It's Christmas

Note: The below entry is long. And sad. But so is a lot of my life, so if this type of thing scares you I'd just get out now... :-)

It's December 7th. 17 1/2 days until Christmas morning when I'll wake up in my satin pajamas and pull my big fleece robe tight around me, and pad down the hallway to the living room to open presents. Last year was the first Christmas without my momma. It was so bad. I mean, nothing cataclysmic happened-- no tree fires, no financial despair, Dad, Brother, and I were in perfect health. But with Mom gone, even the lights on the tree seemed dark.



Being the lone woman in this now three-legged dog of a family, I watched my male counterparts assume their usual positions for opening gifts on the sofas around the tree. But this time it was different. It was always a slight conundrum to see who would share a couch while unwrapping seeing as there were three places to sit, and four of us. Usually Brother and I each claimed a sofa, with Dad taking his throne in the big armchair and Mom would sidle up next to one of us kids, eagerly taking pictures in-between telling us the order we should unwrap (so we didn't open a "big" one too early in the game), and puttering to the kitchen to put cinnamon rolls in the oven. But not last year. Last year the three of us sat each on our own place, and the problem was no more. That sofa never seemed so big.

For the past two weeks I've been trying to figure out what's wrong with me. I've been vaguely sick every day (now I realize the result of an allergic reaction last week), but something in my soul has been off. Like my insides have got the shakes... I went from having some of the most intimate quiet times I've had in my life, to feeling like my spirit got bagged, beat up, and shoved in the trunk of a getaway car. Disoriented, shaking, not knowing which way is up and who or what I should be fighting against, I worked myself into a bit of an outside frenzy in order to try and quiet the storm inside, but nothing seemed to even come close to calming me down.

Then it hit me suddenly last night: It's Christmas. And I miss her.

"Is that all?" I thought, "I always miss her!"

But it's Christmas, my spirit pressed. Christmas.

Yes it is. It's Christmas. A time that is so precious and sacred in my heart because of the reverence and joy I saw my Momma take in it every year. Christmas. When piles of presents jumbled beneath the tree were more than just "stuff", but things my mom had spent hours agonizing over, often buying, then returning, then buying again, trying to decide just what would delight her family's heart the most. Christmas. When the house would smell like roasting pecans and closets were magic-filled danger zones where presents lurked... "Nobody go in my office closet! JESSICA- Don't open the third drawer of that cabinet!" Christmas. Oh, Christmas! How on earth could I think that this season could go by without my heart feeling yet another set of aftershocks from the quake that broke it over a year ago? How could I mistake these spirit-tremors for anything but the shivering of grief?

They say that knowing is half the battle and relief is what filled me when I realized the source of much of the chaos inside... I know grief. Intimately. I know how to open myself beneath its scalpel that lets poison go rushing out, I know how to subject myself to its searing iron that burns as it cleanses, I know how to lay as still as I can, broken dreams and dashed hope and wounded faith bleeding from every incision, gritting my teeth as the tears pour and my wounds are sewn shut. Yes, I know grief.

And it's Christmas. Another one I'll have to spend without my mommy. The second of many, I'm afraid. But I'm going to lay myself down on this workman's bench, and try not to squirm too much as my wounds are cleansed. Because He called me to this life, and I'm going to live it.

So as I light my Christmas candles this year, and bake batches and batches and batches of cookies as the scent of toasting pecans fills the air, I'll wrap my presents on Christmas Eve like I always do and think of her. I'll try not to compare the cold feeling that seems to have taken over our home since she left with the warm bustle I can still remember filling this house all December-long, and think about what Christmas in this new world can look like. It might not be full of joy for a long time, and that's okay. I hope. Because Christmas isn't about her, it's about Him, and this year, like every year, I'm going to try and remember that.

"I want so much for Christmas to be a beautiful and warm time when we feel God's closeness and worship Him for the hope and salvation He has given us. I want so much for my children to feel that, because it is the only true Christmas memory and 'tradition' that can remain unchanged from year to year. People change, circumstances change, finances change. Only the truth of what God has done for us and how much He loves us-- that never changes. In over 20 years of walking with Him, I have had just about every kind of Christmas. Busy ones, quiet ones, crowded ones, lonely ones, rich ones-- and many, many poor ones! But my favorite time each Christmas--and the setting is never quite the same-- is when I feel His presence, His holiness, His faithfulness-- and just have a quiet moment adoring Him. That is my true Christmas."
(Momma, 12/04)

May your days be merry and bright.

