Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago…
Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss…
~ Carol, “In the Bleak Midwinter”
Saturday gave a preview, with every tree bedecked in glass slipper fare. But it isn’t until this Sunday morning, when the day puts on her Wonderland White in frilly, frothy, formal gown that I hear… Christmas.
She’s lilting her ode to joy, like the swish of a fancy ball, like the one by one startup of an orchestra. I hear flutes on the crisp air…fresh to my heart, ringing Bon Noel through chime bells on my porch. They’re wisping merry to my melancholy. I wouldn’t call this season bleak…just maybe…low key. I haven’t been able to wind up the music box within.
But in this clean, pure, blanketing white, holy twinkles on the branches of pristine snow-laden trees — and sparkles like diamond necklace beads scattered by Hand over unblemished marshmallow mounds.
I run to check the update to my pastor’s Saturday eve email. Mm… his early morning ice crews have passed the verdict. No Sunday-before-Christmas service. I think of all the carols that won’t be sung. The rosy cheeks and frosty handshakes that won’t be seen or felt.
Can it be – Christmas Day is only four short mornings away?
Man cancels church, caring for the flock’s safety. God rings the bells of Heaven and floats fresh manna down in snowflake blossoms…rejoicing over us, He calls beloved.
He brings worship to me in selecting a blog posting verse epitomizing His Love, in words that ring round my thoughts like children playing posy. And in the tinsel of others’ words, there are little gifts upon the tree of sharing in this weekend’s online light-string of devotions. Words that echo to my own silent beseeching.
He sings carols of praise in the beauty and blessing right outside my window.
He frosts my cheeks to apples as I step outside to catch a snow cone scent. I hear laughter in the festive dance. There are no unsung songs after all…
For starry crystal flakes are falling full and soft even as I write this now. All the world His Christmas card reminding of one humble born babe…a risen Savior…still seeking, choosing our hearts to be His manger…
This Sabbath day. He unwraps it to me like soft folds of knitted wool. Calling me to cozy. To books on my table. To stirring homemade soup pots till bubbling over.
To prayer for this and these and those. To O Come All Ye Faithful and First Noel and O Holy Night singing praise and gratefulness within me.
My house clamors for order in all the disarray that’s happened in between drawing and writing and errand running and LIFE. Part of me wants to get to it. But it’s time to…let go. Savor. I pull out the chicken broth…open the tomato bisque… stir in the creamy onion and chive…and serve this moment warm to heart and spirit with a bowl ofThis 5-Star Soup.
Later, I pull on boots, forego the coat to crunch out on my porch where I find – it’s chilly, but not really bone-freezing, more exhilarating than cold. I listen. I think I hear the sound of soft. Of hush. Of vespers stirring.
“Make my camera work,” I pray…for the low battery light has been flickering for days as I eek out just one more…and one more… and oh, one more… And He seems to take my hands in His, to warm and coax a little more life into those battery embers…
Funny how, even though I’ve now lived here — in the land where snow wishes fall from the skies for real — for exactly as long as I lived in snow-less climates growing up, I still feel like I’m dreaming up this movie-scene white Christmas…
Mmm. With Laura here – http://www.lauraboggess.com/2013/12/playdates-with-god-worship.html – I reflect: Man cancels church. God opens His cathedral rafters, rains down angel songs and glorias into our uplifted hands and fills our eyes full of stars.
Give them away, He whispers. For the world needs more than just a LITTLE Christmas. No longer the gift for His mother Mary alone, He bids us near…to kiss our Beloved. To know His – bestowed first on us – even more.
© Pam Depoyan
From my windows…to yours
What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.
~ Carol, “In the Bleak Midwinter”