God doesnt’ waste a hurt….I do believe that absolutely everything that happens in this mortal world is a part of God’s redemptive plan. If we could see from the perspective of eternity, we might find the sorrows of this life a noble participation in the divine cosmic plan. We bear these things for God’s sake, for the sake of that divine image for which our bodies have been made. If we bear our sorrows as God’s sorrows rather than as some personal divine “gotcha”, perhaps the hurt we so dearly feel will be for a much higher purpose. Rather than seeing our selves as worthless sinners, if we see ourselves as divine souls living this particular human experience for God’s sake, than each hurt will be redeemed.

My husband and I had been happily (most of the time) married for five years but hadn’t been blessed with a baby. I decided to do some serious praying and promised God that if He would give us a child, I would be a perfect mother, love it with all my heart and raise it with His Word as my guide.
God answered my prayers and blessed us with a son. The next year God blessed us with another son. The following year, He blessed us with yet another son. The year after that we were blessed with a daughter. My husband thought we’d been blessed right into poverty. We now had four children, and the oldest was only four years old. I learned never to ask God for anything unless I meant it. As a minister once told me, “If you pray for rain, make sure you carry an umbrella.”
I began reading a few verses of the Bible to the children each day as they lay in their cribs. I was off to a good start. God had entrusted me with four children and I didn’t want to disappoint him. I tried to be patient the day the children smashed two dozen eggs on the kitchen floor searching for baby chicks.

I tried to be understanding when they started a hotel for homeless frogs in the spare bedroom, although it took me nearly two hours to catch all twenty-three frogs.

When my daughter poured ketchup all over herself and rolled up in a blanket to see how it felt to be a hot dog, I tried to see the humor rather than the mess. In spite of changing over twenty-five thousand diapers, never eating a hot meal and never sleeping for more than thirty inutes at a time, I still thank God daily for my children.

While I couldn’t keep my promise to be a perfect mother – I didn’t even come close – I did keep my promise to raise them in the Word of God. I knew I was missing the mark just a little when I told my daughter we were going to church to worship God, and she wanted to bring a bar of soap along to “wash up” Jesus, too.
Something was lost in the translation when I explained that God gave us everlasting life, and my son thought it was generous of God to give us his “last wife.”
My proudest moment came during the children’s Christmas pageant. My daughter was playing Mary, two of my sons were shepherds and my youngest son was a wise man. This was their moment to shine.

My five-year-old shepherd had practiced his line, “We found the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes.” But he was nervous and said, “The baby was wrapped in waddling clothes.” My four-year-old “Mary” said, “That’s not ‘waddling clothes,’ silly. That’s waddling toes.”
A wrestling match broke out between Mary and the shepherd and was stopped by an angel, who bent her halo and lost her left wing. I slouched a little lower in my seat when Mary dropped the doll representing Baby Jesus, and it bounced down the aisle crying, “Mama-mama.” Mary grabbed the doll, wrapped it back up and held it tightly as the wise men arrived.
My other son stepped forward wearing a bathrobe and a paper crown, knelt at the manger and announced, “We are the three wise men, and we are bringing gifts of gold, common sense and fur.”
The congregation dissolved into laughter, and the pageant got a standing ovation. “I’ve never enjoyed a Christmas program as much as this one,” laughed the pastor, wiping tears from his eyes. “For the rest of my life, I’ll never hear the Christmas story without thinking of gold, common sense and fur.”
“My children are my pride and my joy and my greatest blessing,” I said as I dug through my purse for an aspirin.

This townhouse has never been my childrens home and we have never celebrated Christmas here together. This Christmas they will be in Kentucky with their father in another home in which they have never lived. We have learned over the years to share the traditions that we once shared as an intact family. But it is hard on them, very hard.

I think of this when I hear the nonsence about the “political” correctness of the season. The decorations of homes and businesses, government buildings and churches are lovely to see but they have nothing to do with the birth of Christ from my point of view. For the record, I registered great protest through out my children’s public education when they were taught the religious meaning of other holidays but not allowed to sing of the birth of Christ or even to write about their own religious views in their school papers.

