Believing in the Spirit of Christmas

The rains came, long and heavy, to the Santa Barbara backcountry, so the Santa Ynez River is running again. In the last two weeks before school vacation, the roof of our rental was frosted white about half of the time I walked my kids to the bus stop in the morning. Our large German Shepherd-Lab has taken to laying next to the wood burning stove at all hours of the day and night, stretched out like an Egyptian Cat, groaning at me when I suggest “a little fresh air and exercise”. It’s that time of the year when I swear I will keep gifts simple, spend only a few dollars per niece or nephew, and focus on the “true meaning of the season”. The only difference this year for me in regards to my inability to keep my money in my wallet is that I started planning “for Christmas” weeks earlier, and therefore am being complemented by friends and family alike for “being so on top of it” as I hand out photo cards or announce that all my packages are pretty much in the mail. Sigh. Sigh again. The truth is, I’m not feeling confident or peaceful or ready in the least for what tomorrow will bring, let alone the rest of this season. Last night after a dinner of good conversation and laughter, I found myself rushing about and lecturing my kids about all their lack of respect and the household messiness. So quick to anger I am; so critical of the ways that my family comes to me in not-so-perfect packages. Even after some mint tea and a stroll in the woods naming constellations with my husband, I lay awake in my bed until 1 a.m., restless, confused and angry about stupid little ways my life is not “on track”. No amount of shopping success is going to cure my longing for security... and no amount of measurable security (safety, shelter, work, food) is going to fill the hunger I have for a life marked by abundant love and grace. So rather than writing about my unsuccessful attempts to make money in shaky economic times, or my crappy rental agreement that leaves my family with new month to month housing insecurity, I am writing to listen to what my heart is trying to tell me through my emotions that refuse to be trussed up or tucked under the fir tree. I am writing to remember the invitation extended to all of us to be part of an event that started out with precarious risk, unpredictable outcomes, and much rejoicing.


PRECARIOUS RISK
My son recently returned from a solo, three-day fast in the wilderness. I see him as the same boy who left at age 12: affectionate, intelligent, slow-paced, generous. Yet I also see a young man marked by maturity beyond his thirteen years: patient and forgiving, compassionate and dedicated to giving and receiving in the context of community. I can learn so many things from him right now, if I can stop picking up the role I laid down when he left me on my doorstep smiling proud—the role of constantly mothering him. I can choose to claim the truth that my job of raising Caleb through childhood was a “job well done”, and that though there is much parenting left to do in the next five years or so, my role in reference to him has shifted. I am more of a mentor or guide to him now; less of a nanny or body guard.

Caleb’s three-day “Vision Quest” experience was part choreographed by his father and I, part initiated by him, and part arranged by the loving force of the universe which we call God, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus. It is impossible for me to summarize or categorize or explain how the plan to “initiate” Caleb into the next stage of his life formed and became a reality that blew all of us away in its loveliness, so I will not attempt to do that. Instead I will refer to ways Caleb’s Vision informs mine now, and let you taste the sweetness of shared insight.

Was Caleb in more danger in the woods than he is every day on a highway, in the school yard, in our neighborhood? I do not believe so, though contemporary Western thought might claim so. I believe that Caleb’s intention to place himself empty and listening before God gave him a bravery that sustained him. He was lonely, he felt small and vulnerable and hungry and weak and naked. He questioned whether or not he had it in himself to “make it” through the goals he set for himself. After leaving the men camping nearby (father, grandfathers, uncles, friends), he went through his longest, coldest, hungriest night of his life up to that point. He woke victorious, ready to study his dreams and converse with the unseen but deeply felt presence of his Creator. To believe at that point that he was not alone, and that he would hear and understand messages to apply to his life, was a huge act of faith, hope, and precarious risk-taking. Caleb took that chance, and was rewarded with discernment and wisdom well beyond thirteen-year old development milestones. He is working to apply them now. I want to be a good water-boy, encouraging him up from the sidelines.

