Victories and Mirth

Book recommendations are precarious things.  It is not unsafe to venture an opinion into an established discussion: "yes, I agree -- by far one of his better works."  But to initiate the uncovering of something more closely bound to the truth of yourself is, well, downright reckless.  Too many variables impact the assessment of anything I read.  If the house was chilly or I was sneaking chapters between the work I should be doing, magic might be robbed from a tale.  If the tea was just right and the sunbeam stayed long enough over my spot on the couch then the story may have caught the flavor of beauty from the day and not the author's pen.  Worse still, if I spent the pages worrying over the pronunciation of the heroine's name, my preoccupation could have hindered my falling in love with characters whose lives remained too remote for any lasting attachment.
After all the extraneous influences have been adjusted for, there is the state of my mind which is ever changing.  Was I depressed, or fey, or bored?   Did the poignancy come from a perspective that resonated because of my history or was this an insightful work?
With established cohorts the risk from exposure is mitigated.  They are more inclined to view criticism through the reputation already built and at least consider a conflicting analysis, should I offer one.  But I seldom do.  As with much of my life, I prefer the route that most predictably leads to approval.  I hazard opinions when I am fairly certain of their reception, and I mingle in a homogenous section of society.
Upon recommendation of friends not constrained by the same self-imposed censorship, I read two great books this last week.  One challenged me with excellence of vocabulary, finessed fate versus destiny tension, and a spectacularly tragic hero.  The other elevated a standard of stark honesty that has begun the work of emboldening me. 
And I am reflecting.
Whether answering, "How was your Christmas?" or "What did you think of the new Harper Lee novel?" we are given the same opportunity for precarious vulnerability.  There is risk of appearing weak or foolish or even of standing in isolation. 

The alternative just might be more dangerous.

Things Into Which Angels Long to Look

Perhaps the opposite of a promise is a platitude -- the well-intentioned thought/optimistic verbal offering.  Cloaked in kindness, it is empty of substance and devoid of power.

I'm remembering how carefully I chose some words when my children were small.  We said "Biblical accounts" instead of "Bible stories" -- as if the telling, and re-telling through the four-year Sunday School cycle did not render the label irrelevant.  Familiarity may not always breed contempt, but it often breeds carelessness.  And here we are again in this season when unfathomable phrases that should bowl us over with their immensity are tossed around on marquees and in advertising jingles.  Virgin Birth.  Emmanuel.  Incarnation.  Gradually, the words and expressions have blurred from overuse and become more story and less account.

This year I heard a song performed in the middle of "A Rocking Christmas" (a sort of holiday variety show I attended as a guest of my mother) that stopped the frivolity of the auditorium as suddenly as if the lights had gone out.  There was a palpable response of reverence throughout that public center for the arts, and the applause was hesitant -- ashamed to intrude. The hook, at least for me, was that it effectively stripped away the fable lingo that has reduced miraculous happenings to "Once upon a time in a kingdom far, far away..." 
Through the lyrics I heard again the enormity of my poverty and hopelessness, and of the great Love that left perfect fellowship and unity and reached down into time, becoming bound up in a human body in order to buy me back for Himself at great cost.
Because I don't need platitudes.  I haven't faith that the well wishes of humanity will bring joy to the world, or peace on earth, or any degree of lasting comfort and joy. 
I require promises.

Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy would one day walk on water?
Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy would save our sons and daughters?
Did you know
That your Baby Boy has come to make you new?
This Child that you delivered will soon deliver you.

Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy will give sight to a blind man?
Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy will calm the storm with His hand?
Did you know
That your Baby Boy has walked where angels trod?
When you kiss your little Baby you kissed the face of God?

Mary did you know

The blind will see.
The deaf will hear.
The dead will live again.
The lame will leap.
The dumb will speak
The praises of The Lamb.

Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy is Lord of all creation?
Mary, did you know
That your Baby Boy would one day rule the nations?
Did you know
That your Baby Boy is heaven's perfect Lamb?
The sleeping Child you're holding is the Great, I AM.

Sour Cream and Asiago

We were in a hurry and she was hovering uncertainly between two glass refrigerator doors at the back of Aldi's loop. It's my least-disliked place to shop because of the simplicity. Choices are blessedly limited and the aisles almost form a one-way traffic pattern that keeps everyone moving. However, this diminutive elderly female in a tan duster (somehow "London Fog" comes to mind) was hindering my procurement of lemonade. I calculated the distance and necessary speed, slipped in behind her, snatched the bottle, and turned triumphantly to the cart. 

But I was stopped by an arm on my sleeve and an earnest face lifted inquiringly to mine. 

"Can you read this?" Her manicured nails tapped to underline some words on a plastic container. They matched the lipstick on her carefully made up face.

I glanced around, but my husband had disappeared in search of avocadoes. 

"I don't know what it says and I can't be sure it's real."

Skimming the bold red type I assured her that it claimed to be sour cream, and purported to be real. 
"Oh, good," she gushed. "I'm making cheesecake and I need the right ingredients."

Suddenly I realized that I had heard these same words when we were around the corner choosing our granola. This conversation had occurred when a previous shopper attempted to access the cold foods!
I nodded and mumbled and hurried to put distance between us.
At the hard cheese bin I scanned the array. Seeing no asiago, I was about to select the parmesan, when the blue label on a wedge at the back proclaimed the presence of my favorite. On tiptoe I released it from the jumble and swiveled in search of my cart chauffeur. Instead, I encountered those eyes determined to lock with mine. 
"Thank you for your help back there. I just had to be sure. Is that asiago?" she steadfastly inquired. I nodded that it was. Where was my shopping pal?
"I just love that cheese. I like to eat slices of it."
I relented. A little.
"I do too."
Her smile became conspiratorial. "It's best to slice it really thin."

And at that, she broke through. We were exactly the same, I agreed. We grinned at one another and then she moved in an opposite direction, as if finally satisfied with our encounter. I didn't see her again, but I have thought about her a few more times. 
I imagine that small personage fretting about preparations for something she used to accomplish routinely.
And then I wonder if there really is an occasion that requires her stretching and reaching beyond her comfortable repertoire -- that leaves her stumbling over labels and soliciting aid from strangers.
Perhaps shopping for ingredients is the closest she can come to being part of the celebratory gatherings so prevalent these days. Or maybe it provides a plausible reason to get dressed up and go out...hoping to look someone in the eye and share a smile.

I wish I had given in more easily. I wish I had given more.

You who bring good tidings to Zion, go up on a high mountain. You who bring good tidings to Jerusalem, lift up your voice with a shout, lift it up, do not be afraid; say to the towns of Judah, "Here is your God!"
See, the Sovereign LORD comes with power, and his arm rules for him. See, his reward is with him, and his recompense accompanies him.                         
He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.