waited for things to be fixed in the world. Family dinners at the table and slower times with mostly each other's company for amusement generated and gave room for sharing stories, stories that lightened the mood, that told of hardship and recovery, that comforted, that warned, that guided and enlightened, that communicated values.

That spread joy.

Stories are important. Not as vital as family, but they are our heritage, something precious we have to pass on. Yes, I know I'm biased, but tell stories to your children. Tell them to your friends. To the people in the car service lounge if it's not too awkward. Tell them to the world! No one else can share the memories you have. And you can only share them if you slow down and unplug over a meal or even something as simple as a cup of cocoa.

Especially at this time of year, I hope we don't forget that one of the best things we can give to our children and each other is these unique stories.

And may we ever find new opportunities to weave each other into new and pleasant ones.

Help me prepare, Lord

And Mary said:
"My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;
my spirit rejoices in God my savior.
For he has looked upon his handmaid's lowliness;
behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed.
The Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name." Luke 1:46-49 (NAB)

We sang this Scripture passage in church this morning, and I wept. Even as my youngest children squirmed and fussed beside me, I was caught up in this hymn after Communion. I heard a fellow parishioner near me singing the words with humble sincerity. It didn't matter whether he was or was not on pitch, because simplicity and honesty were there - a more perfect harmony.

If I could spend Advent in church, I would be far better off, I think. My emotions would not be vacillating so much between the merry yule-tide activities and the many stressful obligations performed with a silent, Bah! Humbug!

I want to look forward to Christmas, but I am too busy telling myself to just get through this and then that.

That's no way to live.

And it is not the way to spend Advent, I know: just waiting for Christmas only so it can be done with and over. All obligations performed. All things crossed off lists. All gifts bought and given. 

What about that first gift? Advent is a time of preparation for Him, Lord of lords. It is a time of expectation, of hope. It is supposed to be a time when we prepare to celebrate the Christmas season more joyfully, when we prepare our hearts and souls to proclaim the greatness of the Lord with humble sincerity. It's also the time when we look forward to Christ's second coming and our need to be always ready for him, our King of kings.

I know this about Advent, and I acknowledge that this season of preparation has changed Christmas for me, has penetrated the mystery and helped me to celebrate more joyfully, more fully, and has made me contemplate deep spiritual things in a time dominated by commercialism.

And yet here am I, grumpy and disillusioned already, beating myself up for not meeting my own gift-buying or making expectations, comparing my traditions and even my tree-decorating skills to those of others' on Facebook, tempted by inertia beneath the weight of fresh obligations and age-old chores.

Even the spiritual opportunities God has given me this Advent season, I have not appreciated as I should have, wanting to get through them, taking them off a growing list in my head. It is only through prayer and thus by His grace, guidance and inspiration that they turned out well for the children and adults with whom I worked, whom I tried to serve as best I could, because they belong to Jesus.

That's just it, though. That's the message I must embrace right now. Everything I do this Advent season, I must unite to Jesus. What a difference it might make if I read Scripture every morning and prayed longer before entering the holiday fray! I hate shopping sometimes - yes - but what if I shopped for others in a spirit of selflessness and sacrifice? What if I actually looked for opportunities to volunteer and in ways and places I never have before? What if I tried to make everything a prayer amid the hustle and bustle, smiling at grumpy fellow shoppers and frazzled cashiers all the way and being peaceful (no matter what) where peace is sorely needed?

What if every word and action was a proclamation of faith, because of the joy with which I spoke and acted this Advent?

"His mercy is from age to age
to those who fear him.
He has shown might with his arm,
dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart.
He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones
but lifted up the lowly.
The hungry he has filled with good things;
the rich he has sent away empty.
He has helped Israel his servant,
remembering his mercy,
according to his promise to our fathers,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever." Luke 1:50-55 (NAB)

The annual Christmas gift-giving dilemma

Is there a Dirt Cheap Tuesday?

Insane Deals Wednesday?

Or a "WE'RE JUST GIVING THIS STUFF AWAY!" Thursday?

No?

