In the Bleak ~

I was feeling the bleak-midwinter on Wednesday. A tough day at work, too much on my mind, too many dishes in the sink, too many nights in a row with something penciled in on the calendar. I longed for a bit of quiet, a bit of sanctuary.

It would seem that a single girl who lives alone would have all kinds of quiet and sanctuary, but things are not always what they seem.

I got home, threw something for dinner in the microwave, tended to what I could around the house, and then ran to the car to get to St. Luke’s on time. I was meeting a dear couple, Jim and Georgie, to prepare some music for Christmas Eve. Playing the piano, playing with other musicians always does my heart good. But it had been a crummy day. On the way to the church, I whimpered out a little prayer, a little plea. I told Jesus I felt like I missed Him. I told Him I needed some quiet for my heart and my mind, some light in some places that had been feeling dark. I told Him I hoped that there'd be some time and quiet for Him and me soon.

Georgie and I played through our Christmas hymns and got our songbooks in order for the 24th. While we did that, Jim fiddled around with some lights in the cold, dim sanctuary.

As we finished rehearsing and began to pack up our things, Jim walked over to the piano and said “hey, Kathy, would you do me a favor? Would you play hymn 112?” I reached for the hymnal and flipped the pages, and on page 112 I found “In The Bleak Midwinter”, the poem written by Christina Rossetti. Jim stood in front of the altar, and as I quietly played, he sang the first verse:

In the bleak midwinter, frosty winds made moan
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter long ago

He closed his hymnal. I wasn’t ready for the song to be over. I didn’t mean to sound selfish, but I asked, “Jim, would you please sing the rest of the song for me?” He walked back up to the altar, and sang the rest of the song… sweetly, tenderly, worshipfully. As he sang, my heart, my mind was covered with a blanket of calm. I felt my concerns, “hard as iron”, softening.

Our God, heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain
Heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign
In the bleak midwinter, a stable place sufficed
The Lord God incarnate, Jesus Christ

Angels and archangels may have gathered there
Cherubim and seraphim, thronged the air
But his mother only, in her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved, with a kiss

What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb
If I were a wiseman I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him, give my heart

As he sang, in the quiet, in the still, in the bleak, I felt Jesus say to me, "I'm right here, I’m right here.”

I left the sanctuary with Jim and Georgie, knowing my whimpered prayer had been heard, and that Jesus had sung me a song in reply.

Advent Calendar ~

Come, Thou long expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free
From our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in Thee

Her name is Mary Elizabeth. She’s 96 years old. She’s my grandma.

She lives in the valley in a simple room at a comfortable place, the kind of place where people approaching the end of their lives, who cannot live without help, settle in for as long as they have. Here, her most basic, human needs are tended to by underpaid young women with lavish tattoos and loving hearts. They care for her so tenderly, washing, changing, turning. With gentle voices, they call her “sweetie”, they call her “dear”.

By her bed on the wall is a calendar. A black felt pen rests within reach on the nightstand by her bed, somewhere between the tissues, the emergency call button and the bowl of butterscotch candies she has kept nearby for as long as I can remember. Each morning, as she wakes to a new day, she crosses “yesterday” off the calendar.

She can’t clothe or wash herself, she can’t walk or throw an extra blanket across her bony feet. She can’t open the mail or tend to her African violets. But she can raise that pen to the wall each morning and cross off another day.

Grandma isn’t waiting to die. No, she’s just waiting. “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus” has leapt off the pages of the hymnal for her.

Jesus has come to her over and again in her 96 years. He came to her in the tin-shack laden industrial town in Pennsylvania where she was born. He came to her in the lonely days of growing up with a daddy who was on the road, playing pro baseball, and whose image on a trading card could never make up for his absence. Jesus came to her as a young woman, as she gave her life to a man who dreamed of giving his life to the ministry. He came to her in the loss of a longed-for baby girl. He came to her in the suffocating silence that crept in after that loss, as she determined to never speak of such deep wounds. Jesus came to her in the small towns and churches filled with people who needed more than a young preacher and his wife could sometimes spare. He came to her as she found a way to spare what she could.

He came to her in the loss of her son, my dad, a loss that crushed her not so much because of the cancer that killed him, but the spirit of rebellion that plunged him into confusion and brokenness a few years before the diagnosis. She never dreamed her grown son would take a prodigal turn, and when she finally spotted him heading for home, he was taken.

Jesus came to her as she spent her later life tending to the lonely and forgotten. And He was there on that morning a few years ago, when grandpa touched his fingers to his lips, waved her a tiny kiss, and took one last breath.

Jesus has made himself at home with grandma ever since she invited Him to. As a fair companion on her journey, He’s held her through these sorrows and losses, but also kept sweet company with her through every joy, every delight, every surprise. And even in the mundane moments that make up a life, ninety-six years worth, He has been her ever-present Friend.

On a recent visit, I pulled a chair close to her bed, held her withered hand in my fleshy one, kissed her and stroked her face. I quietly told her a few stories; I asked her the simple questions I ask every time I visit. I asked if I could take her picture. She said I could, as long as her hair looked alright. I told her she was lovely. As we sat together in the stillness, I looked at the calendar. December. The fourth, the fifth, the sixth, all crossed off. I imagined her waking up in this room in the morning, reaching for her black pen, and crossing off the seventh. And in that moment, I realized, this is her Advent Calendar. This is her way of watching and waiting in the dark, in this time between Now… and Not Yet.

For years, grandma and grandpa kept a tiny ceramic plaque on the wall in their home. It followed them to a dozen humble parsonages; it kept them company through 70 years of marriage. It’s nailed today to the wall by the door in her room, positioned in such a way that she can see it from her bed. The inscription simply reads, “Perhaps Today”. I understood, even as a little girl, what that meant. Someday, Jesus will come back. Someday. “Perhaps today”. I never questioned it, but I did wonder. And sometimes I wanted to ask them both: ”I know you want Jesus to come back, but, um, grandpa, grandma, don’t you wanna live?”

Yes, yes she does. She wants to live. So she marks off her calendar, her calendar of Advent. About death, C.S. Lewis said that “one day we will turn the corner, and all our dreams will come true.” She wants to live in that place of dreams come true. “No more crying, no more separation, no more dying.” The place where “these former things are passed away”.

Her body is dying, and yet she is alive with the spirit of anticipation, the spirit of Advent. Her longing heart is filled with joy. She believes that Jesus will come to her still, again, and finally.

She’s 96 years old. She’s long-expected Him.