Dryer Repairwoman

Tonight I fixed my dryer, all by myself. With a bona fide part that I had to order online for $78, and I had to use screwdrivers and disassemble and reassemble stuff and everything.  I accomplished this amazing feat by having done some research online (“dryer not heating”) and watching a YouTube video. 

Here is the part that I replaced:

If my charred carcass should be discovered in the smoldering remains of our house following a fire that is determined to have begun in an improperly serviced clothes dryer, do not let that fact detract from the triumph of this moment.

A Virus for Christmas

Last week, I could feel a little bit of a bug nipping at my heels. I managed to outrun it for most of the week, but when I woke up Friday morning, I knew it had finally caught me.  There is nothing spectacular about this virus, just the same gluck that is going around.  I decided that spending 24 hours resting and binge-watching made-for-t.v. Christmas movies would take care of it.

After 24 hours, I was no better than before.  Okay, I could give it 24 more hours of Christmas movies, but that was my final offer.  As for every preacher, Sunday loomed.  Those sermons wouldn’t preach themselves, and I needed a voice. I breathed in humidified air and drank as much hot tea and honey as I could stomach.

Meanwhile, I think that I watched every formulaic Christmas movie ever made for t.v.  Each one was titled some variation of “A _____ for Christmas.”  (Insert “Nanny,” “Cupid,” Caper,” “Wife,” etc.) The plotlines were variations of either “A Christmas Carol” or “Groundhog Day.” I could nap or read through most of a movie and still follow the plot. Best of all, each movie had a happy ending, no matter how insoluble the presenting problem had been.  

All that was lacking was the Christmas episode of “The Brady Bunch.”  (I couldn’t find it, but I did watch “A Very Brady Christmas.”)  If you are anywhere near my age, you remember the episode.  Mrs. Brady has lost her voice, and she is supposed to sing the Christmas Eve solo. All seems lost, until little Cindy Brady tells Santa that all she wants for Christmas is for her mom to be able to sing for Christmas Eve. 

I needed that miracle for myself, although I was speaking, not singing, and it was only the 2^nd Sunday of Advent, not Christmas Eve.

Even without Cindy Brady and Santa to intervene, I did indeed have just enough voice to make it through three sermons Sunday morning and an additional sermon Sunday afternoon at Kingswood Manor. Whew!  

Now it is Monday morning, and all I’ve got left is a raspy whisper. That’s okay, though. I’m meeting with 4 different groups today, and all I have to do is be a very good listener from a respectful, non-infectious distance. And if binge-watching Christmas movies wasn’t enough to drive this virus away, then maybe a day of ministry will do the trick.

Waiting.

This is the time of year when pastors’ thoughts turn to waiting. The season of Advent is soon upon us, and Advent is all about waiting. We will light candles, one a week, until the Advent wreath is filled, announcing Christ’s birth once again.  

The front pages of the newspapers, local and national, are filled with news of waiting, also. They tell of anxiety and fear in Ferguson and beyond, as we wait for the grand jury’s decision. The waiting is almost palpable. 

Stores around here are planning for Black Friday sales, waiting for swarms of shoppers. (Some are planning Thanksgiving Day sales, but I, for one, will not be shopping that day.  The year that a child who was working retail had to leave our family celebration prematurely taught me that there are more important things than a sale.)

Stores in and around Ferguson are preparing, also. They are putting plywood over their storefronts, preparing for the possibility of rioting.

Our church is preparing for decorations and the Hanging of the Green. 

Churches on the other side of this state are preparing for prayer vigils.  Some are preparing to open their doors as safe shelters from the unrest outside.  They are gathering first aid kits and water bottles. Imagine that. First aid kits that are not for Mozambique or a developing country, but for persons living in a metropolitan area. 

Protesters are waiting for their call to action. Police are waiting for their call to action. On all sides, most are committed to nonviolence. Some are not, and therein lies much of the danger.

Waiting for the birth of the Prince of Peace. Waiting for a grand jury verdict and community responses. These two anticipations are messy and intertwined. It was a messy, unjust, and violent world into which the Christ Child came all those years ago, and things have not changed too much.

No, things have not changed nearly enough. And that might just be the best news of all.  Christ entered our world once, and he still does not shy away from our messiness and pain.  Regardless of what a grand jury speaks, Christ is present among us and brings us hope. 

In a few weeks, we will sing by candlelight about how “the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.”  Hope and fear often find themselves mingled together, and it is into that very reality that Christ becomes most present. Christ does indeed come, to Bethlehem, Ferguson, Blue Springs, or wherever you may be.  The Prince of Peace is present.