Look Up

Sometimes I lean a ladder on the Cross, so I can earn my way up.

I know better. I know God offers His Son freely. I know that nothing I can do--nothing--can earn His Gift. I can only choose to accept it or not.

But I want to be valuable. I want to contribute. Won't God be pleased with me if I prove worthy?

So out comes my ricketly ladder. I set it on the Cross. Of course, my attention leaves the Cross while I balance the ladder on its beams. There--just so. Now I can climb.

Oh look, there's the Salvation Army bucket. It's more blessed to give than receive, so I put money in. That's good. Now I can climb one rung.

My kids are whining. I close my eyes, sigh deeply. I want to snap, but I hold my tongue. The Bible says the tongue is a raging fire, but I doused it. Now I can climb one more rung. Getting closer...

My teaching job is difficult this year. Too many clases, too much travel between buildings. I'm frustrated, but determined to be patient with my afternoon classes, who are tired and testy. I grit my teeth and manage to keep my patience in check. Now I can climb four more rungs.

But then, on the way home, the washer fluid in my car dries up. The dirty, slushy snow kicks up on the windshield, blocking my view. It's cold. I'm hungry. The bus in front of me stops at every house, and I have to rush my daughter to dance, and my son is waiting at home, and I'm so tired and why do I have to work so hard and make dinner and throw in a load of laundry...and when I have to pull over to splash fluid on my windshield, unsavory words tumble from my lips.

Uh-oh. Now I have to climb down a rung on that ladder. Okay, two rungs. And I was doing so well.

Such is life hanging out on the Ladder of Works, trying to earn my way to the Cross of Grace. One rung up, one rung down. Pretty soon my eyes aren't on the Cross at all, but surveying my progress up the ladder...and the progress of others. I might not be as close as some, but I'm sure a lot better than those people. You know, the others...the ones who struggle with issues I conquered long ago. Those poor folks, I begin to think. They're just not as mature in their faith as I am. Too bad their ladder isn't as sturdy as mine. Too bad they don't climb as well.

So much of religion focuses on works. Left to our own devices, we lapse into a doctrine of self-ability. Often we do so with good intentions, longing to please the One who saved us. Sometimes we climb for prideful reasons. Either way, soon our entire focus is on what we can do: climb or stall, cling or fall. It's all on us, not on Him.

I'm determined not to rely on a ladder. I know in my heart that I cannot do anything to earn God's Grace--a free Gift in the form of His only Son, Jesus Christ. So rather than set up a rickety ladder, I'll spend my days in the glow at the foot of the Cross. When I'm tired, I'll look up and take comfort. When I rejoice, I'll look up and soak in beauty. When I'm joyful, I'll look up, and when I'm weary, I'll look up. Rather than climb, I'll curl up at the base, sigh in contentment, and look up...

And look up...

And look up...

Music and memory

Christmas songs hold some of my strongest memories.

Recently, I heard "The Holly and the Ivy". It's a lovely song. But unattached from the memory, It wouldn't be my favorite.

It surely wasn't my favorite on that December evening many years ago. My mother dropped me off at choir practice early, and I arrived before my Grandma Char. I watched her slow, steady gate as she made her way into the sanctuary. Though I don't remember exactly, I'm sure she wore something festive: a Christmas sweater, necklace, or pin. Grandma Char loved Christmas even before Christmas-craziness went turbo speed. Grandma owned Christmas salt-and-pepper shakers, plates, napkin rings, tablecloths. Christmas wasn't just a day for her. It wasn't just a season. It was a state of mind.

That night, she and I took our places in the choir loft. Paging through our music, we landed on "The Holly and the Ivy". I asked her about the song: what does the running of the deer have to do with Christmas? I don't remember her answer, but I know it was succinct, accurate, and worded so I could understand.

The music started. Grandma lifted her voice. She sang like she did everything else: with gusto, to get the job done. Her soprano ranged from pleasant to servicable to slightly screechy. But it didn't matter. I blended my still-maturing thirteen-year-old voice with hers. We sang about holly, ivy, running deer and merry organs.

At one point she laid her hand over mine. Her skin was aged: thin, wrinkled, speckled with tan dots. But it was strong, always strong. And that small gesture said so much, "I love you. I'm proud to sing with you. I'm glad you're my granddaughter."

Something happened during that song. When it started, my Grandma was only my grandma; in the typical egotism of childhood, she existed to fill that role in my life. By the end of the song, with her hand over mine, she became Mildred Charlene Wickham Williston--a woman who had once been an awkward thirteen, who had much wisdom to dispense on how to navigate from thirteen to thirty and beyond.

A few years ago, Grandma Char tired of celebrating Christmas on earth. One week before Christmas, she departed this life for the next, where she celebrated Christmas with Jesus...and with my grandfather. We buried her not in a suit or dress, but in a Christmas sweater. It had a wreath, decorated with holly.

I will never separate "The Holly and the Ivy" from my Grandma Char.

What Christmas songs invoke strong memories in you?