That's My King

This is a transcript of a sermon by the late Dr. S.M. Lockridge, a pastor from San Diego, in Detroit in 1976. Something more personal will follow soon, but until then... I've got nothing to top this.

My King was born King. The Bible says He's a Seven Way King. He's the King of the Jews - that's an Ethnic King. He's the King of Israel - that's a National King. He's the King of righteousness. He's the King of the ages. He's the King of Heaven. He's the King of glory. He's the King of kings and He is the Lord of lords. Now that's my King.

Well, I wonder if you know Him. Do you know Him? Don't try to mislead me. Do you know my King? David said the Heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament shows His handiwork. My King is the only one of whom there are no means of measure that can define His limitless love. No far seeing telescope can bring into visibility the coastline of the shore of His supplies. No barriers can hinder Him from pouring out His blessing.

He's enduringly strong. He's entirely sincere. He's eternally steadfast. He's immortally graceful. He's imperially powerful. He's impartially merciful. That's my King. He's God's Son. He's the sinner's saviour. He's the centerpiece of civilization. He stands alone in Himself. He's honest. He's unique. He's unparalleled. He's unprecedented. He's supreme. He's pre-eminent. He's the grandest idea in literature. He's the highest personality in philosophy. He's the supreme problem in higher criticism. He's the fundamental doctrine of historic theology. He's the carnal necessity of spiritual religion. That's my King.

He's the miracle of the age. He's the superlative of everything good that you choose to call Him. He's the only one able to supply all our needs simultaneously. He supplies strength for the weak. He's available for the tempted and the tried. He sympathizes and He saves. He's the Almighty God who guides and keeps all his people. He heals the sick. He cleanses the lepers. He forgives sinners. He discharged debtors. He delivers the captives. He defends the feeble. He blesses the young. He serves the unfortunate. He regards the aged. He rewards the diligent and He beautifies the meek. That's my King.

Do you know Him? Well, my King is a King of knowledge. He's the wellspring of wisdom. He's the doorway of deliverance. He's the pathway of peace. He's the roadway of righteousness. He's the highway of holiness. He's the gateway of glory. He's the master of the mighty. He's the captain of the conquerors. He's the head of the heroes. He's the leader of the legislatures. He's the overseer of the overcomers. He's the governor of governors. He's the prince of princes. He's the King of kings and He's the Lord of lords. That's my King.

His office is manifold. His promise is sure. His light is matchless. His goodness is limitless. His mercy is everlasting. His love never changes. His Word is enough. His grace is sufficient. His reign is righteous. His yoke is easy and His burden is light. I wish I could describe Him to you . . . but He's indescribable. That's my King. He's incomprehensible, He's invincible, and He is irresistible.

I'm coming to tell you this, that the heavens of heavens can't contain Him, let alone some man explain Him. You can't get Him out of your mind. You can't get Him off of your hands. You can't outlive Him and you can't live without Him. The Pharisees couldn't stand Him, but they found out they couldn't stop Him. Pilate couldn't find any fault in Him. The witnesses couldn't get their testimonies to agree about Him. Herod couldn't kill Him. Death couldn't handle Him and the grave couldn't hold Him. That's my King.

He always has been and He always will be. I'm talking about the fact that He had no predecessor and He'll have no successor. There's nobody before Him and there'll be nobody after Him. You can't impeach Him and He's not going to resign. That's my King! That's my King!

Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory. Well, all the power belongs to my King. We're around here talking about black power and white power and green power, but in the end all that matters is God's power. Thine is the power. Yeah. And the glory. We try to get prestige and honor and glory for ourselves, but the glory is all His. Yes. Thine is the Kingdom and the power and glory, forever and ever and ever and ever. How long is that? Forever and ever and ever and ever. . . And when you get through with all of the ever's, then . . .Amen!

And We're Back...

I don't know about you, but personally I cannot believe Christmas is less than a month away. Somehow it's easier for me to get in the holiday spirit in July when I'm wishing desperately Christmas were just around the corner, than the end of November when it actually is. Hopefully your Thanksgiving was as good as mine (even though I know not everyone can go to a farmhouse in the Nothern California coastal countryside and eat a gourmet spread not only for the feast itself, but breakfast, lunch, and dinner the days before and after), and your waistline is on the road to a full recovery after being stretched in entirely new ways by magnificent food. I planned on staying home for a few days into this week before heading back to LA, but a callback and audition brought me back Monday-- and it's a good thing, too, because I had two more auditions today! When it rains it pours... Or something.