I guess I'm doomed

On Black Friday I goofed off; it's my tradition after preparing such a big, heavy-with-love meal. On Cyber Monday I spent a few hours on the computer and didn't purchase a thing, because I didn't see a thing anyone needed.

Maybe it helps if you know what you want to give before you start looking.

I have a major shopping handicap called, "I don't want to clutter my home or anyone else's home with junk we won't use." I also suffer from persistent frugality, acute indecision, too little inspiration, and not enough time.

Scrooged, that's how I feel.

At this time of year, I always wish I could return to my childhood. (Just so I could do all the gettin' and not do any givin'? That's not so!)

I want to go back in time, because (I know, I know) things seemed so much simpler then. Because the tree was picked from the woods behind our home, cut by Dad's ax, instead of from the local big box store. Because one of the biggest things to look forward to was Mama's cooking. Because when our neighbor, Mr. Wellins, left a big box of shelled peanuts, candy and fruit on our porch. it was a big treat for us kids. Because when we went to our tiny post office to pick up boxes of presents sent from relatives far away in Idaho, it was huge. Because we didn't have much hope of presents many years, and we learned to appreciate family, tradition, the kindness of others and surprises.

One year in particular my parents had frankly told us that there wouldn't be any gifts. It was always hard to see Dad's stress around Christmas as he and Mom balanced bills, groceries, and a slower time of year for their grapevine business with all the expectations of the season.

It killed him to tell us they just couldn't afford presents.

We kids woke up Christmas morning and still excitedly clambered onto Mom and Dad's bed (that's what I, the baby, remember doing, at least), expecting nothing. Our Merry Christmases were returned, and then Dad reached to the side of the bed and drew up a plastic sack.

He and Mom had worked late the night before, not unusual, and had sold their wreaths to their good friend Larry who distributed them to buyers and florists. But they had seemed to be a long time in getting home that Christmas Eve. Now we began to suspect why.

"It's not much, but your mama and I dropped by the dollar store on the way home yesterday evening," said Dad.

He handed out the gifts, one for each of us. Mine was a Barbie. She wasn't fancy, but she was something I hadn't expected that Christmas morning.

And I still remember her and how she made me feel.

And perhaps that's it. Our expectations were simpler. We expected a tree we could decorate and some of Mama's good food and for Dad to play carols on his guitar, but we didn't expect elaborate, fancy, or abundant gifts.

Yet...

To be fair, since then I have indeed been on the receiving end of some fancy, beautiful, and unexpected gifts, and I know the joy that comes with realizing that someone pays attention to what you like, want, or need and cares enough to give it to you, something you'll keep for years and possibly forever. My husband, my parents, my siblings, and my in-laws have all bestowed such things upon me.

Perhaps I am completely lacking in the art of gift-giving. Unobservant. Perhaps I am selfish.

Even though it often takes me a good deal of time to pick out each gift, I never feel like my gifts are "perfect".

This season is often a struggle in many ways for me, another search for balance amid all the holly jolly White Christmas dreams of coming home to presents by the tree. I imagine that's so for all of us.

For instance, whereas some who regularly experienced lean Christmases as a child are much more inclined to spoil their own children with gifts from wishlists, I am much less inclined to do so. My childhood was too precious without gifts for me to believe too stoutly in their power. Still, as we prepare for Jolly Old St. Nicholas to come around, I often end up agonizing in the 11th hour about whether my kids will have a good Christmas, whether they will like what they receive, whether they will be disappointed or compare. The fact that we have encouraged belief in Santa only adds to the pressure.

But I'm still frugal. I still won't go crazy granting wishes for stuff like some sugar-and-caffeine-charged holiday fairy.

And yet I do also want to give my children and my whole family simple things they can honestly use, beautiful things that they will truly enjoy, or just anything that their heart earnestly desires.

As long as its not a Lamborghini. Or a cruise. Or an iPhone. Or an ice sculpture carved by me.

For all my loved ones, I do at least have love, laughter, conversation and homemade cookies to give away in abundance. Following in my dad's footsteps, I can even play carols on my guitar.

They don't sell those things on Black Friday.