The decorations of the season seem to me to be mostly about sentiment, memories and hope for something that we can’t quite grasp as a society. The birth of Christ was so much more than that. Whether or not someone says “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays” on a newscast or when I pay the cashier is meaningless to me. None of it has a wit to do with the birth of Jesus of Nazareth.

The birth of Christ is about hope. The holidays, for my family as for many others, hold a mixture of feelings. We are reminded of our brokenness on each and every one. Our celebration brings back memories that are bittersweet, comforting and grief-filled at the same time. But the birth of Christ? That gives us hope. We cannot of our own be anything but broken. Nothing can change that historical and emotional fact. But Jesus gives us a way to forgive one another, a way to be family because we are children of God together, a way to know a little bit of “Peace on Earth and Goodwill to All” that is beyond logic.

Today I put up the two surviving wreaths out of the dozen or so I had collected over the years. I found a manger similar to the one destroyed and tomorrow we’ll put the crèche in place and I will remember that my children took turns every year choosing how each piece would be displayed. And when I put the baby Jesus in front of Mary and Joseph, I will give thanks for them and I will pray that they will always know the peace of that Christ whose birth we celebrate and that it will sustain them all of their years.

Clement of Alexandria has some profound observations of the limits of memory:

“If any man thinnks that he knows anything, he knows nothing yet as he ought to know. For the truth is never mere opinion. But the supposition of knowledge inflates and fills with pride…but love edifies….if any man loves, he is known.”

Robin Amis, reflecting on this in A Different Christianity continues:

“Careful observation confirms the statement…illusions are as much a part of the content of memory as is genuine knowledge – perhaps more, since the only knowledge we normally possess is partial knowledge, or ‘knowledge of the world’ shaped by man’s mind with all the distortions this is prone to….{Clement teachs us thus}

- love does not deal in supposition, but
- love deals in truth
- if anyone loves, he/she is known

May the memories you make with those you love be the stuff of love, the sort of love that purifies us of illusions and deepens the peace that is beyond our understanding.

Make a joyful noise unto the LORD,

all ye lands.

Serve the LORD with gladness:

come before his presence with singing.

Know ye that the LORD he is God:

it is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves;

we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.

Enter into his gates with thanksgiving,

and into his courts with praise:

be thankful unto him, and bless his name.

For the LORD is good;

his mercy is everlasting;

and his truth endureth to all generations.

A few days ago, I came across a reference to a book that sounds delightful to me: A Generous Orthodoxy: Why I Am a Missional, Evangelical, Post/Protestant, Liberal/Conservative, Mystical/Poetic, Biblical, Charismatic/Contemplative, Fundamentalist/Calvinist, Anabaptist/Anglican, Methodist, Catholic, Green, Incarnational, Depressed-yet-Hopeful, Emergent, Unfinished CHRISTIAN by Brian D. McLaren It seems that there are many of us with the inner reality looking for a community of the saints within which we might freely grow and live and have our being.

When I go away, I arrange for a cat- sitter to visit Buster. He gets the attention he craves, gets his fur brushed, and his basic cat needs met. But it.s not the same as .Mom. and Buster let.s me know he is not pleased with this arrangement.

As soon as I arrived home, he was in my arms, purring, stroking my cheek with his front paws and hugging me. Of course, I ate this up! I.m a sucker for an affectionate male, especially of the feline variety. I unpacked, went through the mail, caught up on my email and generally made the transition from getting home to being home, with Buster in my arms or on my lap through it all.

The problem came at bedtime. Buster was so happy to have us home that he couldn.t stop purring, Loudly. Very loudly. All through the night. He purred so loudly that I couldn.t sleep! Three nights later, finally calmed down.

Got me to thinking about what happens when any of us do without something we need for too long. Like when a baby is so hungry that their crying keeps them from being able suck the milk they need. Or when a person is so lonely for friendship that their neediness pushes others away.

I thought about when I was working 60 plus hours a week and had no way to leave the job behind. I needed rest so badly that my muscles began twitching and kept me from getting the very rest I needed. Until my body gave out and rest was all it could do.

It.s important to attend to our needs before those needs become a void that overwhelms us and every one around us. As the old wives tale goes .a body knows.. Buster can.t help but purring when he.s pleased with his surroundings. Our bodies can.t help but notice when we are kind to them and pay close attention to what they have to say.