So here I am, back in LA with my cup of tea, burning the final remnants of my pumpkin pie candle and waiting for the advil I took for my sinus headache to kick in (oh and for the record, I really hate zinc lozenges-- if anyone knows a reliable alternative for fending off sickness, I'm all ears). I went for a long walk this morning before audition #1, and it felt so good, yet odd at the same time, to feel productive. I feel sort of like a machine-- a one-woman robot of efficiency, tackling errands and tasks in multitudinous bounds.

I think I'm learning how to maintain and trust my relationship with my Father, while getting a lot done physically... It's been difficult because I feel so numb and I keep thinking I must be doing something wrong, and searching my heart for anything I've missed-- and maybe I have. But it seems to always come back to the fact that a relationship isn't about doing, it's about being. And sometimes it's not about feeling, it's about knowing.

Last week I was nearly drunk in-love. My heart seemed to overflow in peace and joy every time I thought of Him... But now there's so much to do, and hours spent reading and writing and singing and praying aren't happening. And is that okay? I think it is... Because in order for the treasures reaped in those times to be worth anything on earth, they have to be showcased in the marketplace. So today and yesterday have been days at the market.

Anyway, I probably better go eat or tweeze my eyebrows or do something benign to release my brain before audition #2 tonight. That's the one class I think many colleges should really include in the General Education roster-- Dumbing Down Intelligently for the Interview 101. That has a nice ring to it, no? See you on the other side.

Cookies

I really like baking cookies.



I mean, I really like baking almost anything, but recently I seem to have developed quite an affinity for crafting and creating three-inch discs of dough and sweet morsels. I love knowing exactly how the butter should feel when I squeeze it gently within its wax paper wrapping to see if it's soft enough for creaming. I love the soft whir of sugar crystals scraping against the metal bowl as the intoxicating aroma of butter, sugar, and vanilla wafts up from within my big pink mixer. I love standing with my hips leaning against the counter, dozens of little bags filled with sweet morsels of all kinds jumbled in the cupboard above my head as I judiciously siphon out little amounts of whatever ingredient strikes my fancy. Coconut, toffee, oats, bittersweet chocolate chips, dried cranberries... All fodder for my gastronomic imagination.

I love laying out my baking sheets and slowly, repetitively, methodically dropping equal amounts of the sweet and salty dough into little 3 x 4 charts before placing them within the confines of my baby oven. I love knowing how the cookies are done, not by a loud beep that echoes through my kitchen when the timer sounds, but by the smell that hits my nose just as the outer edges begin to golden. When they emerge after their bath of dry heat, the transformation never ceases to be magical. They've arrived!



I love the steady rhythm of transferring cooling morsels from the sheet still hot from the oven to the cooling racks set on the windowsill. Cookie sheet, window sill, cookie sheet, window sill, cookie sheet, window sill... Back and forth and back again. When finally all the newly formed confections are resting on their wiry bed, I love sitting in my living room and seeing the rows and rows of them out of the corner of my eye as I watch TV or clean or check my e-mail. I have accomplished something good. And sweet.

My best friend says baking encompasses both sides of my personality-- my need for both control and creativity. Baking isn't like cooking where you can just throw a bunch of everything in all flim flam and it'll generally come out all right; there are rules, guidelines, science and chemistry laws that must be obeyed in order for a cookie to be a cookie and not a cake or a cracker or a loaf of bread. But within these laws, a whole palatte of flavors and textures can be chosen and used at will. Sure I have to include butter and sugar and eggs and vanilla and flour and baking soda and baking powder and salt... But what if I feel like throwing in dried cranberries instead of raisins for my oatmeal cookies? And what if I think white chocolate chips would make a lovely addition? And you know, after tasting, I think a little cinnamon might be nice? With just a shake or two of pumpkin pie spice to round it out perfectly... I can do all that and more because these are my cookies, and after covering all the ground rules and checking all the required boxes, it's time to play!

Last night I made cookies at midnight. Because I wanted to. And because I love it!

But now my problem becomes... What to do with three dozen cookies?

Birthday Girl

Today is my birthday.