“God is at my core… my job is to let him come out of me…” Caleb

Can I believe that--that God is at the core of each of us--, not just my young-adult son, but myself, my neighbor, the person who cuts me off on the freeway?
When I wake to the buzzing alarm, wishing that sleep could be longer, can I stretch my aching back and remember the 5 a.m. mornings I had breathing into the dark, holding up the image of my firstborn alone in forest? I was wide awake then, lighting a candle and praying first by recognizing the sacredness of each and every breath. Life in my chest, life in the chest of the child who was waking up to nature’s sights and sounds of morning. Abundant, simple life. I remembered then that life was no small thing to be grateful for. Life itself is an abundant blessing, even when we complicate it so much that we take basic living for granted. We need to have reason to sit sometimes, just breathing and hoping and praying for life to extend. Precarious risk can scare us shitless, but that is sometimes just what we need to simplify our hopes and dreams, or redefine our regrets.


UNPREDICTABLE OUTCOMES
An outcome I didn’t expect is that adults I don’t even know have been totally inspired by my son’s time in the wilderness. The story is being spread from friend to friend, and acquaintance to acquaintance, and it is having a powerful impact. Good questions are being asked, like: If a teen can go into the wilderness and hear so much purpose for his life, why can’t I do that? Is it true that he initiated instruction for his baptism, and he doesn’t attend church or Sunday school? If those parents can take the risk of letting their son be out there alone, maybe we can too? Is our culture wrong to try and protect young adults from fear, suffering, loneliness, and solitude?


MUCH REJOICING
It is hard to prioritize rejoicing. Mary and Joseph were stuck in a barn when Jesus decided to arrive, and they had to make do with a feeding trough for a cradle. The Shepherds were occupied with sheep, and the foreigners were looking for a king... I wish I could have been a fly on the wall through all of those comings and goings and crazy interactions. I don’t want to argue or analyze theology here, but I have some strong opinions concerning why God chose Mary to deliver his son. She was ready for risk-taking, and adventure. She was capable of hearing (and believing she had heard) God’s voice in her dreams, or in the wind through the trees. She was young after all—possibly 13, 15, 17. I’m guessing that she had not yet started to worry about how to guarantee her security by material things...

I want to be like that again. Like a teen—full of bravado and restlessness not based on regret of the past or worry for the future but based on the current intuitional evidence that life offers more than we hoped or we dreamed when we take the time to listen well and believe. Restlessness based on a belief that we all should be taking precarious risks, trusting not in our own knowledge but in a bigger source of invincibility than calls us to grander schemes. I think about those men "from the East", PHDs in stargazing, who sacrificed a couple years (at least!) of their normal lives to adventure out into the unknown, with the hope and prayer that they would meet a Jewish King. When they found him, there was much rejoicing.

Doesn’t the “nativity scene” make interesting story? Did the Wise Men need to show up to give the whole miracle credibility? Or did God just want the story to be told, over and over again, in many different ways, by friends to friends and acquaintances to acquaintances? Are we remembering to tell our own crazy stories of the adventures we’ve embarked on and the things we believed in those moments that we could achieve?
As I look back and count the days of my unemployment, I see failure. As I look forward and contemplate the idea of moving out six months early, I feel fear. As I stop, and breathe slowly and deeply, I began to see the foolishness that tries to temp me to check that last item off my “to purchase” list, as if that act will make me “ready for Christmas”. As I stop, and breathe slowly and deeply, I start to hear the beating of my own precious life. I start to notice how the oak tree’s limbs are swaying in the wind. The rain came heavy and long out here, and the grass will grow green for a long, long time. I can accept my restlessness, my confusion and my anger in this winter season... I can mix it in with my laughter and my stories of amazement. I am making plans right now to hearken to my memory of Caleb’s face when I get discouraged today—to remember his pride in himself and his gratefulness for his community that was so evident in his expression the moment his father and I pulled him out of the frigid Santa Ynez River where he chose to be baptized. He had completed a “job well done”, and wasn’t afraid to celebrate and claim it. After gasping for breath, he beamed at the small crowd gathered around, and said loudly, “Now-- That will be memorable!”

It was.