I woke to chocolates at my door and danced to Frank Sinatra as I curled my hair. Lunch with friends meant belly laughs over the table and footsies underneath it. Tonight remains shrouded in mystery... I hope for joy. (And a cupcake with a candle in it!)

Another year to conquer... Let's go.

Fighting Back

I watched Cinderella Man last night. It seems every time I watch that movie I fall more and more in love with it (and Russell Crowe's Jim Braddock-- but that's another story!), and my heart is moved in a deeper, newer way by the truth its myth reveals. As I lay on the sofa last night, I felt my sick, watery eyes (the result of some mystery illness my body has been fighting off for the past few days) fill with hot tears over and over again as Jim Braddock, along with his wife and family, battled for their fairy tale.

Before I started the movie, being the film/acting nerd I am, I watched a portion of the casting featurette in the Special Features section of the DVD. Ron Howard, the director of the movie, talked in the beginning about their short search for an actor to play Jim Braddock, and how it was quickly decided that Crowe would be perfect for the part. Howard then went on to talk about the intricacies of Braddock's story, and how, dubbed the "Cinderella Man" by a reporter, he "was living out a kind of a fairy tale, but it's not that sort of sugar-coated fairy tale, it's more of a Grimm's fairy tale... It's tough to be inside that fairy tale." I was so struck by how true that is. How often do we look at success stories and great victories, and see only the glowing good? When in reality, fairy tales and great successes are often overwhelmingly made up of fierce battles, treacherous journeys, and long, soul-aching times in life's waiting room.

At one point late in the movie, when the hot tears blearing my vision nearly overflowed, Jim is talking to his wife Mae about why he wants and needs to fight. After listening to her pleas against his plans to get back in the ring and box again, Jim looks her in the eye and tries to make her understand his heart. "[In the ring,] at least I know who's hittin' me." Man. How rough it is to feel like you're taking blows with a bag over your head. And how much of life is like that? Spending all this time getting beat up and tossed around without even knowing why or who is hitting you?

I just finished a book called Waking the Dead by John Eldredge, and it has permanently changed my life, spiritually, emotionally, habitually, etc. (Not that that's unusual for any of his books for me...) In it, Eldredge talks about the desperate need in our world for spiritual warfare, and how we as a culture, race, and people have allowed ourselves to be lulled into complacency and surrender, thinking the very war that is beating us down day in and day out isn't happening. My eyes were opened to the millions of fights and battles and sieges that take place every day, and span weeks, months, and years of my life and eternity. It was like my heart woke up and I started realizing that all those terrible things I believed about myself and the world aren't true... They're lies that I've bought into, and I don't have to agree with any more. I realized that terrible things happen in my life because there is an enemy creating and crafting ways to hurt, sabotage, kill, steal, and destroy me every moment. Jesus told us that the enemy "prowls" like "a roaring lion" whose sole purpose is to bring us down-- so why have I been so shocked and surprised when he's actually tried and been successful at doing that? And why haven't I put up more of a fight?

I've never really known what it's like to war for something in my soul before. In the Old Testament in the Bible, God allowed war to come to the Israelites because the new generation had never had to fight for the promise-- and they needed to if they were going to be strong enough to keep the promised land once they made it there. War is here whether we like it or not, and there is a choice: ignore and deny and lay huddled on the ground, taking the blows that will come regardless with a bag over our head, or we can train ourselves for war, look at the enemy who's been hitting us all along, and start to fight back for the good that's ours to claim.

I, for one, choose the latter.

Aloha

I'm sorry it's been so long-- here we are in a new month already! I spent the last week and a half of October in Hawaii, and let me tell you... There are few places I would have rather been. I found myself in the paradise my mother loved, and it felt good. Below are some pictures of my respite on the garden isle to give you just a taste of my time there (click on the pictures to see them full-size). So lean back, fix yourself a mai-tai, and enjoy!

Beach baby.

Kombucha by the sea. (Catherine, this one's for you!)

Whoops!

This boat reminds me of a Ralph Lauren ad. Don't ask me why.

Peace.

Like cool bath water.

Tree tunnel.

Daddy and daughter.

Kauai chocolates. Praise God.

Driving by a palm tree field.

Daddy waits for lunch.

I do the same.

Vegetarians, look away. God bless chili burgers.

For those of you whose respect for me has been hanging by a thread... I'm sorry. (And for the record, yes, that is chili on my face.)

Bliss.

Daddy does dessert.

Aloha!

The Walk

When I was little I remember there were few things that irked me more deeply than being told to "walk it off" after I had hurt myself. It wasn't something I heard a lot, as it was never something my parents said, but rather well-meaning neighborhood parents and friends from down the street.

Once I was lying in the middle of the walkway leading up to a playmate's house, the wind knocked out of me after I had crashed down when the skateboard I was tediously riding had slipped from beneath me and gone ricocheting down the driveway. I lay there, knees bloody, breathless, embarassed and hurt, when one of my friends' older brothers came and stood over me and said, "Come on Jess, just walk it off." My heart swelled with indignation and hurt... And then I burst into tears. How DARE he tell me to walk it off? I didn't want to walk it off! What good would walking do me? I just wanted to sit here and have a good cry-- THAT would help! But my hot tears were met with no sympathy, so I picked myself up and hobbled home, where I knew my mom would be ready with a kiss and a soft hand to rest on my back.

Even now, in adulthood, I find adult-isms akin to "walk it off" continue to irk me. I'm fairly new to this grown-up thing, but it seems like so much of the attitude I see here in the upper hemisphere of age and responsibility is set on stuffing it. Don't show your cards, you'll just get taken out. Your heart is meant to be kept in a shoebox on the uppermost shelf in your most unused closet-- heaven forbid it get worn on your sleeve. Emotions are meant for stuffing-- in your soul and your spouse. Life is duty. Hurt is not for the public eye. Messes should be kept under wraps and a close guard should be kept at all times over your heart. Walk it off.

All I see is pretty grim.

Now, I'm not saying I think life should be this big free-for-all where we pour ourselves out in front of everyone we meet in the grocery store, but God gave us each other for a reason. And he gave us our hearts for a reason. "Above all else, guard your heart..." Not like a prisoner that needs close watching, but as a treasure to be kept safe. And not "buried in the ground" safe, but "living hard and fast, running on all cylinders" safe. I've been living in a near-constant state of hurt for the past year and a half. Actually it sort of swings between feeling numb and kind of okay to soul-wrenching, devastating, spirit-aching hurt. And I'm not afraid to say I haven't felt any better than that in a really long time. But I trust that if I run to my Daddy today, like I try to do every day, he'll be ready with a kiss, and a steadying hand on my broken, festering heart. I trust that if I let it all hang out to him, he'll put it all back in even better than before. Until then I'm going to sit here, healing in his lap. And then I'll start to walk.

Deep Breath

Low is low. But then you wait for the break in the fighting and take a deep breath.

Last night was dim lights, bright smiles, big plates of pasta, and lots of friends. I slept to the sound of click-clack, pitter-pat rain on my window box. And today was a day for warm kitchens and big candles... And pumpkin bread.







Tonight, Disneyland.

And I miss Momma.

Uncharted

After a brief respite at home this weekend, I am back in LA. I never thought I could enjoy being on my own so much, but I do. Having my own little home, keeping it up and maintaining it according to standards I've set myself, walking around my neighborhood... It's so nice. But I have to admit for all the perks and freedoms that independence allows, recently I've started to feel the fuzzy ache of loneliness. I know that will quell once my life here becomes even more established-- working, etc-- but sometimes empty days stretch on like a long desert road in front of me with no real ANYTHING in sight.

Last Friday was the one year anniversary of the day my momma left the world. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. Not easy certainly, and full of challenges completely unforseen, but not quite as terrible as I imagined. I could sigh just thinking about it-- what a relief. In these days that have followed, I feel a sense of challenge in my spirit. For the past year and a half I've been trapped in this formatted cycle of pain and grief-- every day was the one-year anniversary of something painful, something tragic, something heart-breaking... And even if it wasn't that day specifically, something terrible was coming up soon that would most likely hit my heart and gut like a ton of bricks. But as I move out of The First Year, it feels like I'm moving into new territory. Grief and pain will always be a part of my life, but now I'm no longer chained to comparing my immediate experiences with what they could have been... It feels like a whole new world, like for the first time in a long time I am moving on to uncharted territory that is good. I can't remember the last time I felt that.

Who knows, tomorrow could be wretched-- I could spend the weekend holed up in my apartment eating peanut butter and crying-- but for now my insides feel a lot stronger than they have in the longest time... And I'm so